EAN-C  -IRISTOPHE 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 


C/Comain  C/Collatio  5 

JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

TRANSLATED  FROM  THE  FRENCH 


GILBERT  CANNAN 


I\ 

HENRY  HOLT  AND   COMPANY 


NEW  YORK 


COPYRIGHT,    1910,    mil,    1013, 

BY 
HENRY    HOLT    AND    COMPANY 


PRINTED    IX    THE 
UNITKD    STATES     OF    AMF.RIOA 


PREFACE 

"  JEAN- CHRISTOPHER  is  tJie  history  of  the  development  of  a 
musician  of  genius.  The  present  volume  compiles  the  first  four 
volumes  of  the  original  French,,  viz.:  "  L'Aube,"  "  Le  Matin." 
" L' Adolescent,"  and  "La  Revolt?,"  which  are  designated  in 
the  translation  as  Part  I — The  Dawn;  Part  II— Morning; 
Part  III— Youth;  Part  IV— Revolt.  Parts  I  and  II  carry 
Jean-Christophe  from  the  moment  of  his  birth  to  the  day  when, 
after  his  first  encounter  with  Woman,  at  the  age  of  fifteen, 
lie  falls  back  upon  a  Puritan  creed.  Parts  III  and  IV  describe 
the  succeeding  five  years  of  his  life,  when,  at  the  age  of  twenty, 
his  sincerity,  integrity,  and  unswerving  honesty  have  made  ex- 
istence impossible  for  him  in  the  little  Rhine  town  of  his  birth. 
An  act  of  open  revolt  against  German  militarism  compels  him 
to  cross  the  frontier  and  take  refuge  in  Paris,  and  the  remainder 
of  this  vast  book  is  devoted  to  the  adventures  of  Jean-Christophe 
in  France. 

His  creator  has  said  that  he  has  always  conceived  and  thought 
of  the  life  of  his  hero  and  of  the  boolc  as  a  rii  cr.  So  far  as  the 
book  has  a  plan,  that  is  its  plan.  It  has  no  literary  artifice,  no 
"plot."  The  words  of  it  hang  together  in  defiance  of  syntax, 
just  as  the  thoughts  of  it  follow  one  on  the  other  in  defiance  of 
every  system  of  philosophy.  Every  phase  of  the  book  is  pregnant 
with  the  next  phase.  It  is  as  direct  and  simple  as  life  itself, 
for  life  is  simple  when  the  truth  of  it  is  known,  as  it  was  known 
instinctively  by  Jean-Christophe.  The  river  is  explored  as 
though  it  were  absolutely  uncharted.  Nothing  that  has  ever 
been  said  or  thought  of  life  is  accepted  without  being  brought 
to  the  test  of  Jean-Christophe' s  own  life.  What  is  not  true  for 
him  does  not  exist;  and,  as  there  are  vert/  few  of  the  processes 
of  human  growth  or  decay  which  are  no(  analyzed,  there  is 
disclosed  to  the  reader  tlte  most  comprehensive  survey  of  modern 
life  which  has  appeared  in  literature  in  this  century. 

To  leave  M.  Holland's  simile  of  the  river,  and  to  take  another, 


i\\\'        "'•.I 

-«-  v  -    .~.i..-  j;   <i    *J 


iv  PREFACE 

the  look  has  seemed  to  me  like  a  mighty  bridge  leading  from  the 
world  of  ideas  of  the  nineteenth  century  to  the  world  of  ideas  of 
the  twentieth.  The  whole  thought  of  the  nineteenth  century 
seems  to  be  gathered  together  to  make  the  starting-point  for 
Jean-Christophe's  leap  into  the  future.  All  that  was  most 
religious  in  that  thought  seems  to  be  concentrated  in  Jean- 
Christophe,  and  when  the  history  of  the  book  is  traced,  it  appears 
that  M.  Rolland  has  it  by  direct  inheritance. 

M.  Rolland  was  born  in  1866  at  Clamecy,  in  the  center  of 
France,  of  a  French  family  of  pure  descent,  and  educated  in 
Paris  and  Rome.  At  Rome,  in  1890,  he  met  Malwida  von 
Mcysenburg,  a  German  lady  who  had  taken  refuge  in  England 
after  the  Revolution  of  1848,  and  there  knew  Kossuth,  Mazzini, 
Herzen,  Ledin,  Rollin,  and  Louis  Blanc.  Later,  in  Italy,  she 
counted  among  her  friends  Wagner,  Liszt,  Lenbach,  Nietzsche, 
Garibaldi,  and  Ibsen.  She  died  in  1903.  Rolland  came  to  her 
impregnated  with  Tolstoyan  ideas,  and  with  her  wide  knowledge 
of  men  and  movements  she  helped  him  to  discover  his  own  ideas. 
In  her  " Memoir es  d'une  Idealiste"  she  wrote  of  him:  "In 
this  young  Frenchman  I  discovered  the  same  idealism,  the  same 
lofty  aspiration,  the  same  profound  grasp  of  every  great  in- 
tellectual manifestation  that  I  had  already  found  in  the  greatest 
men  of  other  nationalities." 

The  germ  of  "  Jean-Christophe  "  was  conceived  during  this 
period — the  "  Wander jahre" — of  M.  Rolland' s  life.  On  his 
return  to  Paris  he  became  associated  with  a  movement  towards 
the  renascence  of  the  theater  as  a  social  machine,  and  wrote 
several  plays.  lie  has  since  been  a  musical  critic  and  a  lecturer 
on  music  and  art  at  the  Sorbonne.  lie  has  written  Lires  of 
Beethoven,  Michael  Angela,  and  Hugo  Wolf.  Always  his  en- 
deavor has  been  the  pursuit  of  the  heroic.  To  him  the  great 
men  are  the  men  of  absolute  truth.  Jean-Christophe  must  have 
the  truth  and  tell  the  truth,  at  all  costs,  in  despite  of  circum- 
stance, in  despite  of  himself,  in  despite  even  of  life.  It  is  his 
law.  It  is  M.  Rolland's  law.  The  struggle  all  through  the 
book  is  between  the  pure  life  of  Jean-Christophe  and  the  com- 
mon acceptance  of  the  second-rate  and  the  second-hand  by  the 
substitution  of  civic  or  social  morality,  which  is  only  a  com- 
promise, for  individual  morality,  which  demands  that  every 


PREFACE  v 

man  should  "be  delivered  up  to  the  unswerving  judgment  of  his 
own  soul.  Everywhere  Jean-Christophe  is  hurled  against  com- 
promise and  untruth,  individual  and  national.  He  discovers 
the  German  lie  very  quicUy;  ike  French  He  grimaces  at  him 
as  soon  as  he  sets  foot  in  Paris. 

The  book  itself  breaks  down  the  frontier  between  France  and 
Germany.  If  one  frontier  is  broken,  all  arc  broken.  The  truth 
about  anything  is  universal  truth,  and  the  experiences  of  Jean- 
Christophe,  the  adventures  of  his  soul  (there  arc  no  other 
adventures),  are  in  a  greater  or  less  degree  those  of  every  human 
being  who  passes  through  this  life  from  the  tyranny  of  the  past 
to  the  service  of  the  future. 

The  book  contains  a  host  of  characters  who  become  as  friends, 
or,  at  least,  as  interesting  neighbors,  to  the  reader.  Jcan- 
Christophc  gathers  people  in  his  progress,  and  as  they  are  all 
brought  to  the  test  of  his  genius,  they  appear  clearly  for  what 
they  are.  Even  the  most  unpleasant  of  them  is  human,  and 
demands  sympathy. 

The  recognition  of  Jean-Christophe  as  a  book  which  marks 
a  stage  in  progress  was  instantaneous  in  France.  It  is  hardly 
possible  yet  to  judge  it.  It  is  impossible  to  deny  its  vitality. 
It  exists.  Cliristophe  is  as  real  as  the  gentlemen  whose  por- 
traits arc  posted  outside  the  Queen's  Hall,  and  much  more  real 
than  many  of  them.  The  book  clears  the  air.  An  open  mind 
coming  to  it  cannot  fail  to  be  refreshed  and  strengthened  by  its 
voyage  down  the  river  of  a  man's  life,  and  if  the  book  is  followed 
to  its  end,  the  voyager  will  discover  with  Cliristophe  that  there 
is  joy  beneath  sorrow,  joy  through  sorrow  ("  Durcli  Leiden 
Frcudc  " ). 

Those  are  the  last  words  of  M.  Holland's  life  of  Beethoven; 
they  arc  words  of  Beethoven  himself:  "La  devise  dc  tout  dme 
lierolque." 

In,  liis  preface,  "To  the  Friends  of  Cliristophe,"  which  pre- 
cedes the  seventh  volume,  "  Dans  la  Maison,"  M.  Eolland  writes: 

"I  was  isolated:  like  so  many  others  in  France  I  was  stifling 
in  a  world  morally  inimical  to  me:  I  wanted  air:  I  wanted  to  re- 
act against  an  unhealthy  civilization,  against  ideas  corrupted  by  a 
sham  elite:  I  wanted  to  say  to  them:  'You  lie!  You  do  not 
represent  France!'  To  do  so  I  needed  a  hero  with  a  pure  heart. 


vi  PREFACE 

and  unclouded  vision,  whose,  sou!  would  be  stainless  enough  for 
him  lo  have  the  right  io  speak;  one,  whose  voice  would  be  loud 
enough  for  him  to  gain  a  hearing.  I  have  patiently  begotten 
this  hero.  The  work  was  in  conception  for  many  years  before 
I  set  myself  io  write  a  word  of  it.  Christophe  only  set  out  on 
his  journei/  when.  I  had  been  able  to  see,  the  end  of  it  for  him." 

If  M.  Holland's  act  of  faith  in  writing  Jean-Christophe  were 
only  concerned  with  France,  if  the  polemic  of  it  were,  not 
directed  against  a  universal  evil,  there  would  be  no  reason  for 
translation.  But,  like  Zarotliustra,  it  is  a  book  for  all  and  none. 
M.  Itolland  has  written  what  he  believes  to  be,  the  truth,  and  as 
Dr.  Johnson  observed:  "Every  man  has  a  right  to  utter  what  he 
thinks  truth,  and  every  other  man  ha.s  a  right  to  knock  him 
down,  for  it.  ..." 

P>y  its  truth  and  its  absolute  integrity — since  Tolstoy  I  know 
of  no  writing  so  crystal  clear — "Jean-Christophe"  is  the  first 
great  book  of  the  twentieth  century,  hi  a  sense  it  begins  the 
twentieth  century.  It  bridges  transition,  and  shows  us  where 
we  stand.  It  reveals  the  past  and  the  present,  and  leaves  the 

future  open  to  us.   .    .    . 

GILBERT  CANNAN. 


CONTEXTS 

BOOK  I 

PA(JK 

DAWN 3 

MORNING 107 

YOUTH '215 

REVOLT 357 

BOOK  II 

THE  MARKET  PLACE 3 

ANTOINETTE 11*7 

THE  HOUSE .  301 

BOOK  III 

LOVE  AND  FRIENDSHIP 

THE  BURNING;   BUSH !()•"> 

THE  NEW  DAWN  34!) 


THE    DAWN 


Dianzi,  nell'alba  che  precede  al  giorno, 
Quando  1'anima  tua  dentro  dormia.   .    .    . 

Purgatorio,  ix. 


JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 


Come,  quanclo  i  vapori  umidi  c  spessi 

A  diradar  cominciariHi,  la  spera 

Del  sol  dubilemento  entra  por  essi.   .    .    . 

Purgatorio,  xvii. 

FROM  behind  the  house  rises  the  murmuring  of  the  river. 
All  day  long  the  rain  has  been  beating  against  the  window- 
panes;  a  stream  of  water  trickles  down  the  window  at  the 
corner  where  it  is  broken.  The  yellowish  light  of  the  day  dies 
down.  The  room  is  dim  and  dull. 

The  new-born  child  stirs  in  his  cradle.  Although  the  old 
man  left  his  sabots  at  the  door  when  he  entered,  his  foolsteps 
make  the  floor  creak.  The  child  begins  to  whine.  The  mother 
leans  out  of  her  bed  to  comfort  it;  and  the  grandfather  gropes 
to  light  the  lamp,  so  that  the  child  shall  not  be  frightened  by 
the  night  when  he  awakes.  The  flame  of  the  lamp  lights  up 
old  Jean  Michel's  red  face,  with  its  rough  white  beard  and 
morose  expression  and  quick  eyes.  He  goes  near  the  cradle. 
His  cloak  smells  wet,  and  as  he  walks  he  drags  his  large  bine 
list  slippers.  Louisa  signs  to  him  not  to  go  too  near.  She 
is  fair,  almost  white;  her  features  arc  drawn;  her  gentle,  stupid 
face  is  marked  with  red  in  patches;  her  lips  are  pale  and 
swollen,  and  they  are  parted  in  a  timid  smile;  her  eyes  devour 
the  child — and  her  eyes  are  blue  and  vague;  the  pupils  are 
small,  but  there  is  an  infinite  tenderness  in  them. 

The  child  wakes  and  cries,  and  his  eves  are  troubled.  Oh! 
how  terrible!  The  darkness,  the  sudden  flash  of  the  lamp, 
the  hallucinations  of  a  mind  as  yet  hardly  delaehed  from  chaos, 
the  stifling,  roaring  night  in  which  it  is  enveloped,  the  illimita- 
ble gloom  from  which,  like  blinding  shafts  of  light,  there 
emerge  acute  sensations,  sorrows,  phantoms — those  enormous 


4  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

faces  leaning  over  him,  those  eyes  that  pierce  through  him, 
penetrating,  are  beyond  his  comprehension!  .  .  .  He  has  not 
the  strength  to  cry  out;  terror  holds  him  motionless,  with  eyes 
and  mouth  wide  open  and  he  rattles  in  his  throat.  His  large- 
head,  that  seems  to  have  swollen  up,  is  wrinkled  with  the 
grotesque  and  lamentable  grimaces  that  he  makes;  the  skin  of 
his  face  and  hands  is  brown  and  purple,  and  spotted  with 
yellow.  .  .  . 

"Dear  Cod!  "  said  the  old  man  with  conviction:  "How  uglv 
he  is !  " 

He  put  the  lamp  down  on  the  table. 

Louisa  pouted  like  a  scolded  child.  Jean  Michel  looked  at 
her  out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye  and  laughed. 

"  You  don't  want  me  to  say  that  he  is  beautiful  ?  You 
would  not  believe  it.  Come,  it  is  not  your  fault.  They  are 
all  like  that." 

The  child  came  out  of  the  stupor  and  immobility  into  which 
he  had  been  thrown  by  the  light  of  the  lamp  and  the  eyes  of 
the  old  man.  He  began  to  cry.  Perhaps  he  instinctively  felt 
in  his  mother's  eyes  a  caress  which  made  it  possible  for  him 
to  complain.  She  held  out  her  arms  for  him  and  said: 

"  Give  him  to  me." 

The  old  man  began,  as  usual,  to  air  his  theories: 

"  You  ought  not  to  give  way  to  children  when  they  cry. 
You  must  just  let  them  cry." 

But  he  came  and  took  the  child  and  grumbled : 

"  I  never  saw  one  quite  so  ugly." 

Louisa  took  the  child  feverishly  and  pressed  it  to  her  bosom. 
She  looked  at  it  with  a  bashful  and  delighted  smile. 

"  Oh,  my  poor  child !  "  she  said  shamefacedly.  "  How  ugly 
you  are — how  ugly !  and  how  I  love  you !  " 

Jean  Michel  went  hack  to  the  fireside.  He  began  to  poke 
the  fire  in  protest,  but  a  smile  gave  the  lie  to  the  moroseness 
and  solemnity  of  his  expression. 

"Good  girl!"  he  said.  "Don't  worry  about  it,  lie  has 
plenty  of  time  to  alter.  And  even  so,  what  does  it  matter? 
Only  one  thing  is  asked  of  him:  that  he  should  grow  into  an 
honest  man." 

The  child  was  comforted  bv  contact  with  his  mother's  warm 


THE  DAWN  5 

"body.  He  could  be  heard  sucking  her  milk  and  gurgling  and 
snorting.  Jean  Michel  turned  in  his  chair,  and  said  once  more, 
with  some  emphasis : 

"  There's  nothing  finer  than  an  honest  man." 

He  was  silent  for  a  moment,  pondering  whether  it  would 
not  be  proper  to  elaborate  this  thought;  but  he  found  nothing 
more  to  say,  and  after  a  silence  he  said  irritably: 

"  Why  isn't  your  husband  here  ?  " 

"  I  think  he  is  at  the  theater,"  said  Louisa  timidly.  "  There 
is  a  rehearsal." 

"  The  theater  is  closed.  I  passed  it  just  now.  One  of  his 
lies." 

"  Xo.  Don't  be  always  blaming  him.  I  must  have  mis- 
understood. He  must  have  been  kept  for  one  of  his  lessons." 

"  He  ought  to  have  come  back,"  said  the  old  man,  not  satis- 
fied. He  stopped  for  a  moment,  and  then  asked,  in  a  rather 
lower  voice  and  with  some  shame : 

"  Has  he  been  .  .  .  again  ?  " 

"  Xo,  father — no,  father,"  said  Louisa  hurriedly. 

The  old  man  looked  at  her;  she  avoided  his  eyes. 

"  It's  not  true.     You're  lying." 

She  wept  in  silence. 

"Dear  God!"  said  the  old  man,  kicking  at  the  fire  with 
his  foot.  The  poker  fell  with  a  clatter.  The  mother  and  the 
child  trembled. 

"Father,  please — please!"  said  Louisa.  "You  will  make 
him  cry." 

The  child  hesitated  for  a  second  or  two  whether  to  cry  or 
to  go  on  with  his  meal ;  but  not  being  able  to  do  both  at  once, 
he  went  on  with  the  meal. 

Jean  Michel  continued  in  a  lower  tone,  though  with  outbursts 
of  anger : 

"What  have  I  done  to  the  good  God  to  have  this  drunkard 
for  my  son?  What  is  the  use  of  my  having  lived  as  1  have 
lived,  and  of  having  denied  myself  everything  all  my  life! 
But  you — you — can't  you  do  anything  to  stop  it?  Heavers! 
That's  what  you  ought  to  do.  .  .  .  You  should  keep  him  at 
home!  .  .  ." 

Ixniisa  wept  still  more. 


6  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

"Don't  scold  me!  .  .  .1  am  unhappy  enough  as  it  is!  I 
have  done  everything  I  could.  If  you  knew  how  terrified  I 
am  when  I  am  alone!  Always  I  seem  to  hear  his  step  on  the 
stairs.  Then  I  wait  for  the  door  to  open,  or  I  ask  myself: 
'0  God!  what  will  he  look  like?'  ...  It  makes  me  'ill  to 
think  of  it!" 

She  was  shaken  by  her  sobs.  The  old  man  grew  anxious. 
He  went  to  her  and  laid  the  disheveled  bedclothes  about 
her  trembling  shoulders  and  caressed  her  head  with  his 
hands. 

"  Come,  come,  don't  be  afraid.     I  am  here." 

She  calmed  herself  for  the  child's  sake,  and  tried  to  smile. 

"  I  was  wrong  to  tell  you  that." 

The  old  man  shook  his  head  as  he  looked  at  her. 

"  My  poor  child,  it  was  not  much  of  a  present  that  I  gave 
you." 

"  It's  my  own  fault,"  she  said.  "  He  ought  not  to  have 
married  me.  He  is  sorry  for  what  he  did." 

"What,  do  you  mean  that  he  regrets?   .    .    ." 

"  You  know.  You  were  angry  yourself  because  I  became 
his  wife." 

"  We  won't  talk  about  that.  It  is  true  I  was  vexed.  A 
young  man  like  that— I  can  say  so  without  hurting  you — a 
young  man  whom  I  had  carefully  brought  up,  a  distinguished 
musician,  a  real  artist — might  have  looked  higher  than  you, 
who  had  nothing  and  were  of  a  lower  class,  and  not  even  of 
the  same  trade.  For  more  than  a  hundred  years  no  Kratl't  has 
aver  married  a  woman  who  was  not  a  musician !  But,  you 
know,  I  bear  you  no  grudge,  and  am  fond  of  you,  and  have  been 
ever  since  i  learned  to  know  you.  Besides,  there's  no  going 
back  on  a  choice  once  it's  made;  there's  nothing  left  but  to  do 
ine's  duty  honestly." 

He  went  and  sat  down  again,  thought  for  a  little,  and  then 
said,  with  the  solemnity  in  which  he  invested  all  his  aphorisms: 

"  The  first  thing  in  life  is  to  do  one's  duty." 

He  waited  for  contradiction,  and  spat  on  the  fire.  Then, 
as  neither  mother  nor  child  raised  any  objection.,  he  was  forgoing 
on,  but  relapsed  into  silence. 


THE  DAWN  7 

They  said  no  more.  Both  Jean  Michel,  sitting  by  the  fire- 
side, and  Louisa,  in  her  bed,  dreamed  sadly.  The  old  man, 
in  spite  of  what  he  had  said,  had  bitter  thoughts  about  his  son's 
marriage,  and  Louisa  was  thinking  of  it  also,  and  blaming 
herself,  although  she  had  nothing  wherewith  to  reproach  herself. 

She  had  been  a  servant  when,  to  everybody's  surprise,  and 
her  own  especially,  she  married  Melchior  KrafTt,  Jean  Michel's 
son.  The  Kraffts  were  without  fortune,  but  were  considerable 
people  in  the  little  Uhine  town  in  which  the  old  man  had 
settled  down  more  than  fifty  years  before.  Both  father  and 
son  were  musicians,  and  known  to  all  the  musicians  of  the 
country  from  Cologne  to  Mannheim.  Melchior  played  the  violin 
at  the  Hof -Theater,  and  Jean  Michel  had  formerly  been  director 
of  the  grand-ducal  concerts.  The  old  man  had  been  profoundly 
humiliated  by  his  son's  marriage,  for  he  had  built  great  hopes 
upon  Melchior;  he  had  wished  to  make  him  the  distinguished 
man  which  he  had  failed  to  become  himself.  This  mad  freak 
destroyed  all  his  ambitions,  lie  had  stormed  at  first,  and  show- 
ered curses  upon  Melchior  and  Louisa.  But,  being  a  good- 
hearted  creature,  he  forgave  his  daughter-in-law  when  he  learned 
to  know  her  better;  and  he  even  came  by  a  paternal  affection 
for  her,  which  showed  itself  for  the  most  part  in  snubs. 

Xo  one  ever  understood  what  it  was  that  drove  Melchior  to 
such  a  marriage — least  of  all  Melchior.  It  was  certainly  not 
Louisa's  beauty.  She  had  no  seductive  quality:  she  was  small, 
rather  paler  and  delicate,  and  she  was  a  striking  contrast  to 
Melchior  and  Jean  Michel,  who  were  both  big  and  broad,  red- 
faced  giants,  heavy-handed,  hearty  eaters  and  drinkers,  laugh- 
ter-loving and  noisy.  She  seemed  to  be  crushed  by  them  :  no 
one  noticed  her.  and  she  seemed  fo  wish  to  escape  even  what 
little  notice  she  attracted.  Jf  Melchior  had  been  a  kind-hearted 
man,  it  would  have  been  credible  that  he  should  prefer  Louisa's 
simple  goodness  to  every  other  advantage;  but  a  vainer  man 
never  was.  It  seemed  incredible  that  a  young  man  of  his 
kidney,  fairly  good-looking,  and  quite;  conscious  of  it,  very 
foolish,  but  not  without  talent,  and  in  a  position  to  look  for 
some  well-dowered  match,  and  capable  even — who  knows? — of 
turning  the  head  of  one  of  his  pupils  among  the  people  of  the 
town,  should  suddenly  have  chosen  a  girl  of  the  people — poor, 


8  JEAX-ritKISTOPHE 

uneducated,  without  beauty,  a  girl  who  could  in  no  way  advance 
his  career. 

But  Melchior  was  one  of  those  men  who  always  do  the  oppo- 
site of  what  is  expected  of  them  and  of  what  they  expect  of 
themselves.  It  is  not  that  they  are  not  warned — a  man  who 
is  warned  is  worth  two  nien,  says  the  proverb.  They  profess 
never  to  be  the  dupe  of  anything,  and  that  they  steer  their 
ship  with  unerring  hand  towards  a  definite  point.  But  they 
reckon  without  themselves,  for  they  do  not  know  themselves. 
In  one  of  those  moments  of  forgetful  ness  which  are  habitual 
with  them  they  let  go  the  tiller,  and,  as  is  natural  when  tilings 
are  left  to  themselves,  they  take  a  naughty  pleasure  in  rounding 
on  their  masters.  The  ship  which  is  released  from  its  course 
at  once  strikes  a  rock,  and  Melchior,  bent  upon  intrigue,  married 
a  cook.  And  yet  he  was  neither  drunk  nor  in  a  stupor  on 
the  clay  when  he  bound  himself  to  her  for  life,  and  he  was 
not  under  any  passionate  impulse;  far  from  it.  But  perhaps 
there  are  in  us  forces  other  than  mind  and  heart,  other  even 
than  the  senses — mysterious  forces  which  take  hold  of  us  in 
the  moments  when  the  others  are  asleep;  and  perhaps  it  was 
such  forces  that  Melchior  had  found  in  the  depths  of  those  pale 
eyes  which  had  looked  at  him  so  timidly  one  evening  when 
he  had  accosted  the  girl  on  the  bank  of  the  river,  and  had  sat 
down  beside  her  in  the  reeds — without  knowing  why — and  had 
given  her  his  hand. 

Hardly  was  he  married  than  he  was  appalled  by  what  he 
had  done,  and  he  did  not  hide  what  he  felt  from  poor  Louisa, 
who  humbly  asked  his  pardon.  He  was  not  a  bad  fellow,  and 
he  willingly  granted  her  that;  but  immediately  remorse  would 
seize  him  again  when  he  was  with  his  friends  or  in  the  houses 
of  his  rich  pupils,  who  were  disdainful  in  their  treatment  of 
him,  and  no  longer  trembled  at  the  touch  of  his  hand  when  be 
corrected  the  position  of  their  fingers  on  the  keyboard.  Then 
he  would  return  gloomy  of  countenance,  and  Louisa,  with  a 
catch  at  her  heart,  would  read  in  it  with  the  first  glance  the 
customary  reproach;  or  lie  would  stay  out  late  at  one  inn  or 
another,  there  to  seek  self-respect  or  kindliness  from  others. 
On  such  evenings  he  would  return  shouting  with  laughter,  and 
this  was  more  doleful  for  Louisa  than  the  hidden  reproach 


THE  DAWtf  9 

and  gloomy  rancor  that  prevailed  on  other  days.  She  felt 
that  she  was  to  a  certain  extent  responsible  for  the  fits  of  mad- 
ness in  which  the  small  remnant  of  her  husband's  sense  would 
disappear,  together  with  the  household  money.  Melchior  sank 
lower  and  lower.  At  an  age  when  he  should  have  been  engaged 
in  unceasing  toil  to  develop  his  mediocre  talent,  he  just  let 
things  slide,  and  others  took  his  place. 

But  what  did  that  matter  to  the  unknown  force  which  had 
thrown  him  in  with  the  little  flaxen-haired  servant?  He  had 
played  his  part,  and  little  Jean-Christophe  had  just  set  foot 
on  this  earth  whither  his  destiny  had  thrust  him. 

Night  was  fully  come.  Louisa's  voice  roused  old  Jean  Michel 
from  the  torpor  into  which  he  had  sunk  by  the  fireside  as  he 
thought  of  the  sorrows  of  the  past  and  present. 

"  It  must  be  late,  father,"  said  the  young  woman  affection- 
ately. "  You  ought  to  go  home ;  you  have  far  to  go." 

"  I  am  waiting  for  Melchior,"  replied  the  old  man. 

"  Please,  no.     I  would  rather  you  did  not  stay." 

"  Why  ?  " 

The  old  man  raised  his  head  and  looked  fiercely  at  her. 

She  did  not  reply. 

He  resumed. 

"  You  are  afraid.     You  do  not  want  me  to  meet  him  ?  " 

"Yes,  yes;  it  would  only  make  things  worse.  You  would 
make  each  other  angrv,  and  I  don't  want  that.  Please,  please 
go!" 

The  old  man  sighed,  rose,  and  said : 

"  Well   .    .    .    I'll  go." 

He  went  to  her  and  brushed  her  forehead  with  his  stiff  beard, 
He  asked  if  she  wanted  anything,  put  out  the  lamp,  and  went 
stumbling  against  the  chairs  in  the  darkness  of  the  room.  But 
lie  had  no  sooner  readied  the  staircase  than  he  thought  of  his 
son  returning  drunk,  and  lie  stopped  at  each  step,  imagining 
a  thousand  dangers  that  might  arise  if  Melchior  were  allowed 
to  return  alone.  .  .  . 

In  the  bed  by  his  mother's  side  the  child  was  stirring  again. 
An  unknown  sorrow  had  arisen  from  the  depths  of  his  being. 
He  stiffened  himself  against  her.  lie  twisted  his  body,  clenched 


1 0  JE AX-CHRISTO 1M I  K 

his  fists,  and  knitted  his  brows.  His  suffering  increased  steadily, 
quietly,  certain  of  its  strength.  He  knew  not  what  it  was, 
nor  whence  it  came.  It  appeared  immense, — infinite,  and 
lie  began  to  cry  lamentably.  His  mother  caressed  him  with 
her  gentle  hands.  Already  his  suffering  was  less  acute.  But 
he  went  on  weeping,  for  he  felt  it  still  near,  still  inside  himself. 
A  man  who  suffers  can  lessen  his  anguish  by  knowing  whence 
it  comes.  By  thought  he  can  locate  it  in  a  certain  portion  of 
his  body  which  can  be  cured,  or,  if  necessary,  torn  away,  lie 
fixes  the  bounds  of  it,  and  separates  it  from  himself.  A  child 
has  no  such  illusive  resource.  His  first  encounter  with  suffering 
5s  more  tragic  and  more  true.  Like  his  own  being,  it  seems 
infinite.  He  feels  that  it  is  seated  in  his  bosom,  housed  in  his 
heart,  and  is  mistress  of  his  flesh.  And  it  is  so.  it  will  not 
leave  his  body  until  it  has  eaten  it  away. 

His  mother  hugs  him  to  her,  murmuring:  "  It  is  done— it  is 
done!  Don't  cry,  my  little  Jesus,  my  little  goldfish.  .  .  ." 
But  his  intermittent  outcry  continues.  It  is  as  though  this 
wretched,  unformed,  and  unconscious  mass  had  a  presentiment 
of  a  whole  life  of  sorrow  awaiting  him,  and  nothing  can  appease 
him.  .  .  . 

The  bells  of  St.  Martin  rang  out  in  the  night.  Their  voices 
are  solemn  and  slow.  In  the  damp  air  they  come  like  footsteps 
on  moss.  The  child  became  silent  in  the  middle  of  a  sol).  The 
marvelous  music,  like  a  flood  of  milk,  surged  sweetly  through 
him.  The  night  was  lit  up ;  the  air  was  moist  and  tender. 
His  sorrow  disappeared,  his  heart  began  to  laugh,  and  he  slid 
into  his  dreams  with  a  sigh  of  abandonment. 

The  three  bells  went  on  softly  ringing  in  the  morrow's  festi- 
val. Louisa  also  dreamed,  as  she  listened  to  them,  of  her  own 
past  misery  and  of  what  woi>ld  become  in  the  future  of  the 
dear  little  child  sleeping  by  her  side.  She  had  been  for  hours 
lying  in  he]-  bed,  weary  and  suffering.  Her  hands  and  her 
body  were  burning;  the  heavy  eiderdown  crushed  her:  she  felt 
crushed  and  oppressed  by  the  darkness;  but  she  dared  not  move. 
She  looked  at  the  child,  and  the  night  did  not  prevent  her  read- 
ing his  features,  that  looked  so  old.  Sleep  overcame  her; 
fevered  images  passed  through  her  brain.  She  thought  she 
heard  Melchior  open  the  door,  and  her  heart  leaped.  Occasion- 


THE  DAWN  11 

ally,  the  murmuring  of  the  stream  rose  more  loudly  through 
the  silence,  like  the  roaring  of  some  beast.  The  window  once 
or  twice  gave  a  sound  under  the  beating  of  the  rain.  The 
bells  rang  out  more  slowly,  and  then  died  down,  and  Louisa 
slept  by  the  side  of  her  child. 

All  this  time  Jean  Michel  was  waiting  outside  the  house, 
dripping  with  rain,  his  beard  wet  with  the  mist.  He  was 
waiting  for  the  return  of  his  wivtihed  son  :  for  his  mind,  never 
ceasing,  had  insisted  on  telling  him  ail  sorts  of  tragedies  brought 
about  by  drunkenness;  and  although  he  did  not  believe  them, 
he  could  not  have  sle;>t  a  wink  if  he  had  gone  away  without 
having  seen  his  son  return.  The  sound  of  the  bells  made  him 
melancholy,  for  he  remembered  all  his  shattered  hopes.  He 
thought  of  what  he  was  doing  at  such  an  hour  in  the  street, 
and  for  very  shame  he  wept. 

The  vast  tide  of  the  days  moves  slowly.  Day  and  night 
come  up  and  go  down  with  unfailing  regularity,  like  the  ebb 
and  flow  of  an  infinite  ocean.  Weeks  and  months  go  by,  and 
then  begin  again,  and  the  succession  of  days  is  like  one 
day. 

The  day  is  immense,  inscrutable,  marking  the  even  beat  of 
light  and  darkness,  and  the  beat  of  the  life  of  the  torpid  crea- 
ture dreaming  in  the  depths  of  his  cradle — his  imperious  needs, 
sorrowful  or  glad— so  regular  that  the  night  and  the  day  which 
bring  them  seem  by  them  to  be  brought  about. 

The  pendulum  of  life  moves  heavily,  ;  id  in  its  slow  beat  the 
whole  creature  seems  to  be  absorbed.  The  rest  is  no  more 
than  dreams,  snatches  of  dreams,  formless  and  swarming,  and 
dust  of  atoms  dancing  aimlessly,  a  dizzy  whirl  passing,  and 
bringing  laughter  or  horror.  Outcry,  moving  shadows,  grin- 
ning shapes,  sorrows,  terrors,  laughter,  dreams,  dreams.  .  .  . 
Ali  is  a  dream,  both  day  and  night.  .  .  .  And  in  such  chaos  the 
light  of  friendly  eyes  that  smile  upon  him,  tlie  Hood  of  jry 
that  surges  through  his  body  from  his  mother's  body,  from  her 
breasts  filled  with  milk — the  force  that  is  in  him.  the  immense, 
unconscious  force  gathering  in  him.  the  turbulent  ocean  roaring 
in  the  narrow  prison  of  the  child's  body.  For  eyes  that  could 
see  into  it  there  would  be  revealed  whole  worlds  half  buried 


12  JEAtf-CHRISTOPHE 

in  the  darkness,  nebulas  taking  shape,  a  universe  in  the  making. 
His  being  is  limitless.  He  is  all  that  there  is.  ... 

Months  pass.  .  .  .  Islands  of  memory  begin  to  rise  above 
the  river  of  his  life.  At  first  they  are  little  uncharted  islands, 
rocks  just  pepping  above  the  surface  of  the  waters.  Round 
about  them  and  behind  in  the  twilight  of  the  dawn  stretches 
the  great  untroubled  sheet  of  water;  then  new  islands,  touched 
to  gold  by  the  sun. 

So  from  the  abyss  of  the  soul  there  emerge  shapes  definite, 
and  scenes  of  a  strange  clarity.  In  the  boundless  day  which 
dawns  once  more,  ever  the  same,  with  its  great  monotonous 
beat,  there  begins  to  show  forth  the  round  of  days,  hand  in 
hand,  and  some  of  their  forms  arc  smiling,  others  sad.  But  ever 
the  links  of  the  chain  are  broken,  and  memories  are  linked  to- 
gether above  weeks  and  months.  .  .  . 

The  Eiver  .  .  .  the  Bells  ...  as  long  as  he  can  remember — • 
far  back  in  the  abysses  of  time,  at  every  hour  of  his  life — 
always  their  voices,  familiar  and  resonant,  have  rung  out.  .  .  . 

Night — half  asleep — a  pale  light  made  white  the  win- 
dow. .  .  .  The  river  murmurs.  Through  the  silence  its  voice 
rises  omnipotent;  it  reigns  over  all  creatures.  Sometimes  it 
caresses  their  sleep,  and  seems  almost  itself  to  die  away  in  thr 
roaring  of  its  torrent.  Sometimes  it  grows  angry,  and  howls 
like  a  furious  beast  about  to  bite.  The  clamor  ceases.  Xow 
there  is  a  murmuring  of  infinite  tenderness,  silvery  sounds  like 
clear  little  bells,  like  the  laughter  of  children,  or  soft  singing 
voices,  or  dancing  music — a  great  mother  voice  that  never,  never 
goes  to  sleep !  It  rocks  the  child,  as  it  has  rocked  through  the 
ages,  from  birth  to  death,  the  generations  that  were  before 
him;  it  fills  all  his  thoughts,  and  lives  in  all  his  dreams,  wraps 
him  round  with  the  cloak  of  its  fluid  harmonies,  which  still 
will  be  about  him  when  he  lies  in  the  little  cemetery  that  sleeps 
by  the  water's  edge,  washed  by  the  Ehine.  .  .  . 

The  bells.  ...  It  is  dawn!  They  answer  e"ach  other's  call, 
sad,  melancholy,  friendly,  gentle.  At  the  sound  of  their  slow 
voices  there  rise  in  him  hosts  of  dreams — dreams  of  the  past, 
desires,  hopes,  regrets  for  creatures  who  are  gone,  unknown 
to  the  child,  although  lie  had  his  being  in  them,  and  they 
live  again  in  him.  Ages  of  memory  ring  out  in  that 


THE  DAWN"  12 

music.  So  much  mourning,  so  many  festival? !  And  from 
the  depths  of  the  room  it  is  as  though,  when  they  are  heard, 
there  passed  lovely  waves  of  sound  through  the  soft  air,  free 
winging  birds,  and  the  moist  soughing  of  the  wind.  Through 
the  window  smiles  a  patch  of  blue  sky;  a  sunbeam  slips  through 
the  curtains  to  the  bed.  The  little  world  known  to  the  eyes  of 
the  child,  all  that  he  can  see  from  his  bed  every  morning  a* 
lie  awakes,  all  that  with  so  much  effort  he  is  beginning  t<> 
recognize  and  classify,  so  that  he  may  be  master  of  it — his 
kingdom  is  lit  up.  There  is  the  table  where  people  eat,  the 
cupboard  where  he  hides  to  play,  the  tiled  floor  along  which 
he  crawls,  and  the  wall-paper  which  in  its  antic  shapes  holds 
for  him  so  many  humorous  or  terrifying  stories,  and  the  clock 
which  chatters  and  stammers  so  many  words  which  he  alone 
can  understand.  How  many  things  there  are  in  this  room !  He 
does  not  know  them  all.  Every  day  he  sets  out  on  a  voyage  of 
exploration  in  this  universe  which  is  his.  Everything  is  his. 
Nothing  is  immaterial ;  everything  has  its  worth,  man  or  fly. 
Everything  lives — the  cat,  the  fire,  the  table,  the  grains  of 
dust  which  dance  in  a  sunbeam.  The  room  is  a  country,  a 
day  is  a  lifetime.  How  is  a  creature  to  know  himself  in  the 
midst  of  these  vast  spaces?  The  world  is  so  large!  A  creature 
is  lost  in  it.  And  the  faces,  the  actions,  the  movement,  the 
noise,  which  make  round  about  him  an  unending  turmoil!  .  .  . 
He  is  weary;  his  eyes  close;  he  goes  to  sleep.  That  sweet  deep 
sleep  that  overcomes  him  suddenly  at  any  time,  and  wherever 
he  may  be — on  his  mother's  lap,  or  under  the  table,  where  he 
loves  to  hide!  ...  It  is  good.  All  is  good.  .  .  . 

These  first  days  come  buzzing  up  in  his  mind  like  a  field 
of  corn  or  a  wood  stirred  by  the  wind,  and  cast  in  shadow  by 
the  great  fleeting  clouds.  .  .  . 

The  shadows  pass;  the  sun  penetrates  the  forest.  Jean- 
Christophe  begins  to  find  his  wav  through  the  labvrinth  of  the 
day. 

It  is  morning.  His  parents  are  asleep.  He  iV  in  his  little 
bed,  lying  on  his  back.  He  looks  at  the  rays  of  light  dancing 
on  the  ceiling.  There  is  infinite  amusement  in  it.  Xow  lie 
laughs  out  loud  with  one  of  thos:>  jollv  children's  laughs  \vhich 


14  JEAX-CHRISTOPEE 

stir  the  hearts  of  those  that  hear  them.  His  mother  leans 
out  of  her  bed  towards  him,  and  says:  "What  is  it,  then,  little 
mad  thing?"  Then  lie  laughs  again,  and  perhaps  he  makes 
an  effort  to  laugh  because  he  has  an  audience.  His  mamma 
looks  severe,  and  lays  a  linger  on  her  lips  to  warn  him  lest 
he  should  wake  his  father:  but,  her  weary  eyes  smile  in  spite  of 
herself.  They  whisper  together.  Then  there  is  a  furious  growl 
from  his  father.  Both  tremble.  His  mother  hastily  turns  her 
back  on  him,  like  a  naughty  little  girl :  she  pretends  to  be  asleep. 
Jean-Christophe  buries  himself  in  his  bed,  and  holds  his 
breath.  .  .  .  Dead  silence. 

After  some  time  the  little  face  hidden  under  the  clothes  comes 
to  the  surface  again.  On  the  roof  the  weathercock  creaks. 
The  rain-pipe  gurgles;  the  Angelus  sounds.  When  the  wind 
conies  from  the  east,  the  distant  bells  of  the  villages  on  the 
other  bank  of  the  river  give  answer.  The  sparrows  foregathered 
in  the  ivy-clad  wall  make  a  deafening  noise,  from  which  three 
or  four  voices,  always  the  same,  ring  out  more  shrilly  than  the 
others,  just  as  in  the  games  of  a  band  of  children.  A  pigeon 
coos  at  the  top  of  a  chimney.  The  child  abandons  himself  to 
the  lullaby  of  these  sounds,  lie  bums  to  himself  softly,  then 
a  little  more  loudly,  then  quite  loudly,  then  very  loudly,  until 
once  more  his  father  cries  out  in  exasperation:  "That  little 
donkey  never  will  be  quiet!  Wait  a  little,  and  I'll  pull  your 
ears!  "  Then  Jean-Christophe  buries  himself  in  the  bedclothes 
again,  and  does  not  know  whether  to  laugh  or  cry.  Tie  is  terri- 
iied  and  humiliated;  and  at  the  same  time  the  idea  of  the 
donkey  with  which  his  father  has  compared  him  makes  him 
burst  out  laughing.  From'  the  depths  of  his  bed  he  imitates 
its  braying.  This  time  he  is  whipped.  lie  sheds  every  tear  that 
is  in  him.  What  has  he  done?  He  wanted  so  much  to  laugh 
and  to  get  up!  And  he  is  forbidden  to  budge.  How  do  people 
sleep  forever?  When  will  they  get  up?  .  .  . 

One  day  he  could  not  contain  himself.  He  heard  a  cat  and 
a  dog  and  something  queer  in  the  street.  He  slipped  out  of 
bed.  and,  creeping  awkwardly  with  his  bare  feet  on  the  tiles, 
he  tried  to  go  down  the  stairs  to  see  what  it  was:  but  the  door 
was  shut.  To  open  it,  he.  climbed  on  to  ;i  chair;  the  whole  thing 
collapsed,  and  he  hurt  himself  and  howled.  And  once  more 


THE  DAWN"  15 

at  the  top  of  the  stairs  he  was  whipped.     He  is  always  being 
whipped !  .  .  . 

He  is  in  church  with  his  grandfather.  He  is  bored.  He  is 
not  very  comfortable.  He  is  forbidden  to  stir,  and  all  the 
people  are  saying  all  together  words  that  he  does  not  under- 
stand. They  all  look  solemn  and  gloomy.  It  is  not  their  usual 
way  of  looking.  He  looks  at  them,  half  frightened.  Old  I^ena, 
their  neighbor,  who  is  sitting  next  to  him,  looks  very  cross; 
there  are  moments  when  he  does  not  recognize  even  his  grand- 
father. He  is  afraid  a  little.  Then  he  grows  used  to  it,  and 
tries  to  find  relief  from  boredom  by  every  means  at  his  disposal. 
He  balances  on  one  leg,  twists  his  neck  to  look  at  the  ceiling, 
makes  faces,  pulls  his  grandfather's  coat,  investigates  the  straws 
in  his  chair,  tries  to  make  a  hole  in  them  with  his  finger,  listens 
to  the  singing  of  birds,  and  yawns  so  that  he  is  like  to  dislocate 
his  jaw. 

Suddenly  there  is  a  deluge  of  sound :  the  organ  is  played.  A 
thrill  goes  down  his  spine.  He  turns  and  stands  with  his  chin 
resting  on  the  back  of  his  chair,  and  he  looks  very  wise.  He 
does  not  understand  this  noise;  he  does  not  know  the  meaning 
of  it;  it  is  dazzling,  bewildering,  and  he  can  hear  nothing 
clearly.  But  it  is  good.  It  is  as-  though  lie  were  no  longer 
sitting  there  on  an  uncomfortable  chair  in  a  tiresome  old  house. 
He  is  suspended  in  mid-air,  like  a  bird:  and  when  the  flood 
of  sound  rushes  from  one  end  of  the  church  to  the  other,  filling 
the  arc-lies,  reverberating  from  wall  to  wall,  he  is  carried  with 
it,  flying  and  skimming  hither  and  thither,  with  nothing  to 
do  but  to  abandon  himself  to  it.  He  is  free:  he  is  happy. 
The  sun  shines.  .  .  .  He  falls  asleep. 

His  grandfather  is  displeased  with  him.  He  behaves  ill  at 
Mass. 

He  is  at  home,  sitting  on  the  ground,  with  his  feet  in  his 
hands.  lie  has  just  decided  that  the  door-mat  is  a  boat,  and 
the  tiled  floor  a  river.  He  all  but  drowned  in  stepping  off 
the  carpet.  He  is  surprised  and  a  little  put  out  that  the  others 
pay  no  attention  to  the  matter  as  he  does  when  he  goes  into 
the  vooni.  He  seizes  his  mother  bv  the  skirts.  "  You  pee, 


30  JEAN-CHKISTOPHE 

it  is  water!  You  must  go  across  by  the  bridge."  (The  bridge 
is  a  series  of  holes  between  the  red  tiles.)  His  mother  crosses 
without  even  listening  to  him.  lie  is  vexed,  as  a  dramatic 
author  is  vexed  when  he  sees  his  audience  talking  during  his 
great  work. 

Next  moment  he  thinks  no  more  of  it.  The  tiled  floor  is  no 
longer  the  sea.  lie  is  lying  down  on  it,  stretched  full-length, 
with  his  chin  on  the  tiles,  humming  music  of  his  own  com- 
position, and  gravely  sucking  his  thumb  and  dribbling,  lie 
is  lost  in  contemplation  of  a  crack  between  the  tiles.  The 
lines  of  the  tiles  grimace  like  faces.  The  imperceptible  hole 
grows  larger,  and  becomes  a  valley ;  there  are  mountains  about 
it.  A  centipede  moves:  it  is  as  large  as  an  elephant.  Thunder 
might  crash,  the  child  would  not  hear  it. 

Xo  one  bothers  about  him,  and  he  has  no  need  of  any  one. 
He  can  even  do  without  door-mat  boats,  and  caverns  in  the  tiled 
floor,  with  their  fantastic  fauna.  His  body  is  enough.  What 
a  source  of  entertainment!  He  spends  hours  in  looking  at  his 
nails  and  shouting  with  laughter.  They  have  all  different  faces, 
and  are  like  people  that  he  knows.  And  the  rest  of  his 
body !  .  .  .  He  goes  on  with  the  inspection  of  all  that  he  has. 
How  many  surprising  things !  There  are  so  many  marvels. 
He  is  absorbed  in  looking  at  them. 

But  he  was  very  roughly  picked  up  when  they  caught  him 
at  it. 

Sometimes  he  takes  advantage  of  his  mother's  back  being 
turned,  to  escape  from  the  house.  At  first  thev  used  to  run 
after  him  and  bring  him  back.  Then  they  got  used  to  letting 
him  go  alone,  only  so  he  did  not  go  too  far  away.  The  house 
is  at  the  end  of  the  town;  the  country  begins  almost  at  once. 
As  long  as  he  is  within  sight  of  the  windows  he  goes  without 
stopping,  very  deliberately,  and  now  and  then  hopping  on  one 
foot.  But  as  soon  as  he  has  passed  the  corner  of  the  road, 
and  the  brushwood  hides  him  from  view,  lie  changes  abruptly. 
He  stops  there,  with  bis  finger  in  his  mouth,  to  find  out  what 
story  he  shall  tell  himself  that  dav:  for  he  is  full  of  stones. 
True,  they  are  all  very  much  like  each  other,  and  everv  one 
of  them  could  be  told  in  a  few  lines.  He  chooses.  Generally 


THE  DAWN1  17 

ho  takes  up  the  same  story,  sometimes  from  the  point  where 
it  left  off,  sometimes  from  the  beginning,  with  variations.  But 
any  trifle — a  word  heard  by  chance — is  enough  to  set  his  mind 
off  on  another  direction. 

Chance  was  fruitful  of  resources.  It  is  impossible  to  imagine 
what  can  be  made  of  a  simple  piece  of  wood,  a  broken  bough 
found  alongside  a  hedge.  (You  break  them  off  when  you  do 
not  find  them.)  Jt  was  a  magic  wand.  If  it  were  long  and 
thin,  it  became  a  lance,  or  perhaps  a  sword;  to  brandish  it 
aloft  was  enough  to  cause  armies  to  spring  from  the  earth. 
Jean-Christophe  was  their  general,  marching  in  front  of  them, 
setting  them  an  example,  and  leading  them  to  the  assault  of 
a  hillock.  If  the  branch  were  flexible,  it  changed  into  a  whip. 
Jean-Christophe  mounted  on  horseback  and  leaped  precipices. 
Sometimes  his  mount  would  slip,  and  the  horseman  would  find 
himself  at  the  bottom  of  the  ditch,  sorrily  looking  at  his  dirty 
hands  and  barked  knees.  If  the  wand  were  lithe,  then  Jean- 
Christophe  would  make  himself  the  conductor  of  an  orchestra: 
he  would  be  both  conductor  and  orchestra ;  he  conducted  and 
he  sang;  and  then  he  would  salute  the  bushes,  with  their  little 
green  heads  stirring  in  the  wind. 

He  was  also  a  magician.  He  walked  with  great  strides 
through  the  fields,  looking  at  the  sky  and  waving  his  arms. 
He  commanded  the  clouds.  He  wished  them  to  go  to  the  right, 
but  they  went  to  the  left.  Then  he  would  abuse  them,  and 
repeat  his  command.  He  would  watch  them  out  of  the  corner 
of  his  eye,  and  his  heart  would  beat  as  he  looked  to  see  if  there 
were  not  at  least  a  little  one  which  would  obey  him.  But 
they  went  on  calmly  moving  to  the  left.  Then  he  would  stamp 
his  foot,  and  threaten  them  with  his  stick,  and  angrily  order 
them  to  go  to  the  left;  and  this  time,  in  truth,  they  obeyed 
him.  He  was  happy  and  proud  of  his  power.  He  would  touch 
the  flowers  and  bid  them  change  into  golden  carriages,  as  he 
had  been  told  they  did  in  the  stories:  and,  although  it  never 
happened,  he  was  quite  convinced  that  it  would  happen  if  only 
lie  had  patience.  He  would  look  for  a  grasshopper  to  turn  into 
a  hare;  he  would  gently  lay  his  stick  on  its  back,  and  speak 
a  rune.  The  insect  would  escape:  he  would  bar  its  way.  A 
few  moments  later  he  would  be  lying  on  his  belly  near  to  it, 


1R  JEAF-CHRISTOPHE 

looking  at  it.  Then  ho  would  have  forgotten  that  he  was  a 
magician,  and  just  amuse  himself  with  turning  the  poor  beast 
on  its  back,  while  ho  laughed  aloud  at  its  contortions. 

It  occurred  to  him  also  to  tie  a  piece  of  string  to  his  magic 
wand,  and  gravely  cast  it  into  the  river,  and  wait  for  a  fish 
to  come  and  bite.  He  knew  perfectly  well  that  fish  do  not 
usually  bite  at  a  piece  of  string  without  bait  or  hook;  but  he 
thought  that  for  once  in  a  way,  and  for  him.  they  might  make 
an  exception  to  their  rule;  and  in  his  inexhaustible  confidence;, 
ho  carried  it  so  far  as  to  fish  in  the  street  with  a  whip  through 
the  grating  of  a  sewer.  He,  would  draw  up  the  whip  from  time 
to  time  excitedly,  pretending  that  the  cord  of  it  was  more  heavv, 
and  that  he  had  caught  a  treasure,  as  in  a  story  that  his  grand- 
father had  told  him.  .  .  . 

And  always  in  the  middle  of  all  these  games  there  used  to 
occur  to  him  moments  of  strange  dreaming  and  complete  for- 
gctfulness.  Everything  about  him  would  then  be  blotted  out; 
he  would  not  know  what  he  was  doing,  and  was  not  even  con- 
scious of  himself.  These  attacks  would  take  him  unawares. 
Sometimes  as  he  walked  or  went  upstairs  a  void  would  suddenly 
open  before  him.  He  would  seem  then  to  have  lost  all  thought. 
But  when  he  came  'back  to  himself,  he  was  shocked  and  be- 
wildered to  find  himself  in  the  same  place  on  the  dark  staircase. 
It  was  as  though  he  had  lived  through  a  whole  lifetime — in 
the  space  of  a  few  steps. 

His  grandfather  used  often  to  take  him  with  him  on  his 
evening  walk.  The  little  boy  used  to  trot  by  his  side  and  give 
him  his  hand.  They  used  to  go  by  the  roads,  across  plowed 
fields,  which  smelled  strong  and  good.  The  grasshoppers 
chirped.  Enormous  crows  poised  along  the  road  used  to  watch 
them  approach  from  afar,  and  then  fly  away  heavily  as  they 
came  up  with  them. 

His  grandfather  would  cough.  Jean-Christophe  knew  quite 
well  what  that  meant.  The  old  man  was  burning  with  the, 
desire  to  tell  a  story;  but  he  wanted  it  to  appear  that  the  child 
had  asked  him  for  one.  Jean-Christophe  did  not  fail  him; 
they  understood  each  other.  The  old  man  had  a  tremendous 
affection  for  his  grandson,  and  it  was  a  great  joy  to  find  in 
him  a  willing  audience.  He  loved  to  tell  of  episodes  in  his 


THE  DAWN  19 

own  life,  or  stories  of  great  men,  ancient  and  modern.  His 
voice  would  then  become  emphatic  and  filled  with  emotion, 
and  would  tremble  with  a  childish  joy,  which  he  used  to  try 
to  stifle.  He  seemed  delighted  to  hear  his  own  voice.  Un- 
happily, words  used  to  fail  him  when  he  opened  his  mouth  to 
speak.  He  was  used  to  such  disappointment,  for  it  always  came 
upon  him  with  his  outbursts  of  eloquence.  And  as  he  used  to 
forget  it  with  each  new  attempt,  he  never  succeeded  in  resign- 
ing himself  to  it. 

He  used  to  talk  of  Kegulus,  and  Arminius,  of  the  soldiers 
of  Liit/ow,  of  Ku'rner,  and  of  Frederic  Stabs,  who  tried  to 
kill  the  Emperor  Napoleon.  His  face  would  glow  as  he  told 
of  incredible  deeds  of  heroism.  He  used  to  pronounce  historic 
words  in  such  a  solemn  voice  that  it  was  impossible  to  hear 
them,  and  he  used  to  try  artfully  to  keep  his  hearer  on  tenter- 
hooks at  the  thrilling  moments.  He  would  stop,  pretend  to 
choke,  and  noisily  blow  his  nose;  and  his  heart  would  leap 
when  the  child  asked,  in  a  voice  choking  with  impatience:  "  And 
then,  grandfather  ?  " 

There  came  a  day,  when  Jean-Christophe  was  a  little  older, 
when  he  perceived  his  grandfather's  method;  and  then  he  wick- 
edly set  himself  to  assume  an  air  of  indiil'erence  to  the  rest 
of  the  story,  and  that  hurt  the  poor  old  man.  But  for  the 
moment  Jean-Christophe  is  altogether  held  by  the  power  of  the 
story-teller.  His  blood  leaped  at  the  dramatic  passages.  He 
did  not  know  what  it  was  all  about,  neither  where  nor  when 
these  deeds  were  done,  or  whether  his  grandfather  knew  Ar- 
miuius,  or  whether  Kegulus  were  not — (Jod  knows  why! — some 
one  whom  he  had  seen  at  church  last  Sunday.  But  his  heart 
and  the  old  man's  heart  swelled  with  joy  and  pride  in  the 
tale  of  heroic  deeds,  as  though  they  themselves  had  done  them  ; 
for  the  old  man  and  the  child  were  both  children. 

Jean-Christophe  was  less  happy  when  his  grandfather  inter- 
polated in  the  pathetic  passages  one  of  those  abstruse  discourses 
so  dear  to  him.  There  were  moral  thoughts  generally  traceable 
to  some  idea,  honest  enough,  but  a  little  trite,  such  as  "  Gentle- 
ness is  better  than  violence."  or  "  Honor  is  the  dearest  thing 
in  life,"  or  "  It  is  better  to  be  good  than  to  be  wicked  " — only 
they  were  much  more  involved.  Jeaii-Christophe's  grandfather 


20  JEAX-CHEISTOPHE 

had  no  fear  of  the  criticism  of  his  youthful  audience,  and 
abandoned  himself  to  his  habitual  emphatic  manner;  he  was  not 
afraid  of  repeating  the  same  phrases,  or  of  not  finishing  them, 
or  even,  if  lie  lost  himself  in  his  discourse,  of  saying  anything 
that  came  into  his  head,  to  stop  up  the  gaps  in  his  thoughts; 
and  he  used  to  punctuate  his  words,  in  order  to  give  them 
greater  force,  with  inappropriate  gestures.  The  boy  used  to 
listen  with  profound  respect,  and  he  thought  his  grandfather 
very  eloquent,  but  a  little  tiresome. 

Both  of  them  loved  to  return  again  and  again  to  the  fabulous 
legend  of  the  Corsican  conqueror  who  had  taken  Europe.  Jean- 
Christophe's  grandfather  had  known  him.  He  had  almost 
fought  against  him.  But  he  was  a  man  to  admit  the  greatness 
of  his  adversaries :  he  had  said  so  twenty  times.  He  would 
have  given  one  of  his  arms  for  such  a  man  to  have  been  born 
on  this  side  of  the  Rhine.  Fate  had  decreed  otherwise;  he 
admired  him,  and  had  fought  against  him — that  is,  he  had 
been  on  the  point  of  fighting  against  him.  But  when  Xapoleon 
had  been  no  farther  than  ten  leagues  away,  and  they  had 
marched  out  to  meet  him,  a  sudden  panic  had  dispersed  the 
little  band  in  a  forest,  and  every  man  had  fled,  crying,  "  We 
are  betrayed !  "  In  vain,  as  the  old  man  used  to  tell,  in  vain 
did  he  endeavor  to  rally  the  fugitives;  he  threw  himself  in 
front  of  them,  threatening  them  and  weeping :  he  had  been 
swept  away  in  the  flood  of  them,  and  on  the  morrow  had  found 
himself  at  an  extraordinary  distance  from  the  field  of  battle — 
For  so  he  called  the  place  of  the  rout.  But  Jean-Christophe 
used  impatiently  to  bring  him  back  to  the  exploits  of  the  hero, 
and  he  was  delighted  by  his  marvelous  progress  through  the 
world.  He  saw  him  followed  by  innumerable  men,  giving 
vent  to  great  cries  of  love,  and  at  a  wave  of  his  hand  hurling 
themselves  in.  swarms  upon  flying  enemies — they  were  always 
in  flight.  It  was  a  fairy-tale.  The  old  man  added  a  little  to 
it  to  fill  out  the  story;  he  conquered  Spain,  and  almost  con- 
quered England,  which  lie  could  not  abide. 

Old  Krafft  used  to  intersperse  his  enthusiastic  narratives  with 
indignant  apostrophes  addressed  to  Iris  hero.  The  patriot  awoke 
in  him,  more  perhaps  when  he  told  of  the  Emperor's  defeats 
than  of  the  Battle  of  Jena.  He  would  stop  to  shake  his  fist 


THE  DAWN  21 

at  the  river,  and  spit  contemptuously,  and  mouth  noble  insults 
— he  did  not  stoop  to  less  than  that.  He  would  call  him 
"  rascal,"  "  wild  beast,"  "  immoral."  And  if  such  words  were 
intended  to  restore  to  the  boy's  mind  a  sense  of  justice,  it  must 
be  confessed  that  they  failed  in  their  object;  for  childish  logic 
leaped  to  this  conclusion:  "If  a  great  man  like  that  had  no 
morality,  morality  is  not  a  great  thing,  and  what  matters  most 
is  to  be  a  great  man."  But  the  old  man  was  far  from  suspecting 
the  thoughts  which  were  running  along  by  his  side. 

They  would  both  be  silent,  pondering,  each  after  his  own 
fashion,  these  admirable  stories — except  when  the  old  man  used 
to  meet  -one  of  his  noble  patrons  taking  a  walk.  Then  he  would 
stop,  and  bow  very  low,  and  breathe  lavishly  the  formulae 
of  obsequious  politeness.  The  child  used  to  blush  for  it  with- 
out knowing  why.  But  his  grandfather  at  heart  had  a  vast 
respect  for  established  power  and  persons  who  had  "  arrived  " ; 
and  possibly  his  great  love  for  the  heroes  of  whom  he  told 
was  only  because  he  saw  in  them  persons  who  had  arrived  at 
a  point  higher  than  the  others. 

When  it  was  very  hot,  old  Krafft  used  to  sit  under  a  tree, 
and  was  not  long  in  dozing  off.  Then  Jean-Christophe  used 
to  sit  near  him  on  a  heap  of  loose  stones  or  a  milestone,  or 
some  high  seat,  uncomfortable  and  peculiar;  and  he  used  to 
wag  his  little  legs,  and  hum  to  himself,  and  dream.  Or  some- 
times he  used  to  lie  on  his  back  and  watch  the  clouds  go  by ; 
they  looked  like  oxen,  and  giants,  and  hats,  and  old  ladies, 
and  immense  landscapes.  He  used  to  talk  to  them  in  a  low 
voice,  or  be  absorbed  in  a  little  cloud  which  a  great  one  was 
on  the  point  of  devouring.  He  was  afraid  of  those  which 
were  very  black,  almost  blue,  and  of  those  which  went  very 
fast.  It  seemed  to  him  that  they  played  an  enormous  part  in 
life,  and  he  was  surprised  that  neither  his  grandfather  nor 
his  mother  paid  any  attention  to  them.  They  were  terrible 
beings  if  they  wished  to  do  harm.  Fortunately,  they  used  to 
go  by,  kindly  enough,  a  little  grotesque,  and  they  did  not  stop. 
The  boy  used  in  the  end  to  turn  giddy  with  watvhing  them 
too  long,  and  he  used  to  fidget  with  his  legs  and  arms,  as 
though  lie  were  on  the  point  of  falling  from  the  sky.  His 
eyelids  then  would  wink,  and  sleep  would  overcome  him.  Si- 


22  JEAtf-CHKISTOPHE 

lence.  .  .  .  The  leaves  murmur  gently  and  tremble  in  the,  sun; 
a  faint  mist  passes  through  the  air;  the  uncertain  Hies  hover, 
booming  like  an  organ;  the  grasshoppers,  drunk  with  the  sum- 
mer, chirp  eagerly  and  hurriedly;  all  is  silent.  .  .  .  Under  the 
vault  of  the  trees  the  cry  of  the  green  woodpecker  has  magic 
sounds.  Isir  away  on  the  plain  a  peasant's  voice  harangues 
his  oxen;  the  shoes  of  a  horse  ring  out  on  the  white  road.  Jean- 
Christophe's  eyes  close.  Near  him  an  ant  passes  along  a  dead 
brand)  across  a  furrow.  He  loses  consciousness.  .  .  .  Ages  have 
passed.  He  wakes.  The  ant  has  not  yet  crossed  the  twig. 

Sometimes  the  old  man  would  sleep  too  long,  and  his  face 
would  grow  rigid,  and  his  long  nose  would  grow  longer,  and 
his  mouth  stand  open.  Jean-Christophe  used  then  to  look  at 
him  uneasily,  and  in  fear  of  seeing  his  head  change  gradually 
into  some  fantastic  shape.  He  used  to  sing  loudly,  so  as  to 
wake  him  up,  or  tumble  down  noisily  from  his  heap  of  stones. 
One  day  it  occurred  to  him  to  throw  a  handful  of  pine-needles 
in  his  grandfather's  face,  and  tell  him  that  they  had  fallen 
from  the  tree.  The  old  man  believed  him.  and  that  made 
Jean-Christophe  laugh.  l>ut,  unfortunately,  he  tried  the  [rick 
again,  and  just  when  he  had  raised  his  hand  he  saw  his  grand- 
father's eyes  watching  him.  It  was  a  terrible  all'air.  The  old 
man  was  solemn,  and  allowed  no  liberty  to  be  taken  with  the 
respect  due  to  himself.  They  were  estranged  for  more  than 
a  week. 

The  worse  the  road  was,  the  more  beautiful  it  was  to  Jean- 
Christophe.  Kvery  stone  had  a  meaning  for  him;  he  knew  them 
all.  The  shape  of  a  rut  seemed  to  him  to  be  a  geographical 
accident  almost  of  the  same  kind  as  the  great  mass  of  the 
Taunus.  In  his  head  he  had  the  map  of  all  the  ditches  and 
hillocks  of  the  region  extending  two  kilometers  round  about 
the  house,  and  when  he  made  any  change  in  the  fixed  ordering 
of  the  furrows,  he  thought  himself  no  less  important  than  an 
engineer  with  a  gang  of  navvies;  and  when  with  his  heel  he 
crushed  the  dried  top  of  a  clod  of  earth,  and  filled  up  the 
valley  at  the  foot  of  it,  it  seemed  to  him  that  his  dav  had 
not  been  wasted. 

Sometimes  they  would  meet  a  peasant  in  his  cart  on  the 
highroad,  and  if  the  peasant  knew  Jean-Christophe's  grand- 


THE  DAWN"  23 

father  they  would  climb  up  by  his  side.  That  was  a  Paradise 
on  earth.  The  horse  went  fast,  and  Jean-Christophe  laughed 
with  delight,  except  when  they  passed  other  people  walking; 
then  he  would  look  serious  and  indifferent,  like  a  person  accus- 
tomed to  drive  in  a  carriage,  but  his  heart  was  filled  with  pride. 
His  grandfather  and  the  man  would  talk  without  bothering 
about  him.  Hidden  and  crushed  by  their  legs,  hardly  sitting, 
sometimes  not  sitting  at  all,  he  was  perfectly  happy.  He  talked 
aloud,  without  troubling  about  any  answer  to  what  he  said. 
He  watched  the  horse's  ears  moving.  What  strange  creatures 
those  ears  were!  They  moved  in  every  direction — to  right  and 
left;  they  hitched  forward,  and  fell  to  one  side,  and  turned 
backwards  in  such  a  ridiculous  way  that  he  burst  out  laughing. 
He  would  pinch  his  grandfather  to  make  him  look  at  them  ; 
but  his  grandfather  was  not  interested  in  them.  He  would 
repulse  Jean-Christophe,  and  tell  him  to  be  quiet.  Jcan-Chris- 
tophe  would  ponder.  He  thought  that  when  people  grow  up 
they  are  not  surprised  by  anything,  and  that  when  they  are 
strong  they  know  everything;  and  he  would  try  to  be  grown 
up  himself,  and  to  hide  his  curiosity,  and  appear  to  be  in- 
different. 

He  was  silent  then.  The  rolling  of  the  carriage  made  him 
drows}'.  The  horse's  little  bells  danced — ding,  ding:  (long.  ding. 
Music  awoke  in  the  air,  and  hovered  about  the  silvery  bells, 
like  a  swarm  of  bees.  It  beat  gaily  with  the  rhythm  of  the 
cart — an  endless  source  of  song,  and  one  song  came  on  another's 
heels.  To  Jean-Christophe  they  were  superb.  There  was  one 
especially  which  he  thought  so  beautiful  that  he  tried  to  draw 
his  grandfathers  attention  to  it.  He  sang  it  aloud.  They 
took  no  heed  of  him.  He  began  it  again  in  a  higher  key. 
then  again  shrilly,  and  then  old  Jean  Michel  said  irritably: 
"Be  quiet;  you  are  deafening  me  with  your  trumpet-call!" 
That  took  away  his  breath.  He  blushed  and  was  silent  and 
mortified.  He  crushed  with  his  contempt  the  two  stockist! 
imbeciles  who  did  not  understand  the  sublimity  of  his  song, 
which  opened  wide  the  heavens!  He  thought  them  very  ugly, 
with  their  week-old  beards,  and  they  smelled  very  ill. 

He  found  consolation  in  watcliing  the  horse's  shadow.  That 
was  an  astonishing  sight.  The  beast  ran  along  with  them 


24  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

lying  on  its  side.  In  the  evening,  when  they  returned,  it 
covered  a  part  of  the  Held.  They  came  upon  a  rick,  and  the 
shadow's  head  would  rise  up  and  then  return  to  its  place  when 
they  had  passed.  Its  snout  was  flattened  out  like  a  burst 
balloon;  its  ears  were  large,  and  pointed  like  candles.  Was 
it  really  a  shadow  or  a  creature?  Jean-Christophe  would  not 
have  liked  to  encounter  it  alone.  Jle  would  not  have  run  after 
it  as  he  did  alter  his  grandfather's  shadow,  so  as  to  walk 
on  its  head  and  trample  it  under  foot.  The  shadows  of  the 
trees  when  the  sun  was  low  were  also  objects  of  meditation. 
They  made  barriers  along  the  road,  and  looked  like  phantoms, 
melancholy  and  grotesque,  saying,  "Go  no  farther!"  and  the 
creaking  axles  and  the  horse's  shoes  repeated,  "  No  farther !  " 

Jean-Christophe's  grandfather  and  the  driver  never  ceased 
their  endless  chatter.  Sometimes  they  would  raise  their  voices, 
especially  when  they  talked  of  local  affairs  or  things  going  wrong. 
The  child  would  cease  to  dream,  and  look  at  them  uneasily.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  they  were  angrv  with  each  other,  and  he 
was  afraid  that  they  would  come  to  blows.  However,  on  the 
contrary,  they  best  understood  each  other  in  their  common  dis- 
likes. For  the  most  part,  thev  were  without  hatred  or  the  least 
passion:  they  talked  of  small  matters  loudly,  just  for  the  pleas- 
ure of  talking,  as  is  the  joy  of  the  people.  P>ut  Jean-Christophe, 
not  understanding  their  conversation,  only  heard  the  loud  tones 
of  their  voices  and  saw  their  agitated  faces,  and  thought  fear- 
fully: "How  wicked  he  looks!  Surely  they  hate  each  other! 
How  he  rolls  his  eyes,  and  how  wide  he  opens  his  mouth!  lie 
spat  on  mv  nose  in  his  fury.  0  Lord,  he  will  kill  my  grand- 
father !  .  .  ." 

The  carriage  stopped.  The  peasant  said:  "Here  you  are." 
The  two  deadly  enemies  shook  hands.  Jean-Christophe's  grand- 
father got  down  first :  the  peasant  handed  him  the  little  boy. 
The  whip  llicked  the  horse,  the  carriage  rolled  away,  and  there 
they  were  bv  the  little  sunken  road  near  the  lihine.  The  sun 
dipped  down  below  the  fields.  The  path  wound  almost  to  the 
water's  edge.  The  plentiful  soft  grass  yielded  under  their  feet, 
crackling.  Alder-trees  leaned  over  the  river,  almost  half  in 
the  water.  A  cloud  of  gnats  danced.  A  boat  passed  poiselessly, 
drawn  on  by  the  peaceful  current,  striding  along.  The  water 


THE  DAWN  25 

sucked  the  branches  of  the  willows  with  a  little  noise  like 
lips.  The  light  was  soft  and  misty,  the  air  fresh,  the  river 
silvery  gray.  They  reached  their  home,  and  the  crickets  chirped, 
and  on  the  threshold  smiled  his  mother's  dear  face.  .  .  . 

Oh,  delightful  memories,  kindly  visions,  which  will  hum  their 
melody  in  their  tuneful  flight  through  life!  .  .  .  Journeys  in 
later  life,  great  towns  and  moving  seas,  dream  countries  and 
loved  faces,  are  not  so  exactly  graven  in  the  soul  as  these  childish 
walks,  or  the  corner  of  the  garden  seen  every  day  through  the 
window,  through  the  steam  and  mist  made  by  the  child's  mouth 
glued  to  it  for  want  of  other  occupation.  .  .  . 

Evening  now,  and  the  house  is  shut  up.  Home  .  .  .  the 
refuge  from  all  terrifying  things — darkness,  night,  fear,  things 
unknown.  No  enemy  can  pass  the  threshold.  .  .  .  The  lire 
flares.  A  golden  duck  turns  slowly  on  the  spit;  a  delicious 
smell  of  fat  and  of  crisping  flesh  scents  the  room.  The  joy 
of  eating,  incomparable  delight,  a  religious  enthusiasm,  thrills 
of  joy !  The  body  is  too  languid  with  the  soft  warmth,  and 
the  fatigues  of  the  day,  and  the  familiar  voices.  The  act  of 
digestion  plunges  it  in  ecstasy,  and  faces,  shadows,  the  lamp- 
shade, the  tongues  of  flame  dancing  with  a  shower  of  stars 
in  the  fireplace — all  take  on  a  magical  appearance  of  delight. 
Jean-Christophe  lays  his  cheek  on  his  plate,  the  better  to  enjoy 
all  this  happiness.  .  .  . 

He  is  in  his  soft  bed.  How  did  he  come  there?  He  is 
overcome  with  weariness.  The  buzzing  of  the  voices  in  the 
room  and  the  visions  of  the  day  are  intermingled  in  his  mind. 
His  father  takes  his  violin;  the  shrill  sweet  sounds  c-rv  out 
complaining  in  the  night.  l>ut  the  crowning  joy  is  when  his 
mother  comes  and  takes  Jcan-Christophe's  hands.  He  is  drowsy. 
and,  leaning  over  him,  in  a  low  voice  she  sings,  as  lie  asks,  an 
old  song  with  words  that  have!  no  meaning.  His  father  thinks 
such  music  stupid,  but  Joaii-Christophe  never  wearies  of  it. 
He  holds  his  breath,  and  is  between  laughing  and  crying.  His 
heart  is  intoxicated.  He  does  not  know  where  he  is,  and  lie  is 
overflowing  with  tenderness.  He  throws  his  little  arms  round 
his  mother's  neck,  and  hugs  her  with  all  his  strength.  She 
says,  laughing : 

"  You  want  to  strangle  me?'' 


26  JEAX-CIIRISTOPHE 

He  hugs  her  close.  How  he  loves  her !  How  he  loves  every- 
thing!  Everybody,  everything!  All  is  good,  all  is  beauti- 
ful. .  .  .  He  sleeps.  The  erieket  on  the  hearth  cheeps.  His 
grandfather's  tales,  the  great  heroes,  float  by  in  the  happy 
night.  .  .  .  To  be  a  hero  like  them  !  .  .  .  Yes,  he  will  be  that 
.  .  .  he  is  that.  .  .  .  Ah,  how  good  it  is  to  live! 

What  an  abundance  of  strength,  joy,  pride,  is  in  that  little 
creature!  What  superfluous  energy!  His  body  and  mind  never 
cease  to  move;  they  are  carried  round  and  round  breathlessly. 
Like  a  little  salamander,  he  dances  day  and  night  in  the  flames. 
His  is  an  unwearying  enthusiasm  finding  its  food  in  all  things. 
A  delicious  dream,  a  bubbling  well,  a  treasure  of  inexhaustible 
hope,  a  laugh,  a  song,  unending  drunkenness.  Life  does  not 
hold  him  yet;  always  he  escapes  it.  He  swims  in  the  infinite. 
How  happy  he  is !  He  is  made  to  be  happy !  There  is  nothing 
in  him  that  does  not  believe  in  happiness,  and  does  not  cling 
to  it  with  all  his  little  strength  and  passion!  .  .  . 

Life  will  soon  see  to  it  that  he  is  brought  to  reason. 


II 

L'  alba  vinceva  1'ora  mattutina 
C'lie  fuggia  'nnan/.i,  si  die  cli  lontano 
Conobbi  il  Iremolar  clella  marina.   .    .    . 

Purgatorio,  i. 

THE  Kraffts  came  originally  from  Antwerp.  Old  Jean  Michel 
had  left  the  country  as  a  result  of  a  boyish  freak,  a  violent 
quarrel,  such  as  he  had  often  had.  for  he  was  devilish  pug- 
nacious, and  it  had  had  an  unfortunate  ending.  lie  settled 
down,  almost  fifty  years  ago,  in  the  little  town  of  the  prin- 
cipality, with  its  red-pointed  roofs  and  shady  gardens,  lying 
on  the  slope  of  a  gentle  hill,  mirrored  in  the  pale  green  eyes 
of  Vater  'llhcln.  An  excellent  musician,  he  had  readily  gained 
appreciation  in  a  country  of  musicians.  He  had  taken  root 
there  by  marrying,  forty  years  ago,  Clara  Sartorius,  daughter 
of  the  Prince's  Kapellmeister,  whose  duties  he  took  over.  Clara, 
was  a  placid  German  with  two  passions — cooking  and  music. 


THE  DAWN1  27 

She  had  for  her  husband  a  veneration  only  equaled  by  that 
which  she  had  for  her  father.  Jean  Michel  no  less  admired 
his  wife.  They  had  lived  together  in  perfect  amity  for  fifteen 
years,  and  they  had  four  children.  Then  Clara  died,  and  Jean 
Michel  bemoaned  her  loss,  and  then,  five  months  later,  married 
Ottilia  Schiitz,  a  girl  of  twenty,  with  red  cheeks,  robust  and 
smiling.  After  eight  years  of  marriage  she  also  died,  but  in 
that  time  she  gave  him  seven  children — eleven  children  in  all, 
of  whom  only  one  had  survived.  Although  he  loved  them  much, 
all  these  bereavements  had  not  shaken  his  good-humor.  The 
greatest  blow  had  been  the  death  of  Ottilia,  three  years  ago, 
which  had  come  to  him  at  an  age  when  it  is  difficult  to  start 
life  again  and  to  make  a  new  home.  But  after  a  moment's 
confusion  old  Jean  Michel  regained  his  equilibrium,  which 
no  misfortune  seemed  able  to  disturb. 

He  was  an  affectionate  man,  but  health  was  the  strongest 
thing  in  him.  He  had  a  physical  repugnance  from  sadness,  and 
a  need  of  gaiety,  great  gaiety,  Flemish  fashion — an  enormous 
and  childish  laugh.  Whatever  might  be  his  grief,  he  did  not 
drink  one  drop  the  less,  nor  miss  one  bite  at  table,  and  his 
band  never  had  one  day  off.  TTnder  his  direction  the  Court 
orchestra  won  a  small  celebrity  in  the  Rhine  country,  where 
Jean  Michel  had  become  legendary  by  reason  of  his  athletic 
stature  and  his  outbursts  of  anger.  He  could  not  master  them, 
in  spite  of  all  his  efforts,  for  the  violent  man  was  at  bottom 
timid  and  afraid  of  compromising  himself,  lie  loved  decorum 
and  feared  opinion.  But  his  blood  ran  away  with  him.  He 
used  to  sec  red,  and  he  used  to  be  the  victim  of  sudden  fits  of 
crazy  impatience,  not  only  at  rehearsals,  but  at  the  concerts, 
where  once  in  the  Prince's  presence  he  had  hurled  his  baton  and 
had  stamped  about  like  a  man  possessed,  as  he  apostrophized 
one  of  the  musicians  in  a  furious  and  stuttering  voice.  The 
Prince  was  amused,  but  the  artists  in  question  were  rancorous 
against  him.  In  vain  did  Jean  Michel,  ashamed  of  his  out- 
burst, try  to  pass  it  by  immediately  in  exaggerated  obsequious- 
ness. On  the  next  occasion  he  would  break  out  again,  and  as 
this  extreme  irritability  increased  with  age,  in  the  end  it  made 
his  position  very  difficult.  He  felt  it  himself,  and  one  day, 
when  his  outbursts  had  all  but  caused  the  whole  orchestra  to 


38  JEAtf-CHRISTOPHE 

strike,  he  sent  in  his  resignation,  lie  hoped  (hat  in  considera- 
tion of  his  services  they  would  make  difficulties  about  accepting 
it,  and  would  ask  him  to  stay.  There  was  nothing  of  the  kind, 
and  as  he  was  too  proud  to  go  back  on  his  oll'er,  lie  left,  broken- 
hearted, and  crying  out  upon  the  ingratitude  of  mankind. 

Since  iliat  time  he  had  not  known  how  to  fill  his  days,  lie 
was  more  than  seventy,  hut  he  was  still  vigorous,  and  he  went 
on  working  and  going  up  and  down  the  town  from  morning 
to  night,  giving  lessons,  and  entering  into  discussions,  pro- 
nouncing perorations,  and  entering  into  everything.  He  was 
ingenious,  and  found  all  sorts  of  ways  of  keeping  himself  occu- 
pied. Jle  began  to  repair  musical  instruments;  he  invented, 
experimented,  and  sometimes  discovered  improvements.  He 
composed  also,  arid  set  store  hy  his  compositions.  He  had 
once  written  a  Misxa  tfolcnnis,  of  which  he  used  often  to  talk, 
and  it  was  the  glory  of  his  family.  It  had  cost  him  so  much 
trouble  that  he  had  all  but  brought  about  a  congestion  of  the 
mind  in  the  writing  of  it.  He  tried  to  persuade  himself  that 
it  was  a  work  of  genius,  but  he  knew  perfectly  well  with  what 
emptiness  of  thought  it  had  been  written,  and  he  dared  not 
look  again  at  the  manuscript,  because  e\ery  time  he  did  so 
he  recognized  in  the  phrases  that  he  had  thought  to  be  his 
own,  rags  taken  from  other  authors,  painfully  pieced  together 
haphazard.  It  was  a  great  sorrow  to  him.  He  had  ideas  some- 
times which  he  thought  admirable.  Me  would  rim  tremblingly 
to  his  table.  Could  he  k"ep  his  inspiration  this  time?  But 
hardly  had  he  taken  pen  in  hand  than  he  found  himself  alone 
in  silence,  and  all  his  efforts  to  call  to  lift!  again  the  vanished 
voices  ended  only  in  bringing  to  his  ears  familiar  melodies  of 
Mendelssohn  or  Brahms. 

''There  arc."  says  George  Sand,  "unhappy  geniuses  who 
lack  the  power  of  expression,  and  carry  down  to  their  graves 
the  unknown  region  of  their  thoughts,  as  has  said  a  member 
of  that  great  1'amilv  of  illustrious  mutes  or  stammerers — • 
Geoffrey  Saint-llilaire."  Old  Jean  Michel  belonged  to  that 
family.  He  was  no  more  successful  in  expressing  himself  in 
music  than  in  words,  and  l,c  always  deceived  himself.  Fie 
would  so  much  have  loved  to  talk,  to  write,  to  be  a  great 
musician,  an  eloquent  orator!  Jt  was  his  secret  sore.  He  told 


THE  DAWN"  29 

no  one  of  it,  did  not  admit  it  to  himself,  tried  not  to  think  of 
it;  but  he  did  think  of  it,  in  spite  of  himself,  and  so  there 
was  the  seed  of  death  in  his  soul. 

Poor  old  man !  In  nothing  did  he  succeed  in  being  absolutely 
himself.  There  were  in  him  so  many  seeds  of  beauty  and 
power,  but  they  never  put  forth  fruit;  a  profound  and  touching 
faith  in  the  dignity  of  Art  and  the  moral  value  of  life,  but 
it  was  nearly  always  translated  in  an  emphatic  and  ridiculous 
fashion;  so  much  noble  pride,  and  in  life  an  almost  servile 
admiration  of  his  superiors;  so  lofty  a  desire  for  independence, 
and,  in  fact,  absolute  docility;  pretensions  to  strength  of  mind, 
and  every  conceivable  superstition;  a  passion  for  heroism,  real 
courage,  and  so  much  timidity ! — a  nature  to  stop  by  the  way- 
side. 

Jean  Michel  had  transferred  all  his  ambitions  to  his  son, 
and  at  first  Melchior  had  promised  to  realize  them.  From 
childhood  he  had  shown  great  musical  gifts.  lie  learned  with 
extraordinary  facility,  and  quickly  acquired  as  a  violinist  a 
virtuosity  which  for  a  long  time  made  him  the  favorite,  almost 
the  idol,  of  the  Court  concerts.  He  played  the  piano  and  other 
instruments  pleasantly.  He  was  a  fine  talker,  well,  though  a 
little  heavily,  built,  and  was  of  the  type  which  passes  in  Ger- 
many for  classic  beauty;  he  had  a  large  brow  that  expressed 
nothing,  large  regular  features,  and  a  curled  beard— a  Jupiter 
of  the  banks  of  the  Rhine.  Old  Jean  Michel  enjoyed  his  son's 
success;  he  was  ecstatic  over  the  virtuoso's  lours  de  force,  he 
who  had  never  been  able  properly  to  play  any  instrument.  In 
truth,  Melchior  would  have  had  no  difficulty  in  expressing  what 
he  thought.  The  trouble  was  that  he  did  not  think;  and  he 
did  not  even  bother  about  it.  He  had  the  soul  of  a  mediocre 
comedian  who  takes  pains  with  the  inflexions  of  his  voice 
without  caring  about  what  they  express,  and,  with  anxious 
vanity,  watches  their  effect  on  his  audience. 

The  odd  thing  was  that,  in  spite  of  his  constant  anxiety 
about  his  stage  pose,  there  was  in  him,  as  in  Jean  .Michel,  in 
spite  of  his  timid  respect  for  social  conventions,  a  curious, 
irregular,  unexpected  and  chaotic  quality,  which  made  people 
say  that  the  Kralfts  were  a  bit  craxy.  It  did  not  harm  him 


30  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

at  first;  it  seemed  as  though  these  very  eccentricities  were  the 
proof  of  the  genius  attributed  to  him;  for  it  is  understoorl 
among  people  of  common  sense  that  an  artist  has  none.  But 
it  was  not  long  before  his  extravagances  were  traced  to  their 
source — usually  the  bottle.  Nietzsche  says  that  Bacchus  is  the 
God  of  Music,  and  Melchior's  instinct  was  of  the  same  opinion ; 
but  in  his  case  his  god  was  very  ungrateful  to  him ;  far  from 
giving  him  the  ideas  he  lacked,  he  took  away  from  him  the  few 
that  he  had.  After  his  absurd  marriage — absurd  in  the  eyes 
of  the  world,  and  therefore  also  in  his  own — he  gave  himself 
up  to  it  more  and  more.  He  neglected  his  playing — so  secure 
in  his  own  superiority  that  very  soon  he  lost  it.  Other  virtuosi 
came  to  succeed  him  in  public  fa\or.  That  was  bitter  to 
him,  but  instead  of  rousing  his  energy,  these  rebuffs  only  dis- 
couraged him.  He  avenged  himself  by  crying  down  his  rivals 
with  his  pot-fellows.  In  his  absurd  conceit  he  counted  on 
succeeding  his  father  as  musical  director:  another  man  was 
appointed.  He  thought  himself  persecuted,  and  took  on  the 
airs  of  a  misunderstood  genius.  Thanks  to  the  esteem  in  which 
old  Krafft  was  held,  he  kept  his  place  as  a  violin  in  the  orchestra, 
but  gradually  he  lost  all  his  lessons  in  the  town.  And  if  this 
blow  struck  most  at  his  vanity,  it  touched  his  purse  even  more. 
For  several  years  the  resources  of  his  household  had  grown  less 
and  less,  following  on  various  reverses  of  fortune.  After  having 
known  plenty,  want  came,  and  every  day  increased.  Melchior 
refused  to  take  notice  of  it;  he  did  not  spend  one  penny  the 
less  on  his  toilet  or  his  pleasures. 

He  was  not  a  bad  man,  but  a  half-good  man,  which  is  perhaps 
worse — weak,  without  spring,  without  moral  strength,  but  for 
the  rest,  in  his  own  opinion,  a  good  father,  a  good  son,  a  good 
husband,  a  good  man — and  perhaps  he  was  good,  if  to  be  so 
it  is  enough  to  possess  an  easy  kindness,  which  is  quickly 
touched,  and  that  animal  affection  by  which  a  man  loves  his 
kin  as  a  part  of  himself.  It  cannot  even  be  said  that  he  was 
very  egoistic;  he  had  not  personality  enough  for  that.  lie  was 
nothing.  They  are  a  terrible  thing  in  life,  these  people  who 
are  nothing.  Like  a  dead  weight  thrown  into  the  air,  they 
fall,  and  must  fall;  and  in  their  fall  they  drag  with  them 
everything  that  they  have. 


THE  DAWN  31 

It  was  when  the  situation  of  his  family  had  reached  its  most 
difficult  point,  that  little  Jean-Christophe  began  to  understand 
what  was  going  on  about  him. 

He  was  no  longer  the  only  child.  Melchior  gave  his  wife 
a  child  every  year,  without  troubling  to  think  what  was  to 
become  of  it  later.  Two  had  died  young;  two  others  were  three 
and  four  years  old.  Melchior  never  bothered  about  them. 
Louisa,  when  she  had  to  go  out,  left  them  with  Jean-Christophe, 
now  six  years  old. 

The  charge  cost  Jean-Christophe  something,  for  he  had  to 
sacrifice  to  his  duty  his  splendid  afternoons  in  the  fields.  But 
he  was  proud  of  being  treated  as  a  man,  and  gravely  fulfilled 
his  task.  He  amused  the  children  as  best  he  could  by  showing 
them  his  games,  and  he  set  himself  to  talk  to  them  as  he  had 
heard  his  mother  talking  to  the  baby.  Or  he  would  carry  them 
in  his  arms,  one  after  another,  as  he  had  seen  her  do;  he  bent 
under  their  weight,  and  clenched  his  teeth,  and  with  all  his 
strength  clutched  his  little  brother  to  his  breast,  so  as  to  prevent 
his  falling.  The  children  always  wanted  to  be  carried — they 
were  never  tired  of  it ;  and  when  Jean-Christophe  could  do  no 
more,  they  wept  without  ceasing.  They  made  him  very  un- 
happy, and  he  was  often  troubled  about  them.  They  were  very 
dirty,  and  needed  maternal  attentions.  Jean-Christophe  did 
not  know  what  to  do.  They  took  advantage  of  him.  Some- 
times he  wanted  to  slap  them,  but  he  thought,  "  They  are  little ; 
they  do  not  know,"  and,  magnanimously,  he  let  them  pinch  him, 
and  beat  him,  and  tease  him.  Ernest  used  to  howl  for  nothing; 
he  used  to  stamp  his  feet  and  roll  about  in  a  passion;  he  was 
a  nervous  child,  and  Louisa  had  bidden  Jean-Christophe  not 
to  oppose  his  whims.  As  for  Rodolphe,  he  was  as  malicious 
as  a  monkey;  he  always  took  advantage  of  Jean-Christophe 
having  Ernest  in  his  arms,  to  play  all  sorts  of  silly  pranks 
behind  his  back;  he  used  to  break  toys,  spill  water,  dirty  his 
frock,  and  knock  the  plates  over  as  he  rummaged  in  the  cup- 
board. 

And  when  Louisa  returned,  instead  of  praising  Jean-Chris- 
tophe, she  used  to  say  to  him,  without  scolding  him,  but  with 
an  injured  air,  as  she  saw  the  havoc:  "My  poor  child,  you  are 
not  very  clever !  " 


32  JEAN-CHI?  1STOPHE 

Jean-Christophe  would  be  mortified,  and  his  heart  would 
grow  big  within  him. 

Louisa,  who  let  no  opportunity  escape  of  earning  a  little 
money,  used  to  go  out  as  cook  for  exceptional  occasions,  such 
as  marriages  or  baptismal  feasts.  Melchior  pretended  to  know 
nothing  about  it — it  touched  his  vanity — hut  he  was  not  an- 
noyed with  her  for  doing  it,  so  long  as  he  did  not  know.  Jean- 
Christophe  had  as  yet  no  idea  of  the  difficulties  of.  life;  he 
knew  no  other  limit  to  his  will  than  the  will  of  his  parents, 
and  that  did  not  stand  much  in  his  way,  for  they  let  him 
do  pretty  much  as  he  pleased.  His  one  idea  was  to  grow 
up,  so  as  to  be  able  to  do  as  he  liked.  He  had  no  conception 
of  obstacles  standing  in  the  way  at  every  turn,  and  he  had 
never  the  least  idea  but  that  his  parents  were  completely  their 
own  masters.  It  was  a  shock  to  his  whole  being  when,  for 
the  first  time,  he  perceived  that  among  men  there  are  those 
who  command,  and  those  who  are  commanded,  and  that  his  own 
people  were  not  of  the  first  class;  it  was  the  first  crisis  of 
his  life. 

It  happened  one  afternoon.  His  mother  had  dressed  him  in 
his  cleanest  clothes,  old  clothes  given  to  her  which  Louisa's 
ingenuity  and  patience  had  turned  to  account.  He  went  to 
find  her,  as  they  had  agreed,  at  the  house  in  which  she  was 
working.  He  was  abashed  at  the  idea  of  entering  alone.  A 
footman  was  swaggering  in  the  porch ;  he  stopped  the  boy, 
and  asked  him  patronizingly  what  he  wanted.  Jean-Christophe 
blushed,  and  murmured  that  he  had  come  to  see  "  Fran  Krafft " 
— as  he  had  been  told  to  sav. 

"Fran  Kratft?  What  do  you  want  witli  Fran  Krafft?" 
asked  the  footman,  ironically  emphasizing  the  word  Fran. 
"Your  mother?  (jo  down  there.  You  will  find  Louisa  in  the 
kitchen  at  the  end  of  the  passage." 

He  went,  growing  redder  and  redder.  Me  was  ashamed  to 
hear  his  mother  called  familiarly  Lonixtt.  He  was  humiliated; 
he  would  have  liked  to  run  away  down  to  his  dear  river,  and 
the  shelter  of  the  brushwood  where  he  used  to  tell  himself 
stories. 

In   the   kitchen   he   came   upon   a    number   of   other   servants, 


THE  DAWN  33 

who  greeted  him  with  noisy  exclamations.  At  the  hack,  near 
the  stove,  his  mother  smiled  at  him  with  tender  embarrassment. 
He  ran  to  her,  and  clung  to  her  skirts.  She  was  wearing  a 
white  apron,  and  holding  a  wooden  spoon.  She  made  him  more 
unhappy  by  trying  to  raise  his  chin  so  as  to  look  in  his  face, 
and  to  make  him  hold  out  his  hand  to  everybody  there  and  say 
good-day  to  them.  He  would  not;  he  turned  to  the  wall  and 
hid  his  face  in  his  arms.  Then  gradually  he  gained  courage, 
and  peeped  out  of  his  hiding-place  with  merry  bright  eyes, 
which  hid  again  every  time  any  one  looked  at  him.  He  stole 
looks  at  the  people  there.  His  mother  looked  busy  and  im- 
portant, and  he  did  not  know  her  like  that;  she  went  from  one 
saucepan  to  another,  tasting,  giving  advice,  in  a  sure  voice 
explaining  recipes,  and  the  cook  of  the  house  listened  respect- 
fully. The  boy's  heart  swelled  with  pride  as  he  saw  how  much 
his  mother  was  appreciated,  and  the  great  part  that  she  played 
in  this  splendid  room,  adorned  with  magnificent  objects  of 
gold  and  silver. 

Suddenly  conversation  ceased.  The  door  opened.  A  lady 
entered  with  a  rustling  of  the  stull's  she  was  wearing.  She 
cast  a  suspicious  look  about  her.  She  was  no  longer  young. 
and  yet  she  was  wearing  a  light  dress  with  wide  sleeves.  She 
caught  up  her  dress  in  her  hand,  so  as  not  to  brush  against 
anything.  It  did  not  prevent  her  going  to  the  stove  and  look- 
ing at  the  dishes,  and  even  tasting  them.  When  she  raised  her 
hand  a  little,  her  sleeve  fell  back,  and  her  arm  was  bare  to  the 
elbow.  Jean-Christophe  thought  this  ugly  and  improper.  How 
dryly  and  abruptly  she  spoke  to  Louisa!  And  how  humbly 
Louisa  replied!  Jean-Christophe  hated  it.  He  hid  away  in 
his  corner,  so  as  not  to  be  observed,  but  it  was  no  use.  The 
lady  asked  who  the  little  boy  might,  be.  Louisa  fetched  him 
and  presented  him;  she  held  his  hands  to  prevent  his  hiding 
his  face.  And,  though  he  wanted  to  break  away  ami  lire. 
Jean-Christophe  felt  instinctively  that  this  time  he  must  not 
resist.  The  lady  looked  at  the  boy's  scared  face,  and  at  first 
she  gave  him  a  kindly,  motherly  smile.  Hut  then  she  resumed 
her  patronizing  air,  and  asked  him  about  his  behavior,  and  his 
piety,  and  put  questions  to  him,  to  which  he  did  not  reply. 
She  looked  to  see  how  his  clothes  fitted  him,,  and  Louisa  eagerly 


34  JEAX-CIIKJSTOP11E 

declared  that  they  were  magnificent.  She  pulled  down  his 
waistcoat  to  remove  Hie  creases.  Jean-Christophe  wanted  to 
crv,  it  fitted  so  tightly.  lie  did  not  understand  why  his  mother 
was  giving  thanks. 

The  lady  took  him  by  the  hand  and  said  that  she  would 
take  him  to  her  own  children.  Jean-Christophe  cast  a  look 
of  despair  at  his  mother;  hut  she  smiled  at  the  mistress  so 
eagerly  that  he  saw  that  there  was  nothing  to  hope  for  from 
her,  and  he  followed  his  guide  like  a  sheep  that  is  led  to  the 
slaughter. 

They  came  to  a  garden,  where  two  cross-looking  children,  a 
boy  and  a  girl,  about  the  same  age  as  Jean-Christophe,  were 
apparently  sulky  with  each  other.  Jean-Christophe's  advent 
created  a  diversion.  They  came  up  to  examine  the  new  arrival. 
Jean-Christophe,  left  with  the  children  by  the  lady,  stood  stock- 
still  in  a  pathway,  not  daring  to  raise  his  eyes.  The  two  others 
stood  motionless  a  short  distance  away,  and  looked  him  up  and 
down,  nudged  each  other,  and  tittered.  Finally,  they  made  lip 
their  minds.  They  asked  him  who  he  was,  whence  he  came, 
and  what  his  father  did.  Jean-Christophe,  turned  to  stone, 
made  no  reply;  he  was  terrified  almost  to  the  point  of  tears, 
especially  of  the  little  girl,  who  had  fair  hair  in  plaits,  a  short 
skirt,  and  bare  legs. 

They  began  to  play.  Just  as  Jean-Christophe  was  beginning 
to  be  a  little  happier,  the  little  boy  stopped  dead  in  front  of 
him,  and  touching  his  coat,  said: 

"Hullo!     That's  mine!" 

Jean-Christophe  did  not  understand.  Furious  at  this  asser- 
tion that  his  coat  belonged  to  some  one  else,  he  shook  his  head 
violently  in  denial. 

"I  know  it  all  right,"  said  the  boy.  "It's  my  old  blue 
waistcoat.  There's  a  spot  on  it." 

And  he  put  his  finger  on  the  spot.  Then,  going  on  with  his 
inspection,  he  examined  Jean-Christophe's  feet,  and  asked  what 
his  mended-up  shoes  were  made  of.  Jean-Christophe  grew  crim- 
son. The  little  girl  pouted  and  whispered  to  her  brother — 
Jean-Christophe  heard  it — that  it  was  a  little  poor  bov.  Jean- 
Christophe  resented  the  word.  lie  thought  he  would  succeed 
in  combating  the  insulting  opinions,  as  he  stammered  in  a 


THE  DAWX  35 

choking  voice  that  he  was  the  son  of  Melchior  KrafFt.  and  that 
his  mother  was  Louisa  the  cook.  It  seemed  to  him  that  this 
title  was  as  good  as  any  other,  and  he  was  right.  But  the 
two  children,  interested  in  the  news,  did  not  seem  to  esteem 
him  any  the  more  for  it.  On  the  contrary,  they  took  on  a 
patronizing  tone.  They  asked  him  what  he  was  going  to  be — 
a  cook  or  a  coachman.  Jean-Christophe  revolted.  He  felt  an 
iciness  steal  into  his  heart. 

Encouraged  by  his  silence,  the  two  rich  children,  who  had 
conceived  for  the  little  poor  boy  one  of  those  cruel  and  un- 
reasoning antipathies  which  children  have,  tried  various  amus- 
ing ways  of  tormenting  him.  The  little  girl  especially  was 
implacable.  She  .observed  that  Jean-Christophe  could  hardly 
run,  because  his  clothes  were  so  tight,  and  she  conceived  the 
subtle  idea  of  making  him  jump.  They  made  an  obstacle  of 
little  seats,  and  insisted  on  Jean-Christophe  clearing  it.  The 
wretched  child  dared  not  say  what  it  was  that  prevented  his 
jumping.  He  gathered  himself  together,  hurled  himself  through 
the  air,  and  measured  his  length  on  the  ground.  They  roared 
with  laughter  at  him.  He  had  to  try  again.  Tears  in  his 
eyes,  he  .made  a  desperate  attempt,  and  this  time  succeeded  in 
jumping.  That  did  not  satisfy  his  tormentors,  who  decided 
that  the  obstacle  was  not  high  enough,  and  they  built  it  up 
until  it  became  a  regular  break-neck  alfair.  Jean-Christophe 
tried  to  rebel,  and  declared  that  he  would  not  jump.  Then  the 
little  girl  called  him  a  coward,  and  said  that  he  was  afraid. 
Jean-Christophe  could  not  stand  that,  and,  knowing  that  he 
must  fall,  he  jumped,  and  fell.  His  feet  caught  in  the  obstacle; 
the  whole  thing  toppled  over  with  him.  lie  grazed  his  hands 
and  almost  broke  his  head,  and,  as  a  crowning  misfortune,  his 
trousers  tore  at  the  knees  and  elsewhere.  He  was  sick  with 
shame;  he  heard  the  two  children  dancing  with  delight  round 
him ;  he  suffered  horribly.  He  felt  that  they  despised  and 
hated  him.  Why?  Why?  He  would  gladly  have  died  !  There 
is  no  more  cruel  suffering  than  that  of  a  child  who  discovers 
for  the  first  time  the  wickedness  of  others:  he  believes  then  that 
he  is  persecuted  by  the  whole  world,  and  there  is  nothing  to 
support  him;  there  is  nothing  then — nothing!  .  .  .  Jean-Chris- 
tophe tried  to  get  up;  the  little  boy  pushed  him  down  again; 


30  JEAK-CHBISTOPHE 

the  little  girl  kicked  him.  He  tried  again,  and  they  both 
jumped  on  him,  and  sat  on  his  hack  and  pressed  his  face  down 
into  the  ground.  Then  rage  seized  him — it  was  too  much.  His 
hands  were  bruised,  his  fine  coat  was  torn — a  catastrophe  for 
him! — shame,  pain,  revolt  against  the  injustice  of  it,  so  many 
misfortunes  all  at  once,  plunged  him  in  blind  fury,  lie  rose 
to  his  hands  and  knees,  shook  himself  like  a  dog,  and  rolled 
his  tormentors  over ;  and  when  they  returned  to  the  assault 
he  hutted  at  them,  head  down,  bowled  over  the  little  girl,  and, 
with  one  blow  of  his  fist,  knocked  the  boy  into  the  middle  of  a 
flower-bed. 

They  howled.  The  children  ran  into  the  house  with  piercing 
cries.  Doors  slammed,  and  cries  of  anger  were  heard.  The 
lady  ran  out  as  quickly  as  her  long  dress  would  let  her.  Jean- 
Christophe  saw  her  coming,  and  made  no  attempt  to  escape. 
He  was  terrified  at  what  he  had  done;  it  was  a  thing  unheard 
of,  a  crime;  but  he  regretted  nothing.  He  waited.  He  was 
lost.  So  much  the  better!  He  was  reduced  to  despair. 

The  lady  pounced  on  him.  He  felt  her  beat  him.  He  heard 
her  talking  in  a  furious  voice,  a  flood  of  words:  but  he  could 
distinguish  nothing.  His  little  enemies  had  come  back  to  see 
his  shame,  and  screamed  shrilly.  There  were  servants — a  babel 
of  voices.  To  complete  his  downfall,  Louisa,  who  had  been  sum- 
moned, appeared,  and,  instead  of  defending  him,  she  began  to 
scold  him — -she,  too,  without  knowing  anything— and  bade  him 
beg  pardon.  Ho  refused  angrily.  She  shook  him,  and  dragged 
him  by  the  hand  to  the  lady  and  the  children,  and  bade  him 
go  on  his  knees.  But  he  stamped  and  roared,  and  bit  his 
mother's  hand.  Finally,  lie  escaped  among  the  servants,  who 
laughed. 

He  went  away,  his  heart  beating  furiously,  his  face  burning 
with  anger  and  the  slaps  which  he  had  received,  lie  tried  not 
to  think,  and  he  hurried  along  because  he  did  not  want  to 
cry  in  the  street.  f[e  wanted  to  be  at  home,  so  as  to  he  aide 
to  find  the  comfort  of  tears.  lie  choked  ;  the  blood  heat  in  his 
head;  he  was  at  bursting-point. 

Finally,  he  arrived;  he  ran  up  the  old  black  staircase  to 
his  usual  nook  in  the  bay  of  a  window  above  the  river;  he 
hurled  himself  into  it  breathlessly,  and  then  there  came  a  flood 


THE  DAWX  3? 

of  tears.  He  did  not  know  exactly  why  lie  was  crying,  but 
he  had  to  cry;  and  when  the  first  Hood  of  them  was  done,  he 
wept  again  because  he  wanted,  with  a  sort  of  rage,  to  make 
himself  suffer,  as  if  he  could  in  this  way  punish  the  others 
as  well  as  himself.  Then  he  thought  that  his  father  must  be 
coming  home,  and  that  his  mother  would  tell  him  everything, 
and  that  his  own  miseries  were  by  no  means  at  an  end.  He 
resolved  on  flight,  no  matter  whither,  never  to  return. 

Just  as  he  was  going  downstairs,  he  bumped  into  his  father, 
who  was  coming  up. 

"What  are  you  doing,  boy?  Where  are  you  going?"  asked 
Melchior. 

He  did  not  reply. 

"You  are  up  to  some  folly.     What  have  you  done?'' 

Jean-Christophe  held  his  peace. 

"  What  have  you  done  ?  "  repeated  Melchior.  "  Will  you 
answer  ?  " 

The  boy  began  to  cry  and  Melchior  to  shout,  vying  with 
each  other  until  they  heard  Louisa  hurriedly  coming  up  the 
stairs.  She  arrived,  still  upset.  She  began  with  violent  re- 
proach and  further  chastisement,  in  which  Melchior  joined  as 
soon  as  he  understood — and  probably  before — with  blows  that 
would  have  felled  an  ox.  Both  shouted  ;  the  boy  roared.  They 
ended  by  angry  argument.  All  the  time  that  lie  was  beating 
his  son,  Melchior  maintained  that  he  was  right,  and  that  this 
was  the  sort  of  thing  that  one  came  by,  by  going  out  to  service 
with  people  who  thought  they  could  do  everything  because  they 
had  money;  and  as  she  beat  the  child,  Louisa  shouted  that  her 
husband  was  a  brute,  that  she  would  never  let  him  touch  the 
boy,  and  that  he  had  really  hurt  him.  Jean-Christophe  was, 
in  fact,  bleeding  a  little  from,  the  nose,  but  he  hardly  gave  a 
thought  to  it,  and  he  was  not  in  the  least  thankful  to  his 
mother  for  stopping  it  with  a  wet  cloth,  since  she  went  on  scold- 
ing  him.  In  the  end  they  pushed  him  away  in  a  dark  closet, 
and  shut  him  up  without  any  supper. 

He  heard  them  shouting  at  each  other,  and  he  did  not  know 
which  of  them  he  detested  most.  He  thought  it  must  be  his 
mother,  for  he  had  never  expected  any  such  wickedness  from 
her.  All  the  misfortunes  of  the  dav  overwhelmed  him:  all  that 


38  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

he  had  suffered — the  injustice  of  the  children,  the  injustice  of 
the  lady,  the  injustice  of  his  parents,  and — this  he  felt  like 
an  open  wound,  without  quite  knowing  why — the  degradation 
of  his  parents,  of  whom  he  was  so  proud,  before  these  evil  and 
contemptible  people.  Such  cowardice,  of  which  for  the  first 
time  he  had  become  vaguely  conscious,  seemed  ignoble  to  him. 
Everything  was  upset  for  him — his  admiration  for  his  own 
people,  the  religious  respect  with  which  they  inspired  him,  his 
confidence  in  life,  the  simple  need  that  he  had  of  loving  others 
and  of  being  loved,  his  moral  faith,  blind  but  absolute.  It 
was  a  complete  cataclysm.  He  was  crushed  by  brute  force, 
without  any  means  of  defending  himself  or  of  ever  again  escap- 
ing. He  choked.  He  thought  himself  on  the  point  of  death. 
All  his  body  stiffened  in  desperate  revolt.  He  beat  with  fists, 
feet,  head,  against  the  wall,  howled,  was  seized  with  convul- 
sions, and  fell  to  the  floor,  hurting  himself  against  the  furniture. 

His  parents,  running  up,  took  him  in  their  arms.  They 
vied  with  each  other  now  as  to  who  should  be  the  more  tender 
with  him.  His  mother  undressed  him,  carried  him  to  his  bed, 
and  sat  by  him  and  remained  with  him  until  he  was  calmer. 
But  he  did  not  yield  one  inch.  He  forgave  her  nothing,  and 
pretended  to  be  asleep  to  get  rid  of  her.  His  mother  seemed 
to  him  bad  and  cowardly.  He  had  no  suspicion  of  all  the 
suffering  that  she  had  to  go  through  in  order  to  live  and  give 
a  living  to  her  family,  and  of  what  she  had  borne  in  taking 
sides  against  him. 

After  he  had  exhausted  to  the  last  drop  the  incredible  store 
of  tears  that  is  in  the  eyes  of  a  child,  he  felt  somewhat  com- 
forted. He  was  tired  and  worn  out,  but  his  nerves  were  too 
much  on  stretch  for  him  to  sleep.  The  visions  that  had  been 
with  him  floated  before  him  again  in  his  semi-torpor.  Espe- 
cially he  saw  again  the  little  girl  with  her  bright  eyes  and  her 
turned-up,  disdainful  little  nose,  her  hair  hanging  down  to  her 
shoulders,  her  bare  legs  and  her  childish,  affected  way  of  talk- 
ing. He  trembled,  as  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  could  hear  her 
voice.  He  remembered  how  stupid  he  had  been  with  her,  and 
he  conceived  a  savage  hatred  for  her.  He  did  not  pardon  her 
for  having  brought  him  low,  and  was  consumed  with  the  desire 
to  humiliate  her  and  to  make  her  weep.  He  sought  means  of 


THE  DAWtf  39 

doing  this,  but  found  none.  There  was  no  sign  of  her  ever 
caring  about  him.  But  by  way  of  consoling  himself  he  sup- 
posed that  everything  was  as  he  wished  it  to  be.  He  supposed 
that  he  had  become  very  powerful  and  famous,  and  decided 
that  she  was  in  love  with  him.  Then  he  began  to  tell  lu'mself 
one  of  those  absurd  stories  which  in  the  end  he  would  regard 
as  more  real  than  reality. 

She  was  dying  of  love,  but  he  spurned  her.  When  he  passed 
before  her  house  she  watched  him  pass,  hiding  behind  the 
curtains,  and  he  knew  that  she  watched  him,  but  he  pretended 
to  take  no  notice,  and  talked  gaily.  Even  he  left  the  country, 
and  journeyed  far  to  add  to  her  anguish.  lie  did  great  things. 
Here  he  introduced  into  his  narrative  fragments  chosen  from 
his  grandfather's  heroic  tales,  and  all  this  time  she  was  falling 
ill  of  grief.  Her  mother,  that  proud  dame,  came  to  beg  of 
him  :  "  My  poor  child  is  dying.  I  beg  you  to  come  I  "  He  went. 
She  was  in  her  bed.  Her  face  was  pale  and  sunken.  She 
held  out  her  arms  to  him.  She  could  not  speak,  but  she  took 
his  hands  and  kissed  them  as  she  wept.  Then  he  looked  at 
her  with  marvelous  kindness  and  tenderness.  He  bade  her 
recover,  and  consented  to  let  her  love  him.  At  this  point  of 
the  story,  when  he  amused  himself  by  drawing  out  the  coming 
together  by  repeating  their  gestures  and  words  several  times, 
sleep  overcame  him,  and  he  slept  and  was  consoled. 

But  when  he  opened  his  eyes  it  was  day,  and  it  no  longer 
.shone  so  lightly  or  so  carelessly  as  its  predecessor.  There  was 
a  great  change  in  the  world.  Jean-Christophe  now  knew  the 
meaning  of  injustice. 

There  were  now  times  of  extremely  straitened  circumstances 
at  home.  They  became  more  and  more  frequent.  They  lived 
meagerly  then.  Xo  one  was  more  sensible  of  it  than  .Jean- 
Christophe.  His  father  saw  nothing.  He  was  served  iirst, 
and  there  was  always  enough  for  him.  He  talked  noisily,  and 
roared  with  laughter  at  his  own  jokes,  and  he  never  noticed 
his  wife's  glances  as  she  gave  a  forced  laugh,  while  she  watched 
him  helping  himself.  When  he  passed  the  dish  it  was  more 
than  half  empty.  Louisa  helped  the  children — two  potatoes 
each.  When  it  came  to  Jean-Christophe's  turn  there  were 


40  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

sometimes  only  three  left,  and  his  mother  was  not  helped.  He 
knew  that  beforehand;  he  had  counted  them  before  they  came 
to  him.  Then  he  summoned  up  courage,  and  said  carelessly: 

"  Only  one,  mother.'' 

She  was  a  liitle  put  out. 

"Two.  like  the  others.'' 

"  Xo,  please;  only  one." 

"Aren't  you  hungry?" 

"  Xo,  I'm  not  very  hungry." 

But  she,  too.  only  took  one.  and  they  peeled  them  care- 
fully, cut  them  up  in  little  pieces,  and  tried  to  eat  them  as 
slowly  as  possible.  His  mother  watched  him.  When  he  had 
finished : 

"  Come,  take  it !  " 

"  Xo,  mother." 

"  But  you  are  ill  ?  " 

"  I  am  not  ill,  but  I  have  eaten  enough." 

Then  his  father  would  reproach  him  with  being  obstinate, 
and  take  the  last  potato  for  himself.  But  Jean-Christophe 
learned  that  trick,  and  he  used  to  keep  it  on  his  .plate  for 
Ernest,  his  little  brother,  who  was  always  hungry,  and  watched 
him  out  of  the  corner  of  his  eyes  from  the  beginning  of  dinner, 
and  ended  by  asking: 

"Aren't  you  going  to  eat  it?  Give  it  me,  then,  Jeau-Chris- 
tophe." 

Oh.  how  Jean-Christophe  detested  his  father,  how  he  hated 
him  for  not  thinking  of  them,  or  for  not  even  dreaming  that 
he  was  eating  their  share!  He  was  so  hungry  that  lie  hated 
him,  and  would  gladlv  have  told  him  so;  but  he  thought  in 
his  pride  that  he  had  no  right,  since  he  could  not'  earn  bis 
own  living.  His  father  had  earned  the  bread  that  he  took. 
He  himself  was  good  for  nothing:  lie  was  a  burden  on  every- 
body: he  had  no  right  to  talk.  Later  on  he  would  talk — 
if  there  were  any  later  on.  Oh,  he  would  die  of  hunger 
first!  .  .  . 

Ho  suffered  more  than  another  child  would  have  done  from 
these  cruel  fasts.  His  robust  stomach  was  in  agonv.  Some- 
times h"  trembled  because  of  it;  his  head  ached.  There  was 
a  hole  in  his  chest — a  hole,  which  turned  and  widened,  as  if  a 


THE  DAWN"  41 

gimlet  were  being  twisted  in  it.  But  he  did  not  complain.  He 
i'elt  his  mother's  eyes  upon  him,  and  assumed  an  expression  of 
indifference.  Louisa,  with  a  clutching  at  her  heart,  understood 
vaguely  that  her  little  boy  was  denying  himself  so  that  the 
others  might  have  more.  She  rejected  the  idea,  but  always 
returned  to  it,  She  dared  not  investigate  it  or  ask  Jean-Chris- 
tophe  if  it  were  true,  for,  if  it  were  true,  what  could  she 
do?  She  had  been  used  to  privation  since  her  childhood. 
What  is  the  use  of  complaining  when  there  is  nothing  to  be 
done?  She  never  suspected,  indeed — she,  with  her  frail  health 
and  small  needs — that  the  boy  might  suffer  more  than  herself. 
She  did  not  say  anything,  but  once  or  twice,  when  the  others 
were  gone,  the  children  to  the  street,  Melchior  about  his  busi- 
ness, she  asked  her  eldest  son  to  stay  to  do  her  some  small 
service.  Jean-Christophe  would  hold  her  skein  while  she  un- 
wound it.  Suddenly  she  would  throw  everything  away,  and 
draw  him  passionately  to  her.  She  would  take  him  on  her 
knees,  although  he  was  quite  heavy,  and  would  hug  and  hug 
him.  He  would  fling  his  arms  round  her  neck,  and  the  two 
of  them  would  weep  desperately,  embracing  each  other. 

"My  poor  little  boy!  .  .  ." 

"Mother,  mother!  .  .  ." 

They  said  no  .more.,  but  they  understood  each  other. 

It  was  some  time  before  Jean-Christophe  realized  that  his 
father  drank.  Melchior's  intemperance  did  not — at  least,  in 
the  beginning — exceed  tolerable  limits.  It  was  not  brutish.  It 
showed  itself  rather  by  wild  outbursts  of  happiness.  Me  used 
to  make  foolish  remarks,  and  sing  loudly  for  hours  together  as 
he  drummed  on  the  table,  and  sometimes  he  insisted  on  dancing 
with  Louisa  and  the  children.  Jean-Christophe  saw  thai  his 
mother  looked  sad.  She  would  shrink  back  and  bend  her  face 
over  her  work;  she  avoided  the  drunkard's  eyes,  and  used  to  try 
gently  to  quiet  him  when  he  said  coarse  things  thai  made  her 
blush.  But  Jean-Christophe  did  not  understand,  and  he  was 
in  such  need  of  gaiety  that  these  noisy  liome-comings  of  his 
father  were  almost  a  festival  to  him.  The  house  was  melan- 
choly, and  these  follies  were  a  relaxation  for  him.  He  used 
to  laugh  heartily  at  Melchior's  crazy  antics  and  stupid  jokes; 


42  JEAN-CH.RISTOPHE 

he  sang  and  danced  with  him;  and  he  was  put  out  when  his 
mother  in  an  angry  voice  ordered  him  to  cease.  How  could 
it  be  wrong,  since  his  father  did  it?  Although  his  ever  keen 
observation,  which  never  forgot  anything  it  had  seen,  told  him 
that  there  were  in  his  father's  behavior  several  things  which 
did  not  accord  with  his  childish  and  imperious  sense  of  justice, 
yet  he  continued  to  admire  him.  A  child  has  so  much  need 
of  an  object  of  admiration !  Doubtless  it  is  one  of  the  eternal 
forms  of  self-love.  "When  a  man  is,  or  knows  himself  to  be, 
too  weak  to  accomplish  his  desires  and  satisfy  his  pride,  as  a 
child  he  transfers  them  to  his  parents,  or,  as  a  man  who  has 
failed,  he  transfers  them  to  his  children.  They  are,  or  shall 
be,  all  that  he  dreamed  of  being — his  champions,  his  avengers — - 
and  in  this  proud  abdication  in  their  favor,  love  and  egoism  are 
mingled  so  forcefully  and  yet  so  gently  as  to  bring  him  keen 
delight.  Jean-Christophe  forgot  all  his  grudges  against  his 
father,  and  cast  about  to  find  reasons  for  admiring  him. 
He  admired  his  figure,  his  strong  arms,  his  voice,  his  laugh, 
his  gaiety,  and  he  shone  with  pride  when  he  heard  praise  of 
his  father's  talents  as  a  virtuoso,  or  when  Melchior  himself 
recited  with  some  amplification  the  eulogies  lie  had  received. 
He  believed  in  his  father's  boasts,  and  looked  upon  him  as  a 
genius,  as  one  of  his  grandfather's  heroes. 

One  evening  about  seven  o'clock  he  was  alone  in  the  house. 
His  little  brothers  had  gone  out  wiili  Jean  Michel.  Louisa  was 
washing  the  linen  in  the  river.  The  door  opened,  and  Melchior 
plunged  in.  He  was  hatless  and  disheveled.  He  cut  a  sort 
of  caper  to  cross  the  threshold,  and  then  plumped  down  in  a 
chair  by  the  table.  Jean-Christophe  began  to  laugh,  thinking 
it  was  a  part  of  one  of  the  usual  buffooneries,  and  he  approached 
him.  But  as  soon  as  he  looked  more  clo«ely  at  him  the  desire 
to  laugh  loft  him.  Melchior  sat  there  with  his  arms  hanging, 
and  looking  straight  in  front  of  him,  seeing  nothing,  with  his 
eyes  blinking.  His  face  was  crimson,  his  mouth  was  open, 
and  from  it  there  gurgled  every  now  and  then  a  silly  laugh. 
Jean-Christophe  stood  stock-still.  He  thought  at  first  that 
his  father  was  joking,  but  when  he  saw  that  he  did  not  budge 
he  was  panic-stricken. 

"  Papa,  papa  !  "  he  cried. 


THE  DAWN"  43 

Melchior  went  on  gobbling  like  a  fowl.  Jean-Christophe 
took  him  by  the  arm  in  despair,  and  shook  him  with  all  his 
strength. 

"  Papa,  dear  papa,  answer  me,  please,  please !  " 

Melchior's  body  shook  like  a  boneless  thing,  and  all  but  fell. 
His  head  flopped  towards  Jean-Christophe;  he  looked  at  him 
and  babbled  incoherently  and  irritably.  When  Jean-Chris- 
tophe's  eyes  met  those  clouded  eyes  he  was  seized  with  panic- 
terror.  He  ran  away  to  the  other  end  of  the  room,  and  threw 
himself  on  his  knees  by  the  bed,  and  buried  his  face  in  the 
clothes.  He  remained  so  for  some  time.  Melchior  swung 
heavily  on  the  chair,  sniggering.  Jean-Christophe  stopped  his 
ears,  so  as  not  to  hear  him,  and  trembled.  What  was  happen- 
ing within  him  was  inexpressible.  It  was  a  terrible  upheaval — • 
terror,  sorrow,  as  though  for  some  one  dead,  some  one  dear  and 
honored. 

Xo  one  came;  they  were  left  alone.  Xight  fell,  and  Jean- 
Christophe's  fear  grew  as  the  minutes  passed.  He  could  not 
help  listening,  and  his  blood  froze  as  he  heard  the  voice  that 
he  did  not  recognize.  The  sileace  made  it  all  the  more  terri- 
fying; the  limping  clock  beat  time  for  the  senseless  babbling. 
He  could  bear  it  no  longer;  he  wished  to  fly.  But  he  had 
to  pass  his  father  to  get  out,  and  Jean-Christophe  shuddered 
at  the  idea  of  seeing  those  eyes  again;  it  seemed  to  him  that 
he  must  die  if  he  did.  He  tried  to  creep  on  hands  and 
knees  to  the  door  of  the  room.  lie  could  not  breathe;  he 
would  not  look;  he  stopped  at  the  least  movement,  from  Mel- 
chior, whose  feet  lie  could  see  under  the  table.  One  of  the 
drunken  man's  legs  trembled.  Jean-Christophe  reached  the 
door.  With  one  trembling  hand  he  pushed  the  handle,  but 
in  his  terror  he  let  go.  It  shut  to  again.  Melchior  turned 
to  look.  The  chair  on  which  lie  was  balanced  toppled  over; 
he  fell  down  with  a  crash.  Jean-Christophe  in  his  terror  had 
no  strength  left  for  flight.  He  remained  glued  to  the  wall, 
looking  at  his  father  stretched  there  at  his  feet,  and  he  cried 
for  help. 

His  fall  sobered  Melchior  a  little.  He  cursed  and  swore, 
and  thumped  on  the  chair  that  had  played  him  such  a  trick. 
He  tried  vainly  to  get  up.  and  then  did  manage  to  sit  up  with 


44  JEAN-CHEIBTOPHE 

liis  back  resting  against  the  table,  and  lie  recognixed  his 
surroundings.  He  saw  Jean-Christophe  crying;  lie  called 
him.  Jean-Christophe  wanted  to  run  away;  lie  could  not  stir. 
Melchior  called  him  again,  and  as  the  child  did  not  come,  he 
swore  angrily.  Jean-Christophe  went  near  him,  trembling  in 
every  limb.  Melchior  drew  the  boy  near  him,  and  made  him  sit 
on  his  knees.  He  began  by  pulling  his  ears,  and  in  a  thick, 
stuttering  voice  delivered  a  homily  on  the  respect  due  from  a 
son  to  his  father.  Then  he  went  of!'  suddenly  on  a  new  train 
of  thought,  and  made  him  jump  in  his  arms  while  he  rattled 
oil'  silly  jokes.  He  wriggled  with  laughter.  From  that  he 
passed  immediately  to  melancholy  ideas.  lie  commiserated  the 
boy  and  himself;  he  hugged  him  so  that  ho  was  like  to  choke, 
covered  him  with  kisses  and  tears,  and  finally  rocked  him  in 
his  arms,  intoning  the  DC  Profumlls.  Jean-Christophe  made  no 
effort  to  break  loose;  he  was  frozen  with  horror.  Stilled  against 
his  father's  bosom,  feeling  his  breath  hiccoughing  and  smelling 
of  wine  upon  his  face,  wet  with  his  kisses  and  repulsive  tears, 
he  was  in  an  agony  of  fear  and  disgust.  lie  would  have 
screamed,  but  no  sound  would  come  from  bis  lips.  He  re- 
mained in  this  horrible  condition  for  an  age,  as  it  seemed  to 
him.  until  the  door  opened,  and  Louisa  came  in  with  a  basket 
of  linen  on  her  arm.  She  gave  a  cry,  let  the  basket  fall,  rushed 
at  Jean-Christophe,  and  with  a  violence  which  seemed  incredible 
in  her  she  wrenched  Melehior's  arm,  crying: 

"Drunken,  drunken   wretch!" 

Her  eyes   flashed   with  anger. 

Jean-Christophe  thought,  his  father  was  going  to  kill  her. 
But  Melchior  was  so  startled  by  the  threatening  appearance 
of  his  wife  that  he  made  no  reply,  and  began  to  weep.  He 
rolled  on  the  floor;  he  beat  his  head  against  the  furniture, 
and  said  that  she  was  right,  that  he  was  a  drunkard,  that 
he  brought  misery  upon  his  family,  and  was  ruining  his  poor 
children,  and  \\ished  he  were  dead.  Louisa  bad  contemptuously 
turned  her  back  on  him.  She  carried  Jean-Christophe  into  the 
next  room,  and  caressed  him  and  tried  to  comfort  him.  The 
boy  went  on  trembling,  and  did  not  answer  his  mother's  ques- 
tions; then  he  burst  out  sobbing.  Louisa  bathed  bis  face  with 
water.  She  kissed  him,  and  used  tender  words,  and  wept  with 


THE  DAWN  45 

him.  In  the  end  they  were  both  comforted.  She  knelt,  and 
made  him  kneel  by  her  side.  They  prayed  to  (iod  to  cure  father 
of  his  disgusting  habit,  and  make  him  the  kind,  good  man  that 
he  used  to  be.  Louisa  put  the  child  to  bed.  lie  wanted  her  to 
stay  by  his  bedside  and  hold  his  hand.  Louisa  spent  part 
of  the  night  sitting  on  Jean-Christophe's  bed.  He  was  feverish. 
The  drunken  man  snored  on  the  floor. 

Some  time  after  that,  one  day  at  school,  when  Jean-Chris- 
tophe  was  spending  his  time  watching  the  flies  on  the  ceiling, 
and  thumping  his  neighbors,  to  make  them  fall. off  the  form, 
the  schoolmaster,  who  had  taken  a  dislike  to  him,  because  he 
was  always  fidgeting  and  laughing,  and  would  never  learn  any- 
thing, made  an  unhappy  allusion.  Jean-Christophe  had  fallen 
down  himself,  and  the  schoolmaster  said  he  seemed  to  be  like 
to  follow  brilliantly  in  the  footsteps  of  a  certain  well-known 
person.  All  the  boys  burst  out  laughing,  and  some  of  them 
took  upon  themselves  to  point  the  allusion  with  comment  both 
lucid  and  vigorous.  Jean-Christophe  got  up,  livid  with  shame, 
seized  his  ink-pot,  and  hurled  it  with  all  his  strength  at  the 
nearest  boy  whom  he  saw  laughing.  The  schoolmaster  fell  on 
him  and  beat  him.  He  was  thrashed,  made  to  kneel,  and  set 
to  do  an  enormous  imposition. 

He  went  home,  pale  and  storming,  though  he  said  never  a 
word.  He  declared  frigidly  that  he  would  not  go  to  school 
again.  They  paid  no  attention  to  what  he  said.  Next  morning, 
when  his  mother  reminded  him  that  it  was  time  to  go,  he 
replied  quietly  that  he  had  said  that  he  was  not  going  any  more. 
In  vain  Louisa  begged  and  screamed  and  threatened ;  it  was 
no  use.  He  stayed  sitting  in  his  corner,  obstinate.  Melchior 
thrashed  him.  He  howled,  but  every  time  they  bade  him  go 
•after  the  thrashing  was  over  he  replied  angrily,  "  Xo !  "  They 
asked  him  at  least  to  say  why.  He  clenched  his  teeth,  and 
would  not.  Melchior  took  hold  of  him,  carried  him  to  school. 
and  gave  him  into  the  master's  charge.  Thev  set  him  on  his 
form,  and  he  began  methodically  to  Ineak  everything  within 
roach— his  inkstand,  his  pen.  He  tore  up  his  copy-book  and 
lesson-book,  all  quite  openly,  with  his  eve  on  the  schoolmaster, 
provocative.  They  shut  him  up  in  a  dark  room.  A  few  mo- 
ments later  the  schoolmaster  found  him  with  his  handkerchief 


4G  JEAX-CHRISTOPHE 

tied  round  his  neck,  tugging  with  all  his  strength  at  the  two 
ends  of  it.     He  was  trying  to  strangle  himself. 
They  had  to  send  him  back. 

Jean-Christophe  was  impervious  to  sickness.  He  had  in- 
herited from  his  father  and  grandfather  their  robust  constitu- 
tions. They  were  not  mollycoddles  in  that  family;  well  or  ill, 
they  never  worried,  and  nothing  could  bring  about  any  change 
in  the  habits  of  the  two  Kraft'ts,  father  and  son.  They  went 
out  winter  and  summer,  in  all  weathers,  and  stayed  for  hours 
together  out  in  rain  or  sun,  sometimes  bareheaded  and  with 
their  coats  open,  from  carelessness  or  bravado,  and  walked 
for  miles  without  being  tired,  and  they  looked  with  pity  and 
disdain  upon  poor  Louisa,  who  never  said  anything,  but  had 
to  stop.  She  would  go  pale,  and  her  legs  would  swell,  and 
her  heart  would  thump.  Jean-Christophe  was  not  far  from 
sharing  the  scorn  of  his  mother;  he  did  not  understand  people 
being  ill.  When  he  fell,  or  knocked  himself,  or  cut  himselfv 
or  burned  himself,  he  did  not  cry;  but  he  was  angry  with 
the  thing  that  had  injured  him.  His  father's  brutalities  and 
the  roughness  of  his  little  playmates,  the  urchins  of  the  street, 
with  whom  lie  used  to  fight,  hardened  him.  He  was  not  afraid 
of  blows,  and  more  than  once  he  returned  home  with  bleeding 
nose  and  bruised  forehead.  One  day  he  had  to  be  wrenched 
away,  almost  suffocated,  from  one  of  these  fierce  tussles  in 
which  he  had  bowled  over  his  adversary,  who  was  savagely 
banging  his  head  on  the  ground.  That  seemed  natural  enough 
to  him,  for  he  was  prepared  to  do  unto  others  as  they  did  unto 
himself. 

And  yet  he  was  afraid  of  all  sorts  of  things,  and  although 
no  one  knew  it — for  he  was  very  proud — nothing  brought  him 
so  much  suffering  during  a  part  of  his  childhood  as  these  same 
terrors.  For  two  or  three  years  especially  they  gnawed  at  him 
like  a  disease. 

He  was  afraid  of  the  mysterious  something  that  lurks  in 
darkness — evil  powers  that  seemed  to  lie  in  wait  for  his  life, 
the  roaring  of  monsters  which  fearfully  haunt  the  mind  of 
every  child  and  appear  in  everything  that  he  sees,  the  relic 
perhaps  of  a  form  long  dead,  hallucinations  of  the  first  days 


THE  DAWN  47 

after  emerging  from  chaos,  from  the  fearful  slumber  in  his 
mother's  womb,  from  the  awakening  of  the  larva  from  the 
depths  of  matter. 

He  was  afraid  of  the  garret  door.  It  opened  on  to  the  stairs, 
and  was  almost  always  ajar.  When  he  had  to  pass  it  lie  felt 
his  heart  beating;  he  would  spring  forward  and  jump  by  it 
without  looking.  It  seemed  to  him  that  there  was  some  one 
or  something  behind  it.  When  it  was  closed  he  heard  distinctly 
something  moving  behind  it.  That  was  not  surprising,  for 
there  were  large  rats;  but  he  imagined  a  monster,  with  rattling 
bones,  and  flesh  hanging  in  rags,  a  horse's  head,  horrible  and 
terrifying  eyes,  shapeless.  He  did  not  want  to  think  of  it, 
but  did  so  in  spite  of  himself.  With  trembling  hand  he  would 
make  sure  that  the  door  was  locked;  but  that  did  not  keep  him 
from  turning  round  ten  times  as  he  went  downstairs. 

He  was  afraid  of  the  night  outside.  Sometimes  he  used  to 
stay  late  with  his  grandfather,  or  was  sent  out  in  the  even- 
ing on  some  errand.  Old  KrafTt  lived  a  little  outside  the  town 
in  the  last  house  on  the  Cologne  road.  Between  the  house  and 
the  first  lighted  windows  of  the  town  there  was  a  distance  of 
two  or  three  hundred  yards,  which  seemed  three  times  as  long 
to  Jean-Christophe.  There  were  places  where  the  road  twisted 
and  it  was  impossible  to  see  anything.  The  country  was 
deserted  in  the  evening,  the  earth  grew  black,  and  the  sky 
was  awfully  pale.  When  he  came  out  from  the  hedges  that 
lined  the  road,  and  climbed  up  the  slope,  he  could  still  see 
a  yellowish  gleam  on  the  horizon,  but  it  gave  no  light,  and 
was  more  oppressive  than  the  night;,  it  made  the  darkness 
only  darker;  it  was  a  deathly  light.  The  clouds  came  down 
almost  to  earth.  The  hedges  grew  enormous  and  moved.  The 
gaunt  trees  were  like  grotesque  old  men.  The  sides  of  the 
wood  were  stark  white.  The  darkness  moved.  There  were 
dwarfs  sitting  in  the  ditches,  lights  in  the  grass,  fearful  flying 
things  in  the  air,  shrill  cries  of  insects  coming  from  nowhere. 
Jean-Christophe  was  always  in  anguish,  expecting  some  fear- 
some or  strange  putting  forth  of  Nature,  lie  would  run,  with 
his  heart  leaping  in  his  bosom. 

When  he  saw  the  light  in  his  grandfather's  room  he  would 
gain  confidence.  But  worst  of  all  was  when  old  Krail't  was 


48  JEAX-CHHISTOPHK 

not  at  homo.  That  was  most  terrifying.  The  old  house,  lost 
in  the  country,  frightened  the  hoy  even  in  daylight,  lie  forgot 
]iis  fears  when  his  grandfather  was  there,  but  sometimes  the 
old  man  would  leave  him  alone,  and  go  out  without  warning 
him.  Jean-Christophe  did  not  mind  that.  The  room'  was 
quiet.  Everything  in  it  was  familiar  and  kindly.  There  was 
a.  great  white  wooden  bedstead,  by  the  bedside  was  a  great 
Bible  on  a  shelf,  artificial  ilowers  were  on  the  mantelpiece, 
with  photographs  of  the  old  man's  two  wives  and  eleven  chil- 
dren— and  at  the  bottom  of  each  photograph  he  had  written 
the  date  of  birth  and  death — on  the  walls  were  framed  texts 
and  vile  chromolithographs  of  Mozart  and  Beethoven.  A  little 
piano  stood  in  one  corner,  a  great  violoncello  in  another;  rows 
of  books  higgledy-piggledy,  pipes,  and  in  the  window  pots  of 
geraniums.  It  was  like  being  surrounded  with  friends.  The 
old  man  could  be  heard  moving  about  in  the  next  room,  and 
planing  or  hammering,  and  talking  to  himself,  calling  himself 
an  idiot,  or  singing  in  a  loud  voice,  improvising  a  potpourri 
of  scraps  of  chants  and  sentimental  Liedcr.  warlike  marches. 
and  drinking  songs.  Here  was  shelter  and  refuge.  Jean- 
Christophe  would  sit  in  the  great  armchair  by  the  window,  with 
a  book  on  his  knees,  bending  over  the  pictures  and  losing  him- 
self in  them.  The  day  would  die  down,  his  eyes  would  grow 
weary,  and  then  he  would  look  no  more,  and  fall  into  vague 
dreaming.  The  wheels  of  a  cart  would  rumble  by  along  the 
road,  a  cow  would  moo  in  the  fields;  the  bells  of  the  town, 
wearv  and  sleepv,  would  ring  the  evening  Angel  us.  Vague 
desires,  happy  presentiments,  would  awake  in  the  heart  of  the 
dreaming  child. 

Suddenly  Jean-Christopho  would  awake,  filled  with  dull  un- 
easiness. He  would  raise  his  eyes — night!  IFe  would  listen — 
silence!  His  grandfather  had  just  gone  out.  He  shuddered. 
He  leaned  out  of  the  window  to  try  to  see  him.  The  road  was 
deserted;  things  began  to  take  on  a  threatening  aspect.  Oh 
(iod  !  If  Ilial  should  be  coming!  Whaty  Tie  could  not  tell. 
The  fearful  thing.  The  doors  were  not  properly  shut.  The 
wooden  stairs  creaked  as  under  a  footstep.  Tin'  boy  leaped 
up,  dragged  the  armchair,  the  two  chairs  and  the  table,  to 
the  most  remote  corner  of  the  room:  he  made  a  barrier  of 


THE  DAWN  49 

them;  the  armchair  against  the  wall,  a  chair  to  the  right,  a 
chair  to  the  left,  and  the  table  in  front  of  him.  hi  the  middle 
he  planted  a  pair  of  steps,  and,  perched  on  top  with  his  book 
and  other  books,  like  provisions  against  a  siege,  he  breathed 
again,  having  decided  in  his  childish  imagination  that  the 
enemy  could  not  pass  the  barrier — that  was  not  to  be  allowed. 

But  the  enemy  would  creep  forth,  even  from  his  book.  Among 
the  old  books  which  the  old  man  had  picked  up  were  some 
with  pictures  which  made  a  profound  impression  on  the  child: 
they  attracted  and  yet  terriiied  him.  There  were  fantastic 
visions — temptations  of  St.  Anthony — in  which  skeletons  of 
birds  hung  in  bottles,  and  thousands  of  eggs  writhe  like  worms 
in  disemboweled  frogs,  and  heads  walk  on  feet,  and  asses  play 
trumpets,  and  household  utensils  and  corpses  of  animals  walk 
gravely,  wrapped  in  great  cloths,  bowing  like  old  ladies.  Jean- 
Christophe  was  horriiied  by  them,  but  always  returned  to  them, 
drawn  on  by  disgust.  He  would  look  at  them  for  a  long  time, 
and  every  now  and  then  look  furtively  about  him  to  see  what 
was  stirring  in  the  folds  of  the  curtains.  A  picture  of  a  flayed 
man  in  an  anatomy  book  was  still  more  horrible  to  him.  He 
trembled  as  he  turned  the  page  when  he  came  to  the  place 
where  it  was  in  the  hook.  This  shapeless  medley  was  grimly 
etched  for  him.  The  creative  power  inherent  in  every  child's 
mind  filled  out  the  meagerness  of  the  setting  of  them.  He 
saw  no  difference  between  the  daubs  and  the  reality.  At  night 
they  had  an  even  more  powerful  influence  over  his  dreams  than 
the  living  things  that  he  saw  during  the  day. 

He  was  afraid  to  sleep.  For  several  years  nightmares  poisoned 
his  rest.  He  wandered  in  cellars,  and  through  the  manhole 
saw  the  grinning  flayed  man  entering.  He  was  alone  in  a 
room,  and  he  heard  a  stealthy  footstep  in  the  corridor:  he 
hurled  himself  against  the  door  to  close  it,  and  was  just  in 
time  to  hold  the  handle;  but  it  was  turned  from  the  outside; 
he  could  not  turn  the  key,  his  strength  left  him.  and  he  cried 
for  help.  He  was  with  his  family,  and  suddenly  their  faces 
changed;  they  did  crazy  things,  lie  was  reading  quietly,  and 
he  felt  that  an  invisible  being  was  all  roiunl  him.  He  tried 
to  fly,  but  felt  himself  bound.  He  tried  to  cry  out,  but  he 
was  gagged.  A  loathsome  grip  was  about  his  neck.  He  awoke, 


SO  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

suffocating,  and  with  his  tooth  chattering;  and  lie  wont  on 
trembling  long  after  he  was  awake;  he  could  not  be  rid  of  his 
agony. 

The  room  in  which  he  slept  was  a  hole  without  door  or 
windows;  an  old  curtain  hung  up  by  a  curtain-rod  over  the 
entrance  was  .ill  that  separated  it  from  the  room  of  his  father 
and  mother.  The  thick  air  stifled  him.  His  brother,  who  slept 
in  the  same  bed,  used  to  kick  him.  His  head  burned,  and  he 
was  a  prey  to  a  sort  of  hallucination  in  which  all  the  little 
troubles  of  the  day  reappeared  infinitely  magnified.  In  this 
state  of  nervous  tension,  bordering  on  delirium,  the  least  shock 
was  an  agony  to  him.  The  creaking  of  a  plank  terrified  him. 
His  father's  breathing  took  on  fantastic  proportions.  It  seemed 
to  be  no  longer  a  human  breathing,  and  the  monstrous  sound 
was  horrible  to  him;  it  scorned  to  him  that  there  must  be  a 
beast  sleeping  there.  The  night  crushed  him;  it  would  never 
end;  it  must  always  be  so;  he  was  lying  there  for  months  and 
months.  He  gasped  for  breath;  he  half  raised  himself  on 
his  bed,  sat  up,  dried  his  sweating  face  with  his  shirt-sleeve. 
Sometimes  he  nudged  his  brother  Rodolpho  to  wake  him  up; 
but  Rodolphe  moaned,  drew  away  from  him  the  rest  of  the 
bedclothes,  and  went  on  sleeping. 

So  he  stayed  in  feverish  agony  until  a  pale  beam  of  light 
appeared  on  the  floor  below  the  curtain.  This  timorous  pale- 
ness of  the  distant  dawn  suddenly  brought  him  peace.  He 
felt  the  light  gliding  into  the  room,  when  it  was  still  impossible 
to  distinguish  it  from  darkness.  Then  his  fever  would  die 
down,  his  blood  would  grow  calm,  like  a  flooded  river  returning 
to  its  bed;  an  even  warmth  would  flow  through  all  his  body,  and 
his  eyes,  burning  from  sleeplessness,  would  close  in  spite  of 
himself. 

In  the  evening  it  was  terrible  to  him  to  see  the  approach 
of  the  hour  of  sleep.  He  vowed  that  he  would  not  give  way 
to  it,  to  watch  the  whole  night  through,  fearing  his  nightmares. 
But  in  the  end  weariness  always  overcame  him,  and  it  was 
always  when  he  was  least  on  his  guard  that  the  monsters 
returned. 

Fearful  night!  So  sweet  to  most  children,  so  terrible  to 
some!  .  .  .  He  was  afraid  to  sleep.  He  was  afraid  of  not 


THE  DAWN  51 

sleeping.  Waking  or  sleeping,  he  was  surrounded  by  monstrous 
shapes,  the  phantoms  of  his  own  brain,  the  larvae  floating  in 
the  half-day  and  twilight  of  childhood,  as  in  the  dark  chiaros- 
curo of  sickness. 

But  these  fancied  terrors  were  soon  to  be  blotted  out  in 
the  great  Fear — that  which  is  in  the  hearts  of  all  men;  that 
Fear  which  Wisdom  does  in  vain  preen  itself  on  forgetting  or 
denying — Death. 

One  day  when  he  was  rummaging  in  a  cupboard,  he  came 
upon  several  things  that  he  did  not  know — a  child's  frock  and 
a  striped  bonnet.  He  took  them  in  triumph  to  his  mother, 
who,  instead  of  smiling  at  him,  looked  vexed,  and  bade  him 
take  them  back  to  the  place  where  he  had  found  them.  When 
he  hesitated  to  obey,  and  asked  her  why,  she  snatched  them 
from  him  without  reply,  and  put  them  on  a  shelf  where  he 
could  not  reach  them.  Roused  to  curiosity,  he  plied  her  with 
questions.  At  last  she  told  him  that  there  had  been  a  little 
brother  who  had  died  before  Jean-Christophe  came  into  the 
world.  He  was  taken  aback — he  had  never  heard  tell  of  him. 
He  was  silent  for  a  moment,  and  then  tried  to  find  out  more. 
His  mother  seemed  to  be  lost  in  thought ;  but  she  told  him  that 
the  little  brother  was  called  Jean-Christophe  like  himself,  but 
was  more  sensible.  He  put  more  questions  to  her,  but  she  would 
not  reply  readily.  She  told  him  only  that  his  brother  was  in 
Heaven,  and  was  praying  for  them  all.  Jean-Christophe  could 
get  no  more  out  of  her;  she  bade  him  be  quiet,  and  to  let  her 
go  on  with  her  work.  She  seemed  to  be  absorbed  in  her  sewing ; 
she  looked  anxious,  and  did  not  raise  her  eyes.  But  after  some 
time  she  looked  at  him  where  he  was  in  the  corner,  whither  he 
had  retired  to  sulk,  began  to  smile,  and  told  him  to  go  and  play 
outside. 

These  scraps  of  conversation  profoundly  agitated  Jean-Chris- 
tophe. There  had  been  a  child,  a  little  boy,  belonging  to  his 
mother,  like  himself,  bearing  the  same  name,  almost  exactly 
the  same,  and  he  was  dead !  Dead !  He  did  not  exactly  know 
what  that  was,  but  it  was  something  terrible.  And  they  never 
talked  of  this  other  Jean-Christophe;  he  was  quite  forgotten. 
It  would  be  the  same  with  him  if  he  were  to  die?  This  thought 


53  JEAX-CHH1 STOP]  IE 

was  with  him  still  in  the  evening  at  table  with  his  family, 
when  ho  saw  them  all  laughing  and  talking  of  triiles.  So.  then, 
it  was  possible  that  they  would  be  gay  after  he  was  dead! 
Oh!  he  never  would  have  believed  that  his  mother  could  be, 
sellish  enough  to  laugh  after  the  death  of  her  little  boy!  lie 
hated  them  all.  lie  wanted  to  weep  for  himself,  for  his  own 
death,  in  advance.  At  the  same  time  he  wanted  to  ask  a 
whole  heap  of  questions,  but  he  dared  not:  he  remembered  the 
voice  in  which  his  mother  had  bid  him  be  quiet.  At  last  ho 
could  contain  himself  no  longer,  and  one  night  when  he  had 
gone  to  bed,  and  Louisa  came  to  kiss  him,  he  asked: 

"Mother,  did  he  sleep  in  my  bed?" 

The  poor  woman  trembled,  and,  trying  to  take  on  an  ni- 
di ll'e  rent  tone  of  voice,  she  asked  : 

"  Who  ?  " 

"  The  little  boy  who  is  dead."  said  Jean-Christophe  in  a 
whisper. 

His  mother  clutched  him  with  her  hands. 

"Be  quiet — quiet/'  she  said. 

Her  voice  trembled.  Jean-Christophe,  whose  head  was  lean- 
ing against  her  bosom,  beard  her  heart  beating.  There  was  a 
moment  of  silence,  then  she  said: 

"You  must  never  talk  of  that,  my  dear.  ...  Go  to  sleep. 
.  .  .  No,  it  was  not  his  bed." 

She  kissed  him.  He  thought  he  felt  her  cheek  wet  against 
his.  Ife  wished  he  could  have  been  sure  of  it.  He  was  a  little 
comforted.  There  was  grief  in  her  then!  Then  lie  doubted  it 
again  the  next  moment,  when  he  heard  her  in  the  next  room 
talking  in  a  quiet,  ordinary  voice.  Which  was  true — that:  or 
what  had  just  been?  He  turned  about  for  long  in  his  bed  with- 
out finding  any  answer.  He  wanted  his  mother  to  sull'er;  not 
that  he  also  did  not  sull'er  in  the  knowledge  that  she  was  sad. 
but  it  would  have  done  him  so  much  good,  in  spite  of  every- 
thing! He  would  have  felt  himself  less  alone.  He  slept,  and 
next  dav  thought,  no  more  of  it. 

Some  weeks  afterwards  one  of  the  urchins  with  whom  he 
played  iii  the  street  did  not  come  at  the  usual  time.  One  of 
them  >aid  that  he  was  ill,  and  they  got  used  to  not  seeing  him 
in  their  games.  It  was  explained,  it  was  quite  simple.  One 


THE  DAWN  53 

evening  Jean-Christoplie  had  gone  to  bed;  it  was  early,  and 
from  the  recess  in  which  his  bed  was,  he  saw  the  light  in  the 
room.  There  was  a  knock  at  the  door.  A  neighbor  had  come 
to  have  a  chut.  He  listened  absently,  telling  himself  stories 
as  usual.  The  words  of  their  talk  did  not  reach  him.  Suddenly 
he  heard  the  neighbor  say:  "  He  is  dead."  His  blood  stopped, 
for  he  had  understood  who  was  dead.  He  listened  and  held 
his  breath.  His  parents  cried  out.  Melchiors  booming  voice 
said: 

"  Jean-Christophe,  do  you  hear?    Poor  Fritz  is  dead." 

Jean-Christophe  made  an  effort,  and  replied  quiet  1}': 

"  Yes,  papa." 

His  bosom  was  drawn  tight  as  in  a  vise. 

Melchior  went  on : 

"'Yes,  papa.'  Is  that  all  you  say?  You  are  not  grieved 
by  it." 

Louisa,  who  understood  the  child,  said: 

"'Ssh!     Let  him  sleep!" 

And  they  talked  in  whispers.  But  Jean-Christophe,  pricking 
his  ears,  gathered  all  the  details  of  illness — typhoid  fever,  cold 
baths,  delirium,  the  parents'  grief.  He  could  not  breathe, 
a  lump  in  his  throat  choked  him.  He  shuddered.  All  these 
horrible  things  took  shape  in  his  mind.  Above  all,  he  gleaned 
that  the  disease  was  contagious — that  is,  that  he  also  might  die 
in  the  same  way — and  terror  froze  him,  for  he  remembered 
that  he  had  shaken  hands  with  Fritz  the  last  time  he  had  seen 
him.  and  that  very  day  had  gone  past  the  house.  But  he  made 
no  sound,  so  as  to  avoid  having  to  talk,  and  when  his  father, 
after  the  neighbor  had  gone,  asked  him:  "Jean-Christophe, 
are  you  asleep?"  he  did  not  reply.  He  heard  Melchior  saying 
to  Louisa : 

"  The  boy  has  no  heart." 

Louisa  did  not  reply,  but  a  moment  later  she  came  and 
gently  raised  the  curtain  and  looked  at  the  little  bed.  Jean- 
Christophe  only  just  had  time  to  close  his  eyes  ami  imitate 
the  regular  breathing  which  his  brothers  made  when  they  were 
asleep.  Louisa  went  away  on  tip-toe.  And  yet  how  he  wanted 
to  keep  her!  How  he  wanted  to  tell  her  that  hi'  was  afraid, 
and  to  ask  her  to  save  him.  or  at  least  to  comfort  him!  But 


54  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

he  was  afraid  of  their  laughing  at  him,  and  treating  him  as  a 
coward;  and  besides,  he  knew  only  too  well  that  nothing  that 
they  might  say  would  be  any  good.  And  for  hours  he  lay  there 
in  agony,  thinking  that  he  felt  the  disease  creeping  over  him, 
and  pains  in  his  head,  a  stricture  of  the  heart,  and  thinking 
in  terror:  "  It  is  the  end.  I  am  ill.  I  am  going  to  die.  I  am 
going  to  die !  "  .  .  .  Once  he  sat  up  in  his  bed  and  called  to 
his  mother  in  a  low  voice;  but  they  were  asleep,  and  he  dared 
not  wake  them. 

From  that  time  on  his  childhood  was  poisoned  by  the  idea 
of  death.  His  nerves  delivered  him  up  to  all  sorts  of  little 
baseless  sicknesses,  to  depression,  to  sudden  transports,  and  fits 
of  choking.  His  imagination  ran  riot  with  these  troubles,  and 
thought  it  saw  in  all  of  them  the  murderous  beast  which  was 
to  rob  him  of  his  life.  How  many  times  he  suffered  agonies, 
with  his  mother  sitting  only  a  few  yards  away  from  him,  and 
she  guessing  nothing!  For  in  his  cowardice  he  was  brave 
enough  to  conceal  all  his  terror  in  a  strange  jumble  of  feeling 
— pride  in  not  turning  to  others,  shame  of  being  afraid,  and 
the  scrupulousness  of  a  tenderness  which  forbade  him  to  trouble 
his  mother.  But  he  never  ceased  to  think:  "This  time  I  am 
ill.  I  am  seriously  ill.  It  is  diphtheria.  .  .  ."  He  had  chanced 
on  the  word  "  diphtheria."  ..."  Dear  God !  not  this 
time!  .  .  ." 

He  had  religious  ideas :  he  loved  to  believe  what  his  mother 
had  told  him.  that  after  deatli  the  soul  ascended  to  the  Lord, 
and  if  it  were  pious  entered  into  the  garden  of  paradise.  But 
the  idea  of  this  journey  rather  frightened  than  attracted  him. 
He  was  not  at  all  envious  of  the  children  whom  Cod,  as  a 
recompense,  according  to  his  mother,  took  in  their  sleep  and 
called  to  Him  without  having  made  them  suffer.  lie  trembled, 
as  he  went  to  sleep,  for  fear  that  God  should  indulge  this 
whimsy  at  his  expense.  It  must  be  terrible  to  be  taken  suddenly 
from  the  warmth  of  one's  bed  and  dragged  through  the  void 
into  the  presence  of  God.  He  imagined  God  as  an  enormous 
sun,  with  a  voice  of  thunder.  How  it  must  hurt!  It  must 
burn  the  eyes,  ears — all  one's  soul !  Then.  God  could  punish—- 
you never  know.  .  .  .  Arid  besides,  that  did  not  prevent  all 
the  other  horrors  which  he  did  not  know  very  well,  though  he 


THE  DAWN  55 

could  guess  them  from  what  lie  had  hoard  —  your  body  in  a 
box,  all  alone  at  the  bottom  of  a  hole,  lo.st  in  the  crowd  of  those 
revolting  cemeteries  to  which  he  was  taken  to  pray.  .  .  (Jod! 
Uod  !  How  sad  !  how  sad  !  .  .  . 

And  yet  it  was  not  exactly  joyous  to  live,  and  be  hungry, 
and  see  your  father  drunk,  and  to  be  beaten,  to  suffer  in  so 
many  ways  from  the  wickedness  of  other  children,  from  the 
insulting  pity  of  grown-up  persons,  and  to  be  understood  by 
no  one,  not  even  by  your  mother.  Everybody  humiliates  you, 
no  one  loves  you.  You  are  alone  —  alone,  and  matter  so  little! 
Yes;  but  it  was  just  this  that  made  him  want  to  live.  He 
felt  in  himself  a  surging  power  of  wrath.  A  strange  thing,  that 
power!  Jt  could  do  nothing  yet:  it  was  as  though  it  were 
afar  off  and  gagged,  swaddled,  paralyzed;  he  had  no  idea  what 
it  wanted,  what,  later  on,  it  would  be.  But  it  was  in  him; 
he  was  sure  of  it;  he  felt  it  stirring  and  crying  out.  To-morrow 
—  to-morrow,  what  a  voyage  he  would  take!  He  had  a  savage 
desire  to  live,  to  punish  the  wicked,  to  do  great  things.  "Oh! 
but  how  I  will  live  when  1  am  .  .  .'"  he  pondered  a  little  — 
"when  1  am  eighteen!"  Sometimes  he  put  it  at  twentv-one: 
that  was  the  extreme  limit.  He  thought  that  was  enough  for 
th'e  domination  of  the  world,  lie  thought  of  the  heroes  dearest 
to  him  —  of  Napoleon,  and  of  that  other  more  remote  hero, 
whom  he  preferred,  Alexander  the  (Jreat.  Snrelv  he  would  be 
like  them  if  onlv  he  lived  for  another  twelve  —  ten  vears.  Ho 
never  thought  of  pitying  those  who  died  at  thirty.  They  \\ere 
old;  they  had  lived  their  lives;  it  was  their  fault  if  they  had 
failed.  But  to  die  now  .  .  .  despair!  Too  terrible  to  pass 
while  yet  a  little  child,  and  forever  to  be  in  the  minds  of  men 
a  little  boy  whom  everybody  thinks  he  has  the  right  to  scold! 
He  wept  with  ra^e  at  the  thought,  as  though  he  were  alreadv 
dead. 

This  agony  of  death  tortured  his  childish  years  —  corrected 
only  by  disgust  with  all  life  and  the  sadness  of  hi 


It  was  in  the  midst  of  those  gloomy  shadows,  in  the  stifling 
night  that  every  moment  seemed  to  intensifv  about  him.  that 
there  began  to  shine,  like  a  star  lost  in  the  dark  abysm  of  space, 
the  liirht  which  was  to  illuminate  his  life:  divine  music.  , 


50  JEAX-CHRISTOPHE 

His  grandfather  gave  the  children  an  old  piano,  which  one 
of  his  clients,  anxious  to  be  rid  of  it,  had  asked  him  to  take. 
His  patient  ingenuity  had  almost  put  it  in  order.  The  present 
had  not  been  very  well  received.  Louisa  thought  her  room 
already  too  small,  without  filling  it  up  any  more;  and  Melchior 
said  that  Jean  Michel  had  not  ruined  himself  over  it:  just 
firewood.  Only  Jean-Christophe  was  glad  of  it  without  exactly 
knowing  why.  It  seemed  to  him  a  magic  box.  full  of  marvelous 
stories,  just  like  the  ones  in  the  fairy-book — a  volume  of  the 
"Thousand  and  One  Nights  "—which  his  grandfather  read 
to  him  sometimes  to  their  mutual  delight.  He  had  heard  his 
father  try  the  piano  on  the  day  of  its  arrival,  and  draw  from  it  a 
little  rain  of  arpeggios  like  the  drops  that  a  puff  of  wind  shakes 
from  the  wet  branches  of  a  tree  after  a  shower.  He  clapped 
his  hands,  and  cried  "  Encore !  ''  but  Melchior  scornfully  closed 
the  piano,  saying  that  it  was  worthless.  Jean-Christophe  did 
not  insist,  but  after  that  ho  was  always  hovering  about  the 
instrument.  As  soon  as  no  one  was  near  he  would  raise  the 
lid,  and  softly  press  down  a  key,  just  as  if  he  were  moving 
with  his  finger  the  living  shell  of  some  great  insect;  lie  wanted 
to  push  out  the  creature  that  was  locked  up  in  it.  Sometimes 
in  his  haste  he  would  strike  too  hard,  and  then  his  mother  would 
cry  out,  "  Will  you  not  be  quiet  ?  Don't  go  touching  every- 
thing!" or  else  he  would  pinch  himself  cruelly  in  closing  the 
piano,  and  make  piteous  faces  as  he  sucked  his  bruised  fin- 
gers. .  .  . 

Now  his  greatest  joy  is  when  his  mother  is  gone  out  for  a 
day's  service,  or  to  pay  some  visit  in  the  town.  He  listens  as 
she  goes  down  the  stairs,  and  into  the  street,  and  away.  He 
is  alone.  He  opens  the  piano,  and  brings  up  a  chair,  and  perches 
on  it.  His  shoulders  just  about  reach  the  keyboard;  it  is 
enough  for  what  he  wants.  Why  does  he  wait  until  he  is  alone? 
No  one  would  prevent  his  playing  so  long  as  he  did  not  make 
too  much  noise.  But  he  is  ashamed  before  the  others,  and 
dare  not.  And  then  they  talk  and  move  about:  that  spoils  his 
pleasure.  It  is  so  much  more  beautiful  when  he  is  alone ! 
Jean-Christophe  holds  his  breath  so  that  the  silence  may  be 
even  greater,  and  also  because  he  is  a  little  excited,  as  though 
he  were  in>in<r  to  let  oft'  a  <nm.  His  heart  beats  as  he  lavs 


THE  DAWN  57 

his  finger  on  the  key;  sometimes  lie  lifts  his  finger  after  he 
has  the  key  half  pressed  down,  and  lays  it  on  another.  Does  he 
know  what  will  come  out  of  it,  more  than  what  will  come  out 
of  the  other?  Suddenly  a  sound  issues  from  it;  there  are  deep 
sounds  and  high  sounds,  some  tinkling,  some  roaring.  The 
child  listens  to  them  one  by  one  as  they  die  away  and  finally 
cease  to  be ;  they  hover  in  the  air  like  bells  heard  far  off,  coming 
near  in  the  wind,  and  then  going  away  again;  then  when  you 
listen  you  hear  in  the  distance  other  voices,  different,  joining 
in  and  droning  like  flying  insects;  they  seem  to  call  to  you, 
to  draw  you  away  farther — farther  and  farther  into  the  mys- 
terious regions,  where  they  dive  down  and  are  lost.  .  .  .  They 
are  gone !  .  .  .  No ;  still  they  murmur.  ...  A  little  beating 
of  wings.  .  .  .  How  strange  it  all  is!  They  are  like  spirits. 
How  is  it  that  they  are  so  obedient?  how  is  it  that  they  are 
held  captive  in  this  old  box?  But  best  of  all  is  when  you  lay 
two  fingers  on  two  keys  at  once.  Then  you  never  know  exactly 
what  will  happen.  Sometimes  the  two  spirits  are  hostile;  they 
are  angry  with  each  other,  and  fight;  and  hate  each  other,  and 
buzz  testily.  Then  voices  arc  raised;  they  cry  out,  angrily, 
now  sorrowfully.  Jean-Christophe  adores  that;  it  is  as  though 
there  were  monsters  chained  up,  biting  at  their  fetters,  beating 
against  the  bars  of  their  prison;  they  are  like  to  break  them, 
and  burst  out  like  the  monsters  in  the  fairy-book — the  genii 
imprisoned  in  the  Arab  bottles  under  the  seal  of  Solomon. 
Others  flatter  you;  they  try  to  cajole  you,  but  you  feel  that 
they  only  want  to  bite,  that  they  are  hot  and  fevered.  Jean- 
Christophe  does  not  know  what  they  want,  but  they  lure  him 
and  disturb  him;  they  make  him  almost  blush.  And  some- 
times there  are  notes  that  love  each  other;  sounds  embrace, 
as  people  do  with  their  arms  when  they  kiss:  they  are  gracious 
and  sweet.  These  are  the  good  spirits;  their  faces  are  smiling, 
and  there  are  no  lines  in  them;  they  love  little  Jean-Chris- 
tophe, and  little  Jean-Christophe  loves  them.  Tears  come  to 
his  eyes  as  he  hears  them,  and  he  is  never  weary  of  calling 
them  up.  They  are  his  friends,  his  dear,  tender  friends.  .  .  . 
So  the  child  journeys  through  the  forest  of  sounds,  and 
round  him  he  is  conscious  of  thousands  of  forces  lying  in  wait 
for  him,  and  calling  to  him  to  caress  or  devour  him.  .  .  . 


58  JEAX-CHRISTOPHE 

One  day  Melchior  came  upon  liiin  tlius.  He  made  him  jump 
with  fear  at  the  sound  of  his  great  voice.  Jean-Christophe, 
thinking  lie  was  doing  wrong,  quickly  put  his  hands  up  to  his 
ears  to  ward  oil'  the  blows  he  feared.  'Hut  Melchior  did  not 
scold  him,  si  range  to  say;  he  was  in  a  good  temper,  and  laughed. 

"You  like  that,  hoy?'"'  he  asked,  patting  his  head  kindly. 
"Would  you  like  me  to  (each  you  to  play  it?'' 

Would  he  like!  .  .  .  Delighted,  he  murmured:  "Yes."  The 
two  of  them  sat  down  at  the  piano.  Jean-Christophe  perched 
this  time  on  a  pile  of  big  books,  and  very  attentively  he  took 
his  first  lesson,  lie  learned  first  of  all  that  the  buxxing  spirits 
have  strange  names,  like  Chinese  names,  of  one  syllable,  or 
even  of  one  letter.  He  was  astonished;  he  imagined  them  to 
he  different  from  that:  beautiful,  caressing  names,  like  the 
princesses  in  the  fairy  stories,  "lie  did  not  like  the  familiarity 
with  which  his  father  talked  of  them.  Again,  when  Meldiior 
evoked  them  they  wen1  not  the  same:  they  seemed  to  become 
indifferent  as  they  rolled  out  from  under  his  lingers.  But 
Jean-Christophe  Avas  glad  to  learn  about  the  relationships  be- 
tween them,  their  hierarchy,  the  s'-ales.  which  we're  like  a 
King  commanding  an  army,  or  like  a  band  of  negroes  marching 
in  single  file.  He  was  surprised  to  see  that  each  soldier,  or 
each  negro,  could  become  a  monarch  in  his  turn,  or  the  head 
of  a  similar  band,  and  that  it  was  possible  to  summon  whole 
battalions  from  one  end  to  the  other  of  the  keyboard.  It 
amused  him  to  hold  the  thread  which  made,  them  march.  But 
it  was  a  small  thing  compared  with  what  he  had  seen  at  first; 
his  enchanted  forest  was  lost.  However,  he  set  himself  to  learn, 
for  it  was  not  tiresome,  and  he  was  surprised  at  his  father's 
patience.  Melehior  did  not  weary  of  it  either:  hi 
begin  the  same  thing  over  again  ten  times,  .lea 
did  not  understand  why  he  should  take  so  mud 
father  loved  him.  (hen?  That  was  good!  The 
away;  his  heart  was  filled  willi  gratitude. 

He  would  have  been  less  docile  had  he  known  what  thoughts 
were  springing  into  being  in  his  father's  head. 

From  that  day  on  Melchior  took  him  to  the  house  of  a  neigh- 
bor, where  three  times  a  week  there  was  chamber  music.  Mel- 


THE  DAWX  59 

chior  played  first  violin,  Jean  Michel  the  violoncello.  The 
other  two  were  a  bank-cler.k  and  the  old  watchmaker  of  the 
Schillerstrasse.  Every  now  and  then  the  chemist  joined  them 
with  his  flute.  They  begun  at  live,  and  went  on  till  nine.  Be- 
tween each  piece  they  drank  beer.  Neighbors  used  to  come  in 
and  out,  and  listen  without  a  word,  leaning  against  the  wall, 
nnd  nodding  their  heads,  and  beating  time  with  their  feet, 
and  filling  the  room  with  clouds  of  tobacco-smoke.  Page  fol- 
lowed page,  piece  followed  piece,  but  the  patience  of  the  musi- 
cians was  never  exhausted.  They  did  not  speak;  they  were  all 
.attention;  their  brows  were  knit,  and  from  time  to  time  they 
grunted  with  pleasure1,  but  for  the  rest  they  were  perfectly 
incapable  not  only  of  expressing,  but  even  of  feeling,  the  beauty 
of  what  they  played.  They  played  neither  very  accurately  nor 
in  good  time,  but  thev  never  went,  off  the  rails,  and  followed 
faithfully  the  marked  changes  of  tone.  They  had  that  musical 
facilitv  which  is  easily  satisfied,  that  mediocre  perfection  which 
is  so  plentiful  in  the  race  which  is  said  to  be  the  most  musical 
in  the  world.  They  had  also  that  great  appetite  which  does 
riot  stickle  for  the  quality  of  its  food,  so  only  there  be  quantity 
— that  healthy  appetite  to  which  all  music  is  good,  and  the 
more  substantial  the  better — it  sees  no  difference  between 
Brahms  and  Beethoven,  or  between  the  works  of  the  same 
master,  between  an  empty  concerto  and  a  moving  sonata,  be- 
cause they  are  fashioned  of  the  same  stuff. 

Jean-Christophe  sat  apart  in  a  corner,  which  was  his  own. 
behind  the  piano.  No  one  could  disturb  him  there,  for  to  reach 
it  he  had  to  go  on  all  fours.  It  was  half  dark  there,  and  the 
boy  had  just  room  to  lie  on  the  "floor  if  he  huddled  up.  The 
smoke  of  the  tobacco  filled  his  eyes  and  throat:  dust,  too;  there 
were  large  flakes  of  it  like  sheepskin,  but  he  did  not  mind  that, 
and  listened  gravely,  squatting  there  Turkish  fashion,  and 
widening  the  holes  in  the  cloth  of  the  piano  with  his  dirtv  little 
fingers.  He  did  not  like  everything  that  thev  plaved  ;  but  noth- 
ing that  they  played  bored  him.  and  he  never  tried  to  formulate 
his  opinions,  for  be  thought  himself  too  small  to  know  anything. 
Only  some  music  sefit  him  to  sleep,  some  woke  him  up;  it 
was  never  disagreeable  to  him.  Without  his  knowing  it.  it 
was  nearly  always  good  music  that  excited  him.  Sure  of  not 


GO  JEAN-CHKTSTOPHE 

being  seen,  he  made  faces,  lie  wrinkled  his  nose,  ground  his 
teeth,  or  stuck  out  his  tongue;  his.  eyes  flashed  with  anger  or 
drooped  languidly;  he  moved  his  arms  and  legs  with  a  defiant 
and  valiant  air;  he  wanted  to  march,  to  lunge  out,  to  pulverize 
the  world.  He  fidgeted  so  much  that  in  the  end  a  head  would 
peer  over  the  piano,  and  say:  "Hullo,  boy,  are  you  mad? 
Leave  the  piano.  .  .  .  Take  your  hand  away,  or  I'll  pull  your 
ears ! "  And  that  made  him  crestfallen  and  angry.  Why  did 
they  want  to  spoil  his  pleasure?  He  was  not  doing  any  harm. 
Must  he  always  be  tormented !  His  father  chimed  in.  They 
chid  him  for  making  a  noise,  and  said  that  he  did  not  like 
music.  And  in  the  end  he  believed  it.  These  honest  citizens 
grinding  out  concertos  would  have  been  astonished  if  they  had 
been  told  that  the  only  person  in  the  company  who  really  felt 
the  music  was  the  little  boy. 

If  they  wanted  him  to  keep  quiet,  why  did  they  play  airs 
which  make  you  march  ?  In  those  pages  were  rearing  horses, 
swords,  war-cries,  the  pride  of  triumph;  and  they  wanted  him, 
like  them,  to  do  no  more  than  wag  his  head  and  beat  time  with 
his  feet !  They  had  only  to  play  placid  dreams  or  some  of  those 
chattering  pages  which  talk  so  much  and  say  nothing.  There 
are  plenty  of  them,  for  example,  like  that  piece  of  Goldmark's, 
of  which  the  old  watchmaker  had  just  said  with  a  delighted 
smile :  "  It  is  pretty.  There  is  no  harshness  in  it.  All  the 
corners  are  rounded  off.  .  .  ."  The  boy  was  very  quiet  then. 
He  became  drowsy.  He  did  not  know  what  they  were  playing, 
hardly  heard  it;  but  he  was  happy;  his  limbs  were  numbed, 
and  he  was  dreaming. 

His  dreams  were  not  a  consecutive  story;  they  had  neither 
head  nor  tail.  Jt  was  rarely  that  he  saw  a  definite  picture: 
his  mother  making  a  cake,  and  with  a  knife  removing  the  paste 
that  clung  to  her  fingers;  a  water-rat  that  he  had  seen  the 
night  before  swimming  in  the  river:  a  whip  that  he  wanted 
to  make  with  a  willow  wand.  .  .  .  Heaven  knows  why  these 
things  should  have  cropped  up  in  his  memory  at  such  a  time ! 
But  most  often  he  saw  nothing  at  all,  and  yet  he  felt  things 
innumerable  and  infinite.  It  was  as  though  there  were  a 
number  of  very  important  things  not  to  be  spoken  of,  or 
not  worth  speaking  of,  because  they  were  so  well  known,  and 


THE  DAWN"  61 

because  they  had  always  been  so.  Some  of  thorn  were  sad, 
terribly  sad;  but  there  was  nothing  painful  in  them,  as  there 
is  in  the  things  that  belong  to  real  life;  they  were  not  ugly  and 
debasing,  like  the  blows  that  Jean-Christophe  had  from  his 
father,  or  like  the  things  that  were  in  his  head  when,  sick  at 
heart  with  shame,  he  thought  of  some  humiliation;  they  filled 
the  mind  with  a  melancholy  calm.  And  some  were  bright  and 
shining,  shedding  torrents  of  joy.  And  Jean-Christophe 
thought:  "Yes,  it  is  thus — thus  that  I  will  do  by-and-by." 
He  did  not  know  exactly  what  thus  was,  nor  why  he  said  it, 
but  he  felt  that  he  had  to  say  it,  and  that  it  was  clear  as  day. 
He  heard  the  sound  of  a  sea,  and  he  was  quite  near  to  it,  kept 
from  it  only  by  a  wall  of  dunes.  Jean-Christophe  had  no  idea 
what  sea  it  was,  or  what  it  wanted  with  him,  but  he  was  con- 
scious that  it  would  rise  above  the  barrier  of  dunes.  And 
then !  .  .  .  Then  all  would  be  well,  and  he  would  be  quite 
happy.  Nothing  to  do  but  to  hear  it,  then,  quite  near,  to  sink 
to  sleep  to  the  sound  of  its  great  voice,  soothing  away  all  his 
little  griefs  and  humiliations.  They  were  sad  still,  but  no 
longer  shameful  nor  injurious;  everything  seemed  natural  and 
almost  sweet. 

Very  often  it  was  mediocre  music  that  produced  this  intoxica- 
tion in' him.  The  writers  of  it  were  poor  devils,  with  no  thought 
in  their  heads  but  the  gaining  of  money,  or  the  hiding  away 
of  the  emptiness  of  their  lives  by  tagging  notes  together  accord- 
ing to  accepted  formulas — or  to  be  original,  in  defiance  of 
formula?.  But  in  the  notes  of  music,  even  when  handled  by 
an  idiot,  -there  is  such  a  power  of  life  that  they  can  let  loose 
storms  in  a  simple  soul.  Perhaps  even  the  dreams  suggested 
by  the  idiots  are  more  mysterious  and  more  free  than  those 
breathed  by  an  imperious  thought  which  drags  you  along  by 
force,  for  aimless  movement  and  empty  chatter  do  not  disturb 
the  mind  in  its  own  pondering.  .  .  . 

So,  forgotten  and  forgetting,  the  child  stayed  in  his  corner 
behind  the  piano,  until  suddenly  he  felt  ants  climbing  up  his 
legs.  And  he  remembered  then  that  he  was  a  little  boy  with 
dirty  nails,  and  that  he  was  rubbing  his  none  against  a  white- 
washed wall,  and  holding  his  feet  in  his  hands. 

On  the  day  when  Melchior,  stealing  on  tiptoe,  had  surprised 


62  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

the  boy  at  the  keyboard  that  was  too  high  1'or  him,  he  had  stayed 
to  watch  him  for  a  moment,  and  suddenly  there  had  Hashed 
upon  him:  "A  little  prodigy!  .  .  .  Why  had  he  not  thought 
of  it?  ...  What  luck  for  the  family!  .  .  ."  No  doubt  ho 
had  thought  that  the  boy  would  be  a  little  peasant  like  his 
mother.  "  It  would  cost  nothing  to  try.  What  a  great  thing 
it  would  be!  lie  would  take  him  all  over  Germany,  perhaps 
abroad.  Jt  would  be  a  jolly  life,  and  noble  to  boot."  Melchior 
never  failed  to  look  for  the  nobility  hidden  in  all  he  did,  for 
it  was  not  often  that  he  failed  to  find  it,  after  some  reflection. 
Strong  in  this  assurance,  immediately  after  supper,  as  soon 
as  he  had- taken  his  last  mouthful,  he  dumped  the  child  once 
more  in  front  of  the  piano,  and  made  him  go  through  the  day's 
lesson  until  his  eyes  closed  in  weariness.  Then  three  times 
the  next  day.  Then  the  day  after  that.  Then  every  day.  Jean- 
Christophe  soon  tired  of  it;  then  he  was  sick  to  death  of  it; 
finally  he  could  stand  it  no  more,  and  tried  to  revolt  against 
it.  There  was  no  point  in  what  he  was  made  to  do:  nothing 
but  learning  to  run  as  fast  as  possible  over  the  keys,  by  loosen- 
ing the  thumb,  or  exercising  the  fourth  finger,  which  would 
cling  awkwardly  to  the  two  next  to  it.  It  got  on  his  nerves; 
there  was  nothing  beautiful  in  it.  There  was  an  end  of  the 
magic  sounds,  and  fascinating  monsters,  and  the  universe  of 
dreams  felt  in  one  moment.  .  .  .  Nothing  but  scales  and  exer- 
cises— dry,  monotonous,  dull — duller  than  the  conversation  at 
meal-time,  which  was  always  the  same — always  about  the  dishes, 
and  always  the  same  dishes.  At  first  the1  child  listened  absently 
to  what  his  father  said.  When  he  was  severely  reprimanded  he 
went  on  with  a  bad  grace.  lie  paid  no  attention  to  abuse;  he 
met  it  with  bad  temper.  The  last  straw  was  when  one;  evening 
he  heard  Melrhior  unfold  his  plans  in  the  next  room.  So  it 
was  in  order  to  put  him  on  show  like  a  trick  animal  that  he 
was  so  badgered  and  forced  every  da\'  to  move  hits  of  ivory! 
Ife  was  not  even  given  time  to  go  and  see  his  beloved  river. 
\Vhat  was  it  made  them  so  set  against  him;'  He  was  angry, 
hurt  in  his  pride,  robbed  of  his  liberty.  He  decided  that  he 
would  plav  no  more,  or  as  badlv  as  possible1,  and  would  dis- 
courage his  father.  It  would  be  hard,  but  at  all  costs  he  must 
keep  his  independence. 


THE  DAWN  63 

The  very  next  lesson  he  began  to  put  his  plan  into  execution. 
He  set  himself  conscientiously  to  hit  the  notes  awry,  or  to 
bungle  every  touch.  Melchior  cried  out.  then  roared,  and  blows 
began  to  rain.  He  had  a  heavy  ruler.  At -every  false  note 
he  struck  the  boy's  fingers,  and  at  the  same  time  shouted  in 
his  ears,  so  that  he  was  like  to  deafen  him.  Jean-Christophe's 
face  twitched  under  the  pain  of  it;  he  bit  his  lips  to  keep 
himself  from  crying,  and  stoically  went  on  hitting  the  notes  all 
wrong,  bobbing  his  head  down  whenever  he  felt  a  blow  coming. 
But  his  system  was  not  good,  and  it  was  not  long  before  he 
began  to  see  that  it  was  so.  Melchior  was  as  obstinate  as  his 
son,  and  he  swore  that  even  if  they  were  to  stay  there  two 
days  and  two  nights  he  would  not  let  him  oil'  a  single  note  until 
it  had  been  properly  played.  Then  Jean-Christophe  tried  too 
deliberately  to  play  wrongly,  and  Melchior  began  to  suspect 
the  trick,  as  he  saw  that  the  boy's  hand  fell  heavily  to  one  side 
at  every  note  with  obvious  intent.  The  blows  became  more 
frequent;  Jean-Christophe  was  no  longer  conscious  of  his  fin- 
gers. He  wept  pitifully  and  silently,  snifling,  and  swallowing 
down  his  sobs  and  tears.  lie  understood  that  he  had  nothing 
to  gain  by  going  on  like  that,  and  that  he  would  have  to  resort 
to  desperate  measures.  He  stopped,  and,  trembling  at  the 
thought  of  the  storm  which  was  about  to  let  loose,  he  said 
valiantly : 

"  Papa,  I  won't  play  any  more." 

Melchior  choked. 

"What!     What!  .  .  ."  he  cried. 

He  took  and  almost  broke  the  boy's  arm  with  shaking  it. 
Jean-Christophe,  trembling  more  and  more,  and  raising  his 
elbow  to  ward  oil'  the  blows,  said  again: 

"I  won't  play  any  more.  First,  because  1  don't  like  being 
beaten.  And  then  .  .  ." 

He  could  not  finish.  A  terrific  blow  knocked  the  wind  out 
of  him,  and  Melchior  roared: 

•'Ah!  you  don't  like  being  beaten?  You  don't  like 
it?  .  .  ." 

Blows  rained.     Jean-Christophe  bawled  through  his  sobs: 

"And  then  ...  1  don't  like  music!  .  .  .  L  don't  like 
music !  . 


64  JEAX-CimrSTOPHE 

He  slipped  down  from  his  chair.  Melchior  roughly  put  him 
back,  and  knocked  his  knuckles  against  the  keyboard.  He 
cried : 

"You  shall  play!" 

And  Jean-Christophe  shouted: 

"  No !     No  !     1  won't  play !  " 

Melchior  had  to  surrender.  He  thrashed  the  boy,  thrust  him 
from  the  room,  and  said  that  he  should  have  nothing  to  eat 
all  day,  or  the  whole  month,  until  lie  had  played  all  his  exer- 
cises without  a  mistake.  He  kicked  him  out  and  slammed  the 
door  after  him. 

Jean-Christophe  found  himself  on  the  stairs,  the  dark  and 
dirty  stairs,  worm-eaten.  A  draught  came  through  a  broken 
pane  in  the  skylight,  and  the  walls  were  dripping.  Jean-Chris- 
tophe sat  on  one  of  the  greasy  steps;  his  heart  was  beating 
wildly  with  anger  and  emotion.  In  a  low  voice  he  cursed  his 
father : 

"  Beast !  That's  wrhat  you  are !  A  beast  ...  a  gross  crea- 
ture ...  a  brute !  Yes,  a  brute !  .  .  .  and  I  hate  you,  I  hate 
you !  .  .  .  Oh,  I  wish  you  were  dead !  I  wish  you  were 
dead !  " 

His  bosom  swelled.  He  looked  desperately  at  the  sticky 
staircase  and  the  spider's  web  swinging  in  the  wind  above  the 
broken  pane.  He  felt  alone,  lost  in  his  misery.  He  looked 
at  the  gap  in  the  banisters.  .  .  .  What  if  he  were  to  throw 
himself  clown?  ...  or  out  of  the  window?  .  .  .  Yes,  what  if 
he  were  to  kill  himself  to  punish  them?  How  remorseful  they 
would  be!  He  heard  the  noise  of  his  fall  from  the  stairs. 
The  door  upstairs  opened  suddenly.  Agonized  voices  cried : 
"  He  has  fallen  ! — He  has  fallen  !  "  Footsteps  clattered  down- 
stairs. His  father  and  mother  threw  themselves  weeping  upon 
his  body.  His  mother  sobbed :  "  It  is  your  fault !  You  have 
killed  him!"  His  father  waved  his  arms,  threw  himself  on 
his  knees,  beat  his  head  against  the  banisters,  and  cried  :  "  What 
a  wretch  am  I !  What  a  wretch  am  I  !  "  The  sight  of  all 
this  softened  his  misery,  lie  was  on  the  point  of  taking  pity 
on  their  grief;  but  then  he  thought  that  it  was  well  for  them, 
and  he  enjoyed  his  revenge.  .  .  . 

When  his  story  was  ended,  he  found  himself  once  more  at 


THE  DAWN  65 

the  top  of  the  stairs  in  the  dark;  he  looked  down  once  more, 
and  his  desire  to  throw  himself  down  was  gone.  He  even 
shuddered  a  little,  and  moved  away  from  the  edge,  thinking 
that  he  might  fall.  Then  he  felt  that  he  was  a  prisoner,  like 
a  poor  bird  in  a  cage — a  prisoner  forever,  with  nothing  to  do 
but  to  break  his  head  and  hurt  himself.  He  wept,  wept,  and 
he  rubbed  his  eyes  with  his  dirty  little  hands,  so  that  in  a 
moment  he  was  filthy.  As  he  wept  he  never  left  off  looking  at 
the  things  about  him,  and  he  found  some  distraction  in  that. 
He  stopped  moaning  for  a  moment  to  look  at  the  spider  which 
had  just  begun  to  move.  Then  he  began  with  less  conviction. 
He  listened  to  the  sound  of  his  own  weeping,  and  went  on 
mechanically  with  his  sobbing,  without  much  knowing  why  he 
did  so.  Soon  he  got  up ;  he  was  attracted  by  the  window.  He 
sat  on  the  window-sill,  retiring  into  the  background,  and 
watched  the  spider  furtively.  It  interested  while  it  revolted 
him. 

Below  the  Khine  flowed,  washing  the  walls  of  the  house.  In 
the  staircase  window  ifc  was  like  being  suspended  over  the  river 
in  a  moving  sky.  Jean-Christophe  never  limped  down  the 
stairs  without  taking  a  long  look  at  it,  but  he  had  never  yet 
seen  it  as  it  was  to-day.  Grief  sharpens  the  senses;  it  is  as 
though  everything  were  more  sharply  graven  on  the  vision 
after  tears  have  washed  away  the  dim  traces  of  memory.  The 
river  was  like  a  living  thing  to  the  child — a  creature  inexplica- 
ble, but  howr  much  more  powerful  than  all  the  creatures  that 
he  knew!  Jean-Christophe  leaned  forward  to  see  it  better;  he 
pressed  his  mouth  and  flattened  his  nose  against  the  pane. 
Where  was  it  going?  What  did  it  want?  It  looked  free,  and 
sure  of  its  road.  .  .  .  Nothing  could  stop  it.  At  all  hours  of 
the  day  or  night,  rain  or  sun.  whether  there  were  joy  or  sorrow 
in  the  house,  it  went  on  going  by,  and  it  was  as  though  nothing 
mattered  to  it,  as  though  it  never  knew  sorrow,  and  rejoiced 
in  its  strength.  What  joy  to  be  like  it,  to  run  through  the  fields, 
and  by  willow-branches,  and  over  little  shining  pebbles  and 
crisping  sand,  and  to  care  for  nothing,  to  be  cramped  by  noth- 
ing, to  be  free !  .  .  . 

The  boy  looked  and  listened  greedily;  it  was  as  though  lie 
were  borne  along  by  the  river,  moving  by  with  it.  ...  When 


GG  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

lie  closed  his  eyes  he  saw  color— blue,  green,  yellow,  red,  and 
great  chasing  shadows  and  sunbeams.  .  .  .  What  he  sees  takes 
shape.  Now  it  is  a  large  plain,  reeds,  corn  waving  under  a 
bree/e  scented  with  new  gra.^s  and  mint.  .Flowers  on  every  side 
—cornflowers,  poppies,  violets.  JLow  lovely  it  is!  How  sweet 
the  air!  How  good  it  is  to  lie  down  in  the  thick,  soft  grass! 
.  .  .  Jean-Christophe  feels  glad  and  a  little  bewildered,  as  he 
does  when  on  feast-days  his  father  pours  into  his  glass  a  little 
Rhine  wine.  .  .  .  The  river  goes  by.  .  .  .  The  country  is 
changed.  .  .  .  Now  there  are  trees  leaning  over  the  water;  their 
delicate  leaves,  like  little  hands,  dip.  move,  and  turn  about  in 
the  water.  A  village  among  the  trees  is  mirrored  in  the  river. 
There  are  cypress-trees,  and  the  crosses  of  the  cemetery  showing 
above  the  white  wall  washed  by  the  stream.  Then  there  are 
rocks,  a  mountain  gorge,  vines  on  the  slopes,  a  little  pine-wood, 
and  ruined  castles.  .  .  .  And  once  more  the  plain,  corn,  birds, 
and  the  sun.  .  .  . 

The  great  green  mass  of  the  river  goes  by  smoothly,  like  a 
single  thought;  there  are  no  waves,  almost  no  ripples — smooth, 
oily  patches.  Jean-Christophe  does  not  see  it ;  he  has  closed 
his  eyes  to  hear  it  better.  The  ceaseless  roaring  fills  him,  makes 
him  giddy;  he  is  exalted  by  this  eternal,  masterful  drean.  which 
goes  no  man  knows  whither.  Over  the  turmoil  of  its  depths 
rush  waters,  in  swift  rhythm,  eagerly,  ardently.  And  from 
the  rhythm  ascends  music,  like  a  vine  climbing  a  trellis — 
arpeggios  from  silver  keys,  sorrowful  violins,  velvety  and 
smooth-sounding  flutes.  .  .  .  The  country  has  disappeared. 
The  river  has  disappeared.  There  floats  by  only  a  strange,  soft. 
and  twilight  atmosphere.  Jean-Christophe's  heart  flutters  with 
emotion.  What  does  he  see  now?  Oh!  ('harming  faces!  .  . 
A  little  girl  with  brown  tresses  calls  to  him,  slowly,  softly,  and 
mockingly.  ...  A  pale  boy's  face  looks  at  him  with  melancholy 
blue  eyes.  .  .  .  Others  smile;  other  eyes  look  at  him — curious 
and  provoking  eyes,  and  their  glances  make  him  blush — eyes 
affectionate  and  mournful,  like  the  eyes  of  a  dog — eyes  im- 
perious, eyes  sulferiug.  .  .  .  And  the  pale  face  of  a  woman, 
with  black  hair,  and  lips  close  pressed,  and  eyes  so  large;  that 
they  obscure  her  other  features,  and  they  gaxe  upon  Jcan- 
ChrisloMh'-1  with  an  ardor  that  hurts  .him.  .  .  .  And,  dearest  of 


THE  DAWN  <!7 

all,  that  face  which  smiles  upon  him  with  clear  gray  eyes  and 
lips  a  little  open,  showing  gleaming  white  teetli.  .  .  .  Ah! 
how  kind  and  tender  is  that  smile!  All  his  heart  is  tenderness 
from  it!  Ho\v  good  it  is  to  love!  Again!  Smile  upon  me 
again!  Uo  not  go!  .  .  .  Alas!  it  is  gone!  .  .  .  But  it  leaves 
in  iiis  heart  sweetness  ineffable.  Kvil,  sorrow,  are  no  more; 
nothing  is  left.  .  .  .  Nothing,  only  an  airy  dream,  like  serene 
music,  floating  down  a  sunbeam,  like  the  gossamers  on  line 
summer  days.  .  .  .  What  has  happened?  What  are  these 
visions  that  till  the  child  with  sadness  and  sweet  sorrow?  Never 
had  he  seen  them  before,  and  yet  he  knew  them  and  recognized 
them.  Whence  come  they?  From  what  obscure  abysm  of 
creation?  Are  they  what  has  been  .  .  .  or  vital  will 
be?  .  .  . 

Xow  all  is  done,  every  haunting  form  is  gone.  Once  more 
through  a  misty  veil,  as  though  he  were  soaring  high  above 
it,  the  river  in  flood  appears,  covering  the.  fields,  and  rolling 
by,  majestic,  slow,  almost  still.  And  far,  far  away,  like  a  steely 
light  upon  the  horizon,  a  watery  plain,  a  line  of  trembling  waves 
— the  sea.  The  river  runs  down  to  it.  The  sea  seems  to  run 
up  to  the  river.  She  tires  him.  He  desires  her.  He  must  lose 
himself  in  her.  .  .  .  The  music  hovers;  lovely  dance  rhythms 
swing  out  madly;  all  the  world  is  rocked  in  their  triumphant 
whirligig.  .  .  .  The  soul,  set  free,  cleaves  space,  like  swallows' 
flight,  like  swallows  drunk  with  the  air,  skimming  across  the 
sky  with  shrill  cries Toy!  Joy!  There  is  nothing,  noth- 
ing! .  .  .  Oh,  infinite  happiness!  .  .  . 

Hours  passed;  it  was  evening;  the  staircase  was  in  darkness. 
Drops  of  rain  made  rings  upon  the  river's  gown,  and  the  current 
bore  them  dancing  away.  Sometimes  the  brand)  of  a  tree  or 
pieces  of  black  bark  passed  noiselessly  and  disappeared.  The 
murderous  spider  had  withdrawn  to  her  darkest  corner.  Ami 
little  Jean-Christophe  was  still  leaning  forward  on  the  window- 
sill.  His  face  was  pale  and  dirty;  happiness  shone  in  him. 
He  was  asleep. 


G8  JEAN-CHEISTOPHE 


III 

E  la  faccia  del  sol  nascere  ombrata. 

Purgatorio,  xxx. 

HE  had  to  surrender.  In  spite  of  an  obstinate  and  heroic 
resistance,  blows  triumphed  over  his  ill-will.  Every  morning 
for  three  hours,  and  for  three  hours  every  evening,  Jean-Chris- 
tophe  was  set  before  the  instrument  of  torture.  All  on  edge 
with  attention  and  weariness,  with  large  tears  rolling  down 
his  cheeks  and  nose,  he  moved  his  little  red  hands  over  the 
black  and  white  keys — his  hands  were  often  stiff  with  cold — • 
under  the  threatening  ruler,  which  descended  at  every  false 
note,  and  the  harangues  of  his  master,  which  were  more  odious 
to  him  than  the  blows.  He  thought  that  he  hated  music.  And 
yet  he  applied  himself  to  it  with  a  zest  which  fear  of  Melchior 
did  not  altogether  explain.  Certain  words  of  his  grandfather 
had  made  an  impression  on  him.  The  old  man,  seeing  his 
grandson  weeping,  had  told  him,  witli  that  gravity  which  he 
always  maintained  for  the  boy.  that  it  was  worth  while  suffer- 
ing a  little  for  the  most  beautiful  and  noble  art  given  to  men 
for  their  consolation  and  glory.  And  Jean-Christophe,  who 
was  grateful  to  his  grandfather  for  talking  to  him  like  a  man, 
had  been  secretly  touched  by  these  simple  words,  which  sorted 
well  with  his  childish  stoicism  and  growing  pride.  But,  more 
than  by  argument,  he  was  bound  and  enslaved  by  the  memory 
of  certain  musical  emotions,  bound  and  enslaved  to  the  detested 
art,  against  which  he  tried  in  vain  to  rebel. 

There  was  in  the  town,  as  usual  in  Germany,  a  theater,  where 
opera,  opera-comique,  operetta,  drama,  comedy,  and  vaudeville 
are  presented — every  sort  of  play  of  every  style  and  fashion. 
There  were  performances  three  times  a  week  from  six  to  nine  in 
the  evening.  Old  Jean  Michel  never  missed  one,  and  was  equally 
interested  in  everything.  Once  he  took  his  grandson  with  him. 
Several  days  beforehand  he  told  him  at  length  what  the  piece 
was  about.  Jean-Christophe  did  not  understand  it,  but  he  did 
gather  that  there  would  be  terrible  things  in  it,  and  while  he 
was  consumed  with  the  desire  to  see  them  he  was  much  afraid, 


THE  DAWN  69 

though  he  dared  not  confess  it.  He  knew  that  there  was  to 
be  a  storm,  and  he  was  fearful  of  being  struck  by  lightning. 
He  knew  that  there  was  to  be  a  battle,  and  he  was  not  at  all 
sure  that  he  would  not  be  killed.  On  the  night  before,  in 
bed,  he  went  through  real  agony,  and  on  the  day  of  the  per- 
formance he  almost  wished  that  his  grandfather  might  be 
prevented  from  coming  for  him.  But  when  the  hour  was  near, 
and  his  grandfather  did  not  come,  he  began  to  worry,  and 
every  other  minute  looked  out  of  the  window.  At  last  the 
old  man  appeared,  and  they  set  out  together.  His  heart  leaped 
in  his  bosom;  his  tongue  was  dry,  and  he  could  not  speak. 

They  arrived  at  the  mysterious  building  which  was  so  often 
talked  about  at  home.  At  the  door  Jean  Michel  met  some 
acquaintances,  and  the  boy,  who  was  holding  his  hand  tight 
because  he  was  afraid  of  being  lost,  could  not  understand  how 
they  could  talk  and  laugh  quietly  at  such  a  moment. 

Jean  Michel  took  his  usual  place  in  the  first  row  behind  the 
orchestra.  He  leaned  on  the  balustrade,  and  began  a  long 
conversation  with  the  contra-bass.  He  was  at  home  there; 
there  he  was  listened  to  because  of  his  authority  as  a  musician, 
and  he  made  the  most  of  it;  it  might  almost  be  said  that  he 
abused  it.  Jean-Christophe  could  hear  nothing.  He  was  over- 
whelmed by  his  expectation  of  the  play,  by  the  appearance  of 
the  theater,  which  seemed  magnificent  to  him,  by  the  splendor 
of  the  audience,  who  frightened  him  terribly.  He  dared  not 
turn  his  head,  for  he  thought  that  all  eyes  were  fixed  on  him. 
He  hugged  his  little  cap  between  his  knees,  and  he  stared  at 
the  magic  curtain  with  round  eyes. 

At  last  three  blows  were  struck.  His  grandfather  blew  his 
nose,  and  drew  the  libretto  from  his  pocket.  He  always  fol- 
lowed it  scrupulously,  so  much  so  that  sometimes  he  neglected 
what  was  happening  on  the  stage.  The  orchestra  began  to 
play.  With  the  opening  chords  Jean-Christophe  felt  more  at 
ease.  He  was  at  home  in  this  world  of  sound,  and  from  that 
moment,  however  extravagant  the  play  might  be.  it  seemed  nat- 
ural to  him. 

The  curtain  was  raised,  to  reveal  pasteboard  trees  and  crea- 
tures who  were  not  much  more  real.  The  boy  looked  at  it  all, 
gaping  with  admiration,  but  he  was  not  surprised.  The  piece 


70  .TEA  X-Cimi  STOrilE 

was  sot  in  a  fantastic  East,  of  which  he  could  have  had  no 
idea.  The  poem  was  a  web  of  ineptitudes,  in  which  no  human 
(|iiality  was  perceptible.  Jean-Christophe  hardly  grasped  il  at 
all;  he  made  extraordinary  mistakes,  took  one  character  for 
another,  and  pulled  at  his  grandfather's  sleeve  to  ask  him  absurd 
questions,  which  showed  that  he  had  understood  nothing,  He 
was  not  bored  :  passionately  interested,  on  the  contrary.  Hound 
the  idiotic  libretto  he  built  a  romance  of  his  own  invention, 
which  had  no  sort  of  relation  to  the  one  that  was  represented 
on  the  stage.  Every  moment  some  incident,  upset  his  romance, 
and  he  had  to  repair  it.  but  that  did  not  worry  him.  ile  had 
made  his  choice  of  the  people  who  moved  upon  die  stage,  mak- 
ing all  sorts  of  different  sounds,  and  breathlessly  he  followed 
the  fate  of  those  upon  whom  he  had  fastened  his  sympathy. 
He  was  especially  concerned  with  a  fair  lady,  of  uncertain  age, 
who  had  long,  brilliantly  fair  hair,  eyes  of  an  unnatural  size, 
and  bare  feet.  The  .monstrous  improbabilities  of  the  setting 
did  not  shock  him.  His  keen,  childish  eyes  did  not  perceive 
the  grotesque  ugliness  of  the  actors,  large  and  flesh v,  and  the 
deformed  chorus  of  all  sizes  in  two  lines,  nor  the  pointlcssness 
of  their  gestures,  nor  their  faces  bloated  hv  their  shrieks,  nor 
the  full  wigs,  nor  the  high  heels  of  the  tenor,  nor  the  make-up 
of  his  lady-love,  whose  face  was  streaked  with  variegated  pen- 
ciling, lie  was  in  the  condition  of  a  lover,  whose  passion  blinds 
him  to  the  actual  aspect  of  the  beloved  object.  The  marvelous 
power  of  illusion,  natural  to  children,  stopped  all  unpleasant 
sensations  on  the  way,  and  transformed  them. 

The  music  especially  worked  wonders,  it  bathed  the  whole 
scene1  in  a  misty  atmosphere,  in  which  everything  became  beau- 
tiful, noble,  and  desirable,  it  bred  in  the  soul  a  desperate 
need  of  love,  and  at  the  same  time  showed  phantoms  of  love 
on  all  sides,  to  .fill  the  void  that  itself  had  created.  Little 
Jean-Christophe  was  overwhelmed  by  his  emotion.  There  were 
words,  gestures,  musical  phrases  which  disturbed  him:  he  dared 
not  then  raise  his  eyes;  he  knew  not  whether  it  were  well 
or  ill:  he  blushed  and  grew  pale  by  turns:  sometimes  there 
came  drops  of  sweat  upon  his  brow,  and  lie  was  fearful  lest 
all  the  people  there  should  see  his  distress.  AYhcn  the  catas- 
trophe came  about  which  inevitably  breaks  upon  lovers  in  the 


THE  DAWN'  71 

fourth  act  of  an  opera  so  as  to  provide  the  tenor  and  the  prinin 
donna  with  an  opportunity  for  showing  oil'  their  shrillest 
screams,  the  child  thought  he  must  choke;  his  throat  hurt  him 
as  though  lie  had  caught  cold;  he  clutched  at  his  neck  with 
his  hands,  and  could  not  swallow  his  saliva;  tears  welled  up 
in  him;  his  hands  and  feet  wen;  frozen.  Fortunately,  his 
grandfather  was  not  much  less  moved,  lie  enjoyed  the  theater 
with  a  childish  simplicity.  During  the  dramatic  passages  he 
coughed  carelessly  to  hide  his  distress,  hut  Jean-Christophe  saw 
it,  and  it  delighted  him.  Jt  was  horribly  hot;  Jean-Christophe 
was  dropping  with  sleep,  and  he  was  very  uncomfortable.  But 
he  thought  only:  "  Is  there  much  longer?  It  cannot  he  fin- 
ished!" Then  suddenly  it  was  finished,  without  his  knowing 
why.  The  curtain  fell;  the  audience  rose;  the  enchantment  was 
broken. 

They  went  home. through  the  night,  the  two  children — the 
old  man  and  the  little  hoy.  \\1iat  a  tine  night!  What  a  serene 
moonlight!  They  said  nothing;  they  were  turning  over  their 
memories.  At  last  the  old  man  said  : 

"  Did  you  like  it,  hoy?  " 

Jean-Christophc  could  not  reply;  he  was  still  fearful  from 
emotion,  and  he  would  not  speak,  so  as  not  to  break  the  spell; 
he  had  to  make  an  effort  to  whisper,  with  a  sigh  : 

"Oh  yes." 

The  old  man  smiled.     After  a  time  he  went  on: 

"It's  a  fine  thing — a  musician's  trade!  To  create  things  like 
that,  such  marvelous  spectacles — is  there  anything  more  glori- 
ous? It  is  to  he  (!od  on  earth  !  v 

The  boy's  mind  leaped  to  that.  What!  a  man  had  made  all 
that!  That  had  not  occurred  to  him.  It  had  seemed  that  it 
must  have  made  itself,  must  he  the  work  of  Nature.  A  man. 
a  musician,  such  as  he  would  he  some  day!  Oh.  to  he  that 
for  one  day,  only  one  day!  And  then  afterwards  .  .  .  after- 
wards, whatever  you  like!  Die,  if  necessary!  He  asked: 

"•\Yhat  man  made  that,  grandfather?'' 

The  old  man  told  him  of  Francois  Marie  Hassler,  a 
young  German  artist  "who  lived  at  Berlin.  He  had  known 
him  once.  Jean-Christophe  listened,  all  ears.  Suddenly  he 
said : 


72  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

"And  you,  grandfather?" 

The  old  man  trembled. 

"What?"  he  asked. 

"  Did  you  do  things  like  that — you  too  ?  " 

"  Certainly,"  said  the  old  man  a  little  crossly. 

He  was  silent,  and  after  they  had  walked  a  little  he 
sighed  heavily.  It  was  one  of  the  sorrows  of  his  life.  He 
had  always  longed  to  write  for  the  theater,  and  inspira- 
tion had  always  betrayed  him.  He  had  in  his  desk  one 
or  two  acts  written,  but  he  had  so  little  illusion  as  to  their 
worth  that  he  had  never  dared  to  submit  them  to  an  outside 
judgment. 

They  said  no  more  until  they  reached  home.  Neither  slept. 
The  old  man  was  troubled.  He  took  his  Bible  for  consolation. 
In  bed  Jean-Christophe  turned  over  and  over  the  events  of  the 
evening;  he  recollected  the  smallest  details,  and  the  girl  with 
the  bare  feet  reappeared  before  him.  As  he  dozed  off  a  musical 
phrase  rang  in  his  ears  as  distinctly  as  if  the  orchestra  were 
there.  All  his  body  leaped ;  he  sat  up  on  his  pillow,  his  head 
buzzing  with  music,  and  he  thought :  "  Some  day  I  also  shall 
write.  Oh,  can  I  ever  do  it?" 

From  that  moment  he  had  only  one  desire,  to  go  to  the 
theater  again,  and  he  set  himself  to  work  more  keenly,  because 
they  made  a  visit  to  the  theater  his  reward.  He  thought  of 
nothing  but  that;  half  the  week  he  thought  of  the  last  per- 
formance, and  the  other  half  he  thought  of  the  next.  He  was 
fearful  of  being  ill  on  a  theater  day,  and  this  fear  made  him 
often  find  in  himself  the  symptoms  of  three  or  four  illnesses. 
When  the  day  came  he  did  not  eat;  he  fidgeted  like  a  soul  in 
agony;  he  looked  at  the  clock  fifty  times,  and  thought  that 
the  evening  would  never  come;  finally,  unable  to  contain  him- 
self, he  would  go  out  an  hour  before  the  office  opened,  for  fear 
of  not  being  able  to  procure  a  seat,  and,  as  he  was  the  first 
in  the  empty  theater,  he  used  to  grow  uneasy.  His  grandfather 
had  told  him  that  owe  or  twice  the  audience  had  not  been 
large  enough,  and  so  the  players  had  preferred  not  to  perform, 
and  to  give  back  the  money.  He  watched  the  arrivals  and 
counted  them,  thinking :  "  Twenty-three,  twenty-four,  twenty- 
five.  .  .  .  Oh,  it  is  not  enough  .  .  .  there  will  never  bo 


THE  DAWN  73 

enough ! "  And  when  he  saw  some  important  person  enter 
the  circle  or  the  stalls,  his  heart  was  lighter,  and  he  said  to 
himself :  "  They  will  never  dare  to  send  him  away.  Surely 
they  will  play  for  him."  But  he  was  not  convinced;  he  would 
not  be  reassured  until  the  musicians  took  their  places.  And 
even  then  he  would  be  afraid  that  the  curtain  would  rise,  and 
they  would  announce,  as  they  had  done  one  evening,  a  change 
of  programme.  With  lynx  eyes  he  watched  the  stand  of  the 
contra-bass  to  see  if  the  title  written  on  his  music  was  that  of 
the  piece  announced.  And  when  he  had  seen  it  there,  two 
minutes  later  he  would  look  again  to  make  quite  sure  that  he 
had  not  been  wrong.  The  conductor  was  not  there.  He  must 
be  ill.  There  was  a  stirring  behind  the  curtain,  and  a  sound 
of  voices  and  hurried  footsteps.  Was  there  an  accident,  some 
untoward  misfortune?  Silence  again.  The  conductor  was  at 
his  post.  Everything  seemed  ready  at  last.  .  .  .  They  did  not 
begin !  What  was  happening  ?  He  boiled  over  with  impatience. 
Then  the  bell  rang.  His  heart  thumped  away.  The  orchestra 
began  the  overture,  and  for  a  few  hours  Jean-Christophe  would 
swim  in  happiness,  troubled  only  by  the  idea  that  it  must  soon 
come  to  an  end. 

Some  time  after  that  a  musical  event  brought  even  more 
excitement  into  Jean-Christophe's  thoughts.  Frangois  Marie 
Hassler,  the  author  of  the  first  opera  which  had  so  bowled  him 
over,  was  to  visit  the  town.  He  was  to  conduct  a  concert  con- 
sisting of  his  compositions.  The  town  was  excited.  The  young 
musician  was  the  subject  of  violent  discussion  in  Germany, 
and  for  a  fortnight  he  was  the  only  topic  of  conversation.  It 
was  a  different  matter  when  he  arrived.  The  friends  of  Mel- 
chior  and  old  Jean  Michel  continually  came  for  news,  and 
they  went  away  with  the  most  extravagant  notions  of  the  musi- 
cian's habits  and  eccentricities.  The  child  followed  these  narra- 
tives with  eager  attention.  The  idea  that  the  great  man  was 
there  in  the  town,  breathing  the  same  air  as  himself,  treading 
the  same  stones,  threw  him  into  a  state  of  dumb  exaltation. 
He  lived  only  in  the  hope  of  seeing  him. 

Hassler  was  staying  at  the  Palace  as  the  guest  of  the  Grand 
Duke.  He  hardly  went  out,  except  to  the  theater  for  rehearsals, 


74  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

to  wliich  Jean-Christophe  was  not  admitted,  and  as  lie  was  very 
lazy,  he  went  to  and  fro  in  'the  Prince's  carriage.  Therefore, 
.Jean-Christophe  did  not  have  many  opportunities  of  seeing  him, 
and  he  only  succeeded  onee  in  catching  sight  of  him  as  he 
drove  in  the  Carriage,  lie  saw  his  fur  coat,  and  wasted  hours 
in  waiting  in  the  street,  thrusting  and  jostling  his  way  to 
right  and  left,  and  he  fore  and  behind,  to  win  and  keep  his  place 
in  front  of  the  loungers,  lie  consoled  himself  with  spending 
half  his  days  \\atching  the  windows  of  the  Palace  wliich  had 
been  pointed  out  as  those  of  the  master.  Most  often  he  only 
saw  the  shutters,  for  Hassler  got  up  late,  and  the  windows  were 
closed  almost  all  morning.  This  habit  had  made  well-informed 
persons  say  that  Hassler  could  not  bear  the  light  of  day,  and 
lived  in  eternal  night. 

At  length  Jean-Christophe  was  able  to  approach  his  hero. 
It  was  the  day  of  the  concert.  All  the  town  was  there.  The 
Grand  Duke  and  his  Court  occupied  the  great,  royal  box,  sur- 
mounted with  a  crown  supported  by  two  chubby  chcrubims. 
The  theater  was  in  gala  array.  The  si  age  was  decorated  with 
branches  of  oak  and  llowcring  laurel.  All  the  musicians  of 
any  account  made  it  a  point  of  honor  to  take  their  places  in 
the  orchestra.  Melchior  was  at  his  post,  and  Jean  Michel  was 
conducting  the  chorus. 

When  Hassler  appeared  there  was  loud  applause  from  every 
part  of  the  house,  and  the  ladies  rose  to  see  him  better.  Jean- 
Christophe  devoured  him  wiih  his  eyes.  Hassler  had  a  young, 
sensitive  face,  though  it  was  already  rather  puil'y  and  tired- 
looking:  his  temples  were  bald,  and  his  hair  was  thin  on  the 
crown  of  his  head;  for  the  rest,  fair,  curly  hair.  His  blue  eyes 
looked  vague.  .lie  had  a  little  fair  mustache  and  an  expressive 
mouth,  which  was  rarely  still,  but  twitched  with  a.  thousand  im- 
perceptible movements,  lie  was  tall,  and  held  himself  badly— 
not  from  awkwardness,  but  from  weariness  or  boredom.  He 
conducted  capriciously  and  lithely,  with  his  whole  awkward 
hody  swaying,  like  his  music,  with  gestures,  now  caressing,  now 
sharp  and  jerky.  .It  was  easy  to  see  that  he  was  very  nervous, 
and  his  music  was  the  exact  reflection  of  himself.  The  quiver- 
ing and  jerkv  life  of  it  broke  through  the  usual  apathy  of  fne 
orchestra.  Jean-Christophe  breathed  heavily;  in  spite  of  his 


THE  DAWN  75 

fear  of  drawing  attention  to  himself,  he  could  not  stand  still 
in  his  place;  he  fidgeted,  got  up,  and  the  music  gave  him  such 
violent  and  unexpected  shocks  that  he  had  to  move  his  head, 
arms,  and  legs,  to  the  great  discomfort  of  his  neighbors,  who 
warded  off  his  kicks  as  best  they  could.  The  whole  audience 
was  enthusiastic,  fascinated  by  the  success,  rather  than  by  the 
compositions.  At  the  end  there  was  a  storm  of  applause  and 
cries,  in  which  the  trumpets  in  the  orchestra  joined,  German 
fashion,  with  their  triumphant  blare  in  salute  of  the  conqueror. 
Jean-Christophe  trembled  with  pride,  as  though  these  honors 
were  for  himself,  lie  enjoyed  seeing  Hassler's  face  light  up 
with  childish  pleasure.  The  ladies  threw  flowers,  the  men 
waved  their  hats,  and  the  audience  rushed  for  the  platform. 
Every  one  wanted  to  shake  the  master's  hand.  Jean-Christophe 
saw  one  enthusiast  raise  the  master's  hand  to  his  lips,  another 
steal  a  handkerchief  that  Hassler  had  left  on  the  corner  of  his 
desk.  He  wanted  to  reach  the  platform  also,  although  he  did 
not  know  why,  for  if  at  that  moment  he  had  found  himself 
near  Hassler,  he  would  have  fled  at  once  in  terror  and  emotion. 
But  he  butted  with  all  his  force,  like  a  ram,  among  the  skirts 
and  legs  that  divided  him  from  Hassler.  He  was  too  small ; 
he  could  not  break  through. 

Fortunately,  when  the  concert  was  over,  his  grandfather  came 
and  took  him  to  join  in  a  party  to  serenade  Hassler.  It  was 
night,  and  torches  were  lighted.  All  the  musicians  of  the 
orchestra  were  there.  They  talked  onlv  of  the  marvelous  com- 
positions they  had  heard.  They  arrived  outside  the  Palace, 
and  took  up  their  places  without  a  sound  under  the  master's 
windows.  They  took  on  an  air  of  secrecy,  although  everybody, 
including  Hassler,  knew  what  was  to  come.  In  the  silence  of 
the  night  they  began  to  play  certain  famous  fragments  of 
Hasslers  compositions.  He  appeared  at  the  window  with  the 
Prince,  and  they  roared  in  their  honor.  Both  bowed.  A  serv- 
ant came  from  the  Prince  to  invite  the  musicians  to  enter  the 
Palace.  They  passed  through  great  rooms,  with  frescoes  repre- 
senting naked  men  with  helmets:  they  were  of  a  reddish  color, 
and  were  making  gestures  of  defiance.  The  sky  was  covered  with 
great  clouds  like  sponges.  There1  were  also  men  and  women  o[' 
marble  clad  in  waist-cloths  made  of  iron.  The  quests  walked  on 


7G  JEAX-CHR1STOPHE 

carpets  so  thick  that  their  tread  was  inaudible,  and  they  came 
at  length  to  a  room  which  was  as  light  as  day,  and  there  were 
tables  laden  with  drinks  and  good  things. 

The  Grand  Duke  was  there,  but  Jean-Christophe  did  not  see 
him;  he  had  eyes  only  for  Hassler.  Hassler  came  towards 
them ;  he  thanked  them.  He  picked  his  words  carefully,  stopped 
awkwardly  in  the  middle  of  a  sentence,  and  extricated  himself 
with  a  quip  which  made  everybody  laugh.  They  began  to  eat. 
Hassler  took  four  or  five  musicians  aside.  He  singled  out 
Jean-Christophe's  grandfather,  and  addressed  very  flattering 
words  to  him:  he  recollected  that  Jean  Michel  had  been  one 
of  the  first  to  perform  his  works,  and  he  said  that  he  had  often 
heard  tell  of  his  excellence  from  a  friend  of  his  who  had  been 
a  pupil  of  the  old  man's.  Jean-Christophe's  grandfather  ex- 
pressed his  gratitude  profusely;  he  replied  with  such  extraor- 
dinary eulogy  that,  in  spite  of  his  adoration  of  Hassler,  the 
boy  was  ashamed.  But  to  Hassler  they  seemed  to  be  pleasant 
and  in  the  rational  order.  Finally,  the  old  man,  who  had 
lost  himself  in  his  rigmarole,  took  Jean-Christophe  by  the  hand, 
and  presented  him  to  Hassler.  Hassler  smiled  at  Jean-Chris- 
tophe, and  carelessly  patted  his  head,  and  when  he  learned  that 
the  boy  liked  his  music,  and  had  not  slept  for  several  nights 
in  anticipation  of  seeing  him,  he  took  him  in  his  arms  and 
plied  him  with  questions.  Jean-Christophe,  struck  dumb  and 
blushing  with  pleasure,  dared  not  look  at  him.  Hassler  took 
him  by  the  chin  and  lifted  his  face  up.  Jean-Christophe  ven- 
tured to  look.  Hassler's  eyes  were  kind  and  smiling;  he  began 
to  smile  too.  Then  he  felt  so  happy,  so  wonderfully  happy  in 
the  great  man's  arms,  that  he  burst  into  tears.  Hassler  was 
touched  by  this  simple  affection,  and  was  more  kind  than  ever. 
He  kissed  the  boy  and  talked  to  him  tenderly.  At  the  same 
time  he  said  funny  things  and  tickled  him  to  make  him  laugh; 
and  Jean-Christophe  could  not  help  laughing  through  his  tears. 
Soon  he  became  at  ease,  and  answered  Hassler  readily,  and  of 
his  own  accord  he  began  to  whisper  in  his  ear  all  his  small 
ambitions,  as  though  he  and  Hassler  were  old  friends;  he  told 
him  how  he  wanted  to  be  a  musician  like  Hassler,  and,  like 
Hassler,  to  make  beautiful  things,  and  to  be  a  great  man.  He, 
who  was  alwavs  ashamed,  talked  confidently ;  he  did  not  know 


THE  DAWN  77 

what  he  was  saying;  he  was  in  a  sort  of  ecstasy.  Hassler  smiled 
at  his  prattling  and  said : 

"  When  you  are  a  man,  and  have  become  a  good  musician, 
you  shall  come  and  see  me  in  Berlin.  I  shall  make  something 
of  you." 

Jean-Christophe  was  too  delighted  to  reply. 

Hassler  teased  him. 

"You  don't  want  to?" 

Jean-Christophe  nodded  his  head  violently  five  or  six  times, 
meaning  "  Yes." 

"It  is  a  bargain,  then?" 

Jean-Christophe  nodded  again. 

"  Kiss  me,  then." 

Jean-Christophe  threw  his  arms  round  Hassler's  neck  and 
hugged  him  with  all  his  strength. 

"  Oh,  you  are  wetting  me !  Let  go !  Your  nose  wants 
wiping !  " 

Hassler  laughed,  and  wiped  the  boy's  nose  himself,  a  litile 
self-consciously,  though  he  was  quite  jolly.  He  put  him  down, 
then  took  him  by  the  hand  and  led  him  to  a  table,  where  he 
filled  his  pockets  with  cake,  and  left  him,  saying: 

"  Good-bye !     Bemember  your  promise." 

Jean-Christophe  swam  in  happiness.  The  rest  of  the  world 
had  ceased  to  exist  for  him.  He  could  remember  nothing  of 
what  had  happened  earlier  in  the  evening;  he  followed  lovingly 
Hassler's  every  expression  and  gesture.  One  thing  that  he  said 
struck  him.  Hassler  was  holding  a  glass  in  his  hand  ;  he  was 
talking,  and  his  face  suddenly  hardened,  and  he  said: 

"  The  joy  of  such  a  day  must  not  make  us  forget  our  enemies. 
We  must  never  forget  our  enemies.  It  is  not  their  fault  that 
we  are  not  crushed  out  of  existence.  It  will  not  be  our  fault 
if  that  does  not  happen  to  them.  That  is  why  the  toast  I 
propose  is  that  there  are  people  whose  health  .  .  .  we  will  not 
drink !  " 

Everybody  applauded  and  laughed  at  this  original  toast. 
Hassler  had  laughed  with  the  others  and  his  good-humored 
expression  had  returned.  But  Jean-Christophe  was  put  out 
by  it.  Although  he  did  not  permit  himself  to  criticise  any 
action  of  his  hero,  it  hurt  him  that  he  had  thought  ugly  things, 


78  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

when  on  such  a  night  there  ought  to  he  nothing  hut  hrilliant 
thoughts  and  fancies.  But  lie  did  not  examine  what  lie  felt. 
and  the  impression  that  it  made  was  soon  driven  out  by  his 
great  joy  and  the  drop  of  champagne  which  he  drank  out  of 

his  grandfather's  glass. 

On  the  way  hack  the  old  man  never  stopped  talking;  he  was 
delighted  with  the  praise  that  Hassler  had  given  him;  he  cried 
out  that  Hassler  was  a  genius  such  as  had  not  been  known 
for  a  century.  Jean-Christophe  said  nothing,  locking  up  in 
his  heart  his  intoxication  of  love.  He  had  kissed  him.  He 
had  held  him  in  his  arms!  How  good  lie  was!  How  great! 

"  Ah,"  he  thought  in  bed,  as  he  kissed  his  pillow  passionately, 
"  I  would  die  for  him — die  for  him  !  '"' 

The  brilliant  meteor  which  had  flashed  across  the  sky  of  the 
little  town  that  night  had  a  decisive  influence  on  Jean-Chris- 
tophe's  mind.  All  his  childhood  Hassler  was  the  model  on 
which  his  eyes  were  fixed,  and  to  follow  his  example  the  little 
man  of  six  decided  that  he  also  would  write  music.  To  tell 
the  truth,  he  had  been  doing  so  for  long  enough  without  know- 
ing it,  and  lie  had  not  waited  to  be  conscious  of  composing 
before  he  composed. 

Everything  is  music  for  the  born  musician.  Everything  that 
throbs,  or  moves,  or  stirs,  or  palpitates — sunlit  summer  days, 
nights  when  the  wind  howls,  flickering  light,  the  twinkling  of 
the  stars,  storms,  the  song  of  birds,  the  buying  of  insects,  the 
murmuring  of  trees,  voices,  loved  or  loathed,  familiar  fireside 
sounds,  a  creaking  door,  blood  moving  in  the  veins  in  the  silence 
of  the  night — everything  that;  is  is  music;  all  that  is  needed 
is  that  it  should  be  heard.  All  the  music  of  creation  found 
its  echo  in  Jean-Christophe.  Everything  that  he  saw,  every- 
thing that  he  felt,  was  translated  into  music  without  his  being 
conscious  of  it.  He  was  like  a  buzzing  hive  of  bees.  But  no 
one  noticed  it,  himself  least  of  all. 

Like  all  children,  he  hummed  perpetually  at  every  hour  of 
the  day.  Whatever  he  was  doing— whether  he  were  walking  in 
the  street,  hopping  on  one  foot,  or  Iving  on  the  floor  at  his 
grandfather's,  with  his  head  in  his  hands,  absorbed  in  the 
pictures  of  a  book,  or  sitting  in  his  little  chair  in  the  darkest 
corner  of  the  kitchen,  dreaming  airnlessJv  in  the  twiliu'ht — al- 


THE  DAWN  79 

ways  the  monotonous  murmuring  of  his  little  trumpet  was  to 
be  heard,  played  with  lips  closed  and  cheeks  blown  out.  His 
mother  seldom  paid  any  heed  to  it,  but,  once  in  a  while,  she 
would  protest. 

When  he  was  tired  of  this  state. of  half-sleep  he  would  have 
to  move  and  make  a  noise.  Then  he  made  music,  singing  it 
at  the  top  of  his  voice.  He  had  made  tunes  for  every  occasion. 
He  had  a  tune  for  splashing  in  his  wash-basin  in  the  morning, 
like  a  little  duck.  He  had  a  tune  for  sitting  on  the  piano-stool 
in  front  of  the  detested  instrument,  and  another  for  getting 
off  it,  and  this  was  a  more  brilliant  affair  than  the  other.  He 
had  one  for  his  mother  putting  the  soup  on  the  table;  he  used 
to  go  before  her  then  blowing  a  blare  of  trumpets.  He  played 
triumphal  marches  by  which  to  go  solemnly  from  the  dining- 
room  to  the  bedroom.  Sometimes  he  would  organize  little  pro- 
cessions with  his  two  small  brothers;  all  then  would  lile  out 
gravely,  one  after  another,  and  each  had  a  tune  to  march  to. 
But.  as  was  right  and  proper.  Jean-Christophe  kept  the  best 
for  himself.  Every  one  of  his  tunes  was  strictly  appropriated 
to  its  special  occasion,  and  Jean-Christophe  never  by  any  chance 
confused  them.  Anybody  else  would  have  made  mistakes,  but 
he  knew  the  shades  of  difference  between  them  exactly. 

One  day  at  his  grandfather's  house  he  was  going  round  the 
room  clicking  his  heels,  head  up  and  chest  out :  he  went  round 
and  round  and  round,  so  that  it  was  a  wonder  lie  did  not  turn 
sick,  and  played  one  of  his  compositions,  '['he  old  man.  who 
was  shaving,  stopped  in  the  middle  of  it,  and.  with  his  face 
covered  with  lather,  came  to  look  at  him,  and  said: 

"What  are  you  singing,  boy?" 

Jean-Christophe  said  he  did   not    know. 

''Sing  it  again!"  said   Jean   Michel. 

Jean-Christophe  tried;  he  could  not  remember  tin1  tune. 
Proud  of  having  attracted  his  grandfather's  attention,  he  tried 
to  make  him  admire  his  voice,  and  sang  after  his  own  fashion 
an  air  from  some  opera,  hut  that  was  not  what  the  old  man 
wanted.  Jean  Michel  said  nothing,  and  seemed  not  to  notice 
him  any  more.  But  he  left  the  door  of  his  room  ajar  while 
the  boy  was  playing  alone  in  the  next  room. 

A   few  days  later  Jean-Christophe,  with  the  chairs  arranged 


80  JEAX-CHKISTOPHE 

about,  him,  was  playing  a  comedy  in  music,  which  he  had  made 
up  of  scraps  that  lie  remembered  from  the  theater,  and  he  was 
making  steps  and  bows,  as  he  had  seen  them  done  in  a  minuet, 
and  addressing  himself  to  the  portrait  ol  Beethoven  which 
hung  above  the  table.  As  he  turned  with  a  pirouette  he  saw 
his  grandfather  watching  him  through  the  half-open  door.  He 
thought  the  old  man  was  laughing  at  him;  he  was  abashed,  and 
stopped  dead;  he  ran  to  the  window,  and  pressed  his  face 
against  the  panes,  pretending  that  he  had  been  watching  some- 
thing of  the  greatest  interest.  But  the  old  man  said  nothing; 
he  came  to  him  and  kissed  him,  and  Jean-Christophe  saw  that 
he  was  pleased.  His  vanity  made  the  most  of  these  signs; 
he  was  clever  enough  to  see  that  he  had  been  appreciated ; 
but  he  did  not  know  exactly  which  his  grandfather  had  admired 
most — his  talent  as  a  dramatic  author,  or  as  a  musician,  or 
as  a  singer,  or  as  a  dancer.  He  inclined  to  the  latter,  for  he 
prided  himself  on  this. 

A  week  later,  when  he  had  forgotten  the  whole  affair,  his 
grandfather  said  mysteriously  that  he  had  something  to  show 
him.  He  opened  his  desk,  took  out  a  music-book,  and  put  it 
on  the  rack  of  the  piano,  and  told  the  boy  to  play.  Jean-Chris- 
tophe was  very  much  interested,  and  deciphered  it  fairly  well. 
The  notes  were  written  by  hand  in  the  old  man's  large  hand- 
writing, and  he  had  taken  especial  pains  with  it.  The  headings 
were  adorned  with  scrolls  and  flourishes.  After  some  moments 
the  old  man,  who  was  sitting  beside  Jcan-Christophe  turning 
the  pages  for  him,  asked  him  Avhat  the  music  was.  Jean- 
Christophe  had  been  too  much  absorbed  in  his  playing  to  notice 
what  he  had  played,  and  said  that  he  did  not  know  it. 

"Listen!  .  .  ."  You  don't  know  it?" 

Yes;  he  thought  he  knew  it,  but  he  did  not  know  where 
he  had  heard  it.  The  old  man  laughed. 

"  Think." 

Jean-Christophe  shook  his  head. 

"  I  don't  know." 

A  light  was  fast  dawning  in  his  mind;  it  seemed  to  him  that 
the  air  ...  But,  no !  He  dared  not.  ...  He  would  not  recog- 
nize it. 

"  I  don't  know,  grandfather." 


THE  DAWN  81 

He  blushed. 

"  What,  you  little  fool,  don't  you  see  that  it  is  your 
own?" 

He  was  sure  of  it,  but  to  hear  it  said  made  his  heart  thump. 

"  Oh !  grandfather !  .  .  ." 

Beaming,  the  old  man  showed  him  the  book. 

"  See :  Aria.  It  is  what  you  were  singing  on  Tuesday  when 
you  were  lying  on  the  floor.  March.  That  is  what  I  asked  you 
to  sing  again  last  week,  and  you  could  not  remember  it. 
Minuet.  That  is  what  you  were  dancing  by  the  armchair. 
Look ! " 

On  the  cover  was  written  in  wonderful  Gothic  letters : 

"  The  Pleasures  of  Childhood:  Aria,  Minuetto,  Valse,  and 
Marcia,  Op.  1,  by  Jean-Christophe  Krafft." 

Jean-Christophe  was  dazzled  by  if.  To  see  his  name,  and 
that  fine  title,  and  that  large  book — his  work!  ...  He  went 
on  murmuring: 

"  Oh !  grandfather !  grandfather !  .  .  ." 

The  old  man  drew  him  to  him.  Jean-Christophe  threw  him- 
self on  his  knees,  and  hid  his  head  in  Jean  Michel's  bosom. 
He  was  covered  with  blushes  from  his  happiness.  The  old 
man  was  even  happier,  and  went  on,  in  a  voice  which  he  tried 
to  make  indifferent,  for  he  felt  that  he  was  on  the  point  of 
breaking  down : 

"  Of  course,  I  added  the  accompaniment  and  the  harmony 
to  fit  the  song.  And  then" — he  coughed — "and  then,  I  added 
a  trio  to  the  minuet,  because  .  .  .  because  it  is  usual  .  .  .  and 
then  ...  I  think  it  is  not  at  all  bad." 

He  played  it.  Jean-Christophe  was  .very  proud  of  collaborat- 
ing with  his  grandfather. 

"  But,  grandfather,  you  must  put  your  name  to  it  too." 

"  It  is  not  worth  while.  It  is  not  worth  while  others  besides 
yourself  knowing  it.  Only  " — here  his  voice  trembled — "  only, 
later  on,  when  I  am  no  more,  it  will  remind  you  of  your  old 
grandfather  ...  eh?  You  won't  forget  him?" 

The  poor  old  man  did  not  say  that  lie  had  been  unable  to 
resist  the  quite  innocent  pleasure  of  introducing  one  of  his  own 
unfortunate  airs  into  his  grandson's  work,  which  he  felt  was 
destined  to  survive  him;  but  his  desire  to  share  in  this  imagi- 


82  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

nary  glory  was  very  humble  and  very  touching,  since  it  was 
enough  for  him  anonymously  to  transmit  io  posterity  a  scrap 
of  liis  own  thought,  so  as  not  altogether  to  perish.  ,)ean- 
Christopho  was  touched  by  it,  and  covered  his  face  with  kisses, 
and  the  old  man,  growing  more  and  more  tender,  kissed  his 
hair. 

"You  will  remember  me?  Later  on,  when  you  are  a  good 
musician,  a  great  artist,  who  will  bring  honor  to  his  family, 
to  his  art,  and  to  his  country,  when  you  are  famous,  you  will 
remember  that  it  was  your  old  grandfather  who  first  perceived  it, 
and  foretold  what  you  would  he?" 

There  were  tears  in  his  eyes  as  lie  listened  to  his  own  words. 
He  was  reluctant  to  let  such  signs  of  weakness  be  seen.  He 
had  an  attack  of  coughing,  became  moody,  and  sent  the  hoy 
away  hugging  the  precious  manuscript. 

Jean-Christophe  went  home  bewildered  by  his  happiness.  The 
stones  danced  about  him.  The  reception  he  had  from  his  family 
sobered  him  a  little.  When  he  blurted  out  the  splendor  of  his 
musical  exploit  they  cried  out  upon  him.  His  mother  laughed 
at  him.  Melchior  declared  that  the  old  man  was  mad,  and 
that  he  would  do  better  to  take  care  of  himself  than  to  set 
about  turning  the  boy's  head.  As  for  Jean-Christophe,  he 
would  oblige  by  putting  such  follies  from  his  mind,  and  sitting 
down  mica  at  the  piano  and  playing  exercises  for  four  hours, 
lie  must  first  learn  to  play  properly;  and  as  for  composing^ 
there  was  plenty  of  time  for  that  later  on  when  he  had  nothing 
better  to  do. 

Melchior  was  not,  as  these  words  of  wisdom  might  indicate, 
trying  to  keep  the  boy  from  the  dangerous  exaltation  of  a  too 
early  pride.  On  the  contrary,  lie  proved  immediately  that  this 
was  not  so.  But  never  having  himself  had  any  idea  to  express 
in  music,  and  never  having  had  the  least  need  to  express  an 
idea,  he  had  come,  as  a  ririuoso,  to  consider  composing  a  second- 
ary matter,  which  was  only  given  value  by  the  art  of  the 
executant,  lie  was  not  insensible  of  the  tremendous  enthusiasm 
roused  by  great  composer?  like  Hassler.  For  such  ovations 
he  had  the  respect  which  he  always  paid  to  success — mingled, 
perhaps,  with  a  little  secret  jealousy — for  it.  seemed  to  him  that 
such  applause  was  stolen  from  him.  But  he  knew  by  experience 


THE  DAWN  83 

that  the  successes  of  the  great  virtuosi  are  no  less  remarkable, 
and  are  more  personal  in  character,  and  therefore  more  fruitful 
of  agreeable  and  flattering  consequences.  He  affected  to  pay 
profound  homage  to  the  genius  of  the  master  musicians:  but 
he  took  a  great  delight  in  telling  absurd  anecdotes  of  them, 
presenting  their  intelligence  and  morals  in  a  lamentable  light. 
He  placed  the  virtuoso  at  the  top  of  the  artistic  ladder,  for. 
lie  said,  it  is  well  known  that  the  tongue  is  the  noblest  member 
of  the  body,  and  what  would  thought  be  without,  words?  What 
would  music  be  without  the  executant?  But  whatever  may  have 
been  the  reason  for  the  scolding  that  he  gave  Jean-Christophe, 
it  was  not  without  its  uses  in  restoring  some  common  sense 
to  the  boy,  who  was  almost  beside  himself  with  his  grand- 
father's praises.  It  was  not  quite  enough.  Jean-Christophe, 
of  course,  decided  that  his  grandfather  was  much  cleverer  than 
his  father,  and  though  he  sat  down  at  the  piano  without  sulking. 
he  did  so  not  so  much  for  the  sake  of  obedience  as  to  be  able 
to  dream  in  peace,  as  he  always  did  while  his  fingers  ran 
mechanically  over  the  keyboard.  .While  he  played  his  intermi- 
nable exercises  lie  heard  a  proud  voice  inside  himself  saying  over 
and  over  again:  "  I  am  a  composer — a  great  composer.'' 

From  that  day  on.  since  he  was  a  composer,  he  set  himself 
to  composing.  Before  he  had  even  learned  to  write,  he  con- 
tinued to  cipher  crotchets  and  quavers  on  scraps  of  paper,  which 
he  tore  from  the  household  account-books,  lint  in  the  effort 
to  find  out  what  he  was  thinking,  and  to  set  it  down  in  black 
and  white,  he  arrived  at  thinking  nothing,  except  when  he 
wanted  to  think  something.  But  he  did  not  for  that  give  up 
making  musical  phrases,  and  as  he  was  a  born  musician  he  made 
them  somehow,  even  if  thev  meant  nothing  at  all.  Then  he 
would  take  them  in  triumph  to  his  grandfather,  who  wept  with 
joy  over  them — he  wept  easilv  now  that  he  was  growing  old — 
and  vowed  that  thev  wen1  wonderful. 

All  this  was  like  to  spoil  him  altogether.  Fortunately,  his 
own  good  sense  saved  him,  helped  bv  the  influence  of  a  man 
who  made  no  pretension  of  having  anv  influence  over  anybody, 
and  set  nothing  before  the  eves  of  the  world  but  a  common- 
pense  point  of  view.  This  man  was  Louisa's  brother. 

Like  her,  he  was  smalk.  thin.  puny,  and  raiher  round-sluml- 


84  JEAN-CHKISTOPHE 

dered.  ]STo  one  knew  exactly  how  old  he  was;  he  could  not  be 
more  than  forty,  but  he  looked  more  than  fifty.  He  had  a  little 
wrinkled  face,  with  a  pink  complexion,  and  kind  pale  blue  eyes, 
like  faded  forget-me-nots.  When  he  took  off  his  cap,  which  he 
used  fussily  to  wear  everywhere  from  his  fear  of  draughts,  he 
exposed  a  little  pink  bald  head,  conical  in  shape,  which  was 
the  great  delight  of  Jean-Christophe  and  his  brothers.  They 
never  left  off  teasing  him  about  it,  asking  him  what  he  had 
done  with  his  hair,  and.  encouraged  by  Melchior's  pleasantries, 
threatening  to  smack  it.  He  was  the  first  to  laugh  at  them, 
and  put  up  with  their  treatment  of  him  patiently.  He  was  a 
peddler;  he  used  to  go  from  village  to  village  with  a  pack  on 
his  back,  containing  everything — groceries,  stationery,  confec- 
tionery, handkerchiefs,  scarves,  shoes,  pickles,  almanacs,  songs, 
and  drugs.  Several  attempts  had  been  made  to  make  him  settle 
down,  and  to  buy  him  a  little  business — a  store  or  a  drapery 
shop.  But  he  could  not  do  it.  One  night  he  would  get  up, 
push  the  key  under  the  door,  and  set  off  again  with  his  pack. 
Weeks  and  months  went  by  before  he  was  seen  again.  Then 
he  would  reappear.  Some  evening  they  would  hear  him  fum- 
bling at  the  door;  it  would  half  open,  and  the  little  bald 
head,  politely  uncovered,  would  appear  'with  its  kind  eyes  and 
timid  smile.  He  would  say,  "  Good-evening,  everybody,"  care- 
fully wipe  his  shoes  before  entering,  salute  everybody,  beginning 
with  the  eldest,  and  go  and  sit  in  the  most  remote  corner  of 
the  room.  There  he  would  light  his  pipe,  and  sit  huddled 
up,  waiting  quietly  until  the  usual  storm  of  questions  was  over. 
The  two  Kraffts,  Jean-Christophe's  father  and  grandfather,  had 
a  jeering  contempt  for  him.  The  little  freak  seemed  ridiculous 
to  them,  and  their  pride  was  touched  by  the  low  degree  of  the 
peddler.  They  made  him  feel  it,  but  be  seemed  to  take  no 
notice  of  it,  and  showed  them  a  profound  respect  which  dis- 
armed them,  especially  the  old  man,  who  was  very  sensitive  to 
what  people  thought  of  him.  They  used  to  crush  him  with 
heavy  pleasantries,  which  often  brought  the  blush  to  Louisa's 
cheeks.  Accustomed  to  bow  without  dispute  to  the  intellectual 
superiority  of  the  Kraffts,  she  had  no  doubt  that  her  husband 
and  father-in-law  were  right;  but  she  loved  her  brother,  and 
her  brother  had  for  her  a  dumb  adoration.  Thev  were  the 


THE  DAWN  85 

only  members  of  their  family,  and  they  were  both  humble, 
crushed,  and  thrust  aside  by  life;  they  were  united  in  sadness 
and  tenderness  by  a  bond  of  mutual  pity  and  common  suffer- 
ing, borne  in  secret.  With  the  Kraffts — robust,  noisy,  brutal, 
solidly  built  for  living,  and  living  joyously — these  two  weak, 
kindly  creatures,  out  of  their  setting,  so  to  speak,  outside  life, 
understood  and  pitied  each  other  without  ever  saying  anything 
about  it. 

Jean-Christophe,  with  the  cruel  carelessness  of  childhood, 
shared  the  contempt  of  his  father  and  grandfather  for  the  little 
peddler.  He<  made  fun  of  him,  and  treated  him  as  a  comic 
figure;  he  worried  him  with  stupid  teasing,  which  his  uncle 
bore  with  his  unshakable  phlegm.  But  Jean-Christophe  loved 
him,  without  quite  knowing  why-  He  loved  him  first  of  all 
as  a  plaything  with  which  he  did  what  he  liked.  He  loved  him 
also  because  he  always  gave  him  something  nice — a  dainty,  a 
picture,  an  amusing  toy.  The  little  man's  return  was  a  joy 
for  the  children,  for  he  always  had  some  surprise  for  them. 
Poor  as  he  was,  he  always  contrived  to  bring  them  each  a  pres- 
ent, and  he  never  forgot  the  birthday  of  any  one  of  the  family. 
He  always  turned  up  on  these  august  days,  and  brought  out 
of  his  pocket  some  jolly  present,  lovingly  chosen.  They  were 
so  used  to  it  that  they  hardly  thought  of  thanking  him;  it 
seemed  natural,  and  he  appeared  to  be  sufficiently  repaid  by 
the  pleasure  he  had  given.  But  Jean-Christophe,  who  did  not 
sleep  very  well,  and  during  the  night  used  to  turn  over  in  his 
mind  the  events  of  the  day,  used  sometimes  to  think  that  his 
uncle  was  very  kind,  and  he  used  to  be  filled  with  floods  of 
gratitude  to  the  poor  man.  He  never  showed  it  when  the 
day  came,  because  lie  thought  that  the  others  would  laugh  at 
him.  Besides,  he  was  too  little  to  see  in  kindness  all  the  rare 
value  that  it  has.  In  the  language  of  children,  kind  and  stupid 
are  almost  synonymous,  and  Uncle  Gottfried  seemed  to  be  the 
living  proof  of  it. 

One  evening  when  Melchicr  was  dining  out,  Gottfried  was 
left  alone  in  the  living-room,  while  Louisa  put  the  children 
to  bed.  He  went  out,  and  sat  by  the  river  a  few  yards  away 
from  the  house.  Jean-Christophe,  having  nothing  better  to  do, 
followed  him,  and,  as  usual,  tormented  him  with  his  puppy 


86  JEA  \-CHRISTOPHE 

tricks  until  ho  was  out  of  breath,  and  dropped  down  on  the 
grass  at  his  feel.  .Lying  on  his  belly,  he  buried  his  nose  in 
the  turf.  When  lie  had  recovered  his  breath,  lie  cast  about  for 
some  ne\v  cra/y  thing  to  say.  When  he  found  it  lie  shouted 
it  out,  and  rolled  about  with  laughing,  with  his  face  still  buried 
in  the  earth.  Me  received  no  answer.  Surprised  by  the  silence, 
he  raised  his  head,  and  began  to  repeat  'his  joke.  He  saw  Gott- 
fried's face  lit  up  by  the  last  beams  of  the  setting  sun  cast 
through  golden  mists,  lie  swallowed  down  his  words.  Gott- 
fried smiled  with  his  eyes  half  dosed  and  his  mouth  half  open, 
and  in  his  sorrowful  face  was  an  expression  of,  sadness  and 
unutterable  melancholy.  Jean-Christophe,  with  his  face  in  his 
hands,  watched  him.  The  night  came;  little  by  little  Gott- 
fried's face  disappeared.  Silence  reigned.  Jean-Christophe  in 
his  turn  was  lit  led  with  the  mysterious  impressions  which  had 
been  reflected  on  Gottfried's  face.  lie  fell  into  a  vague  stupor. 
The  earth  was  in  darkness,  the  sky  was  bright;  the  stars  peeped 
out.  The  little  waves  of  the  river  chattered  against  the  bank. 
The  boy  grew  sleepy.  Without  seeing  them,  he  bit  off  little 
blades  of  grass.  A  grasshopper  chirped  near  him.  ft  seemed 
to  him  that  he  was  going  to  sleep. 

Suddenly,  in  the  dark,  Gottfried  began  to  sing,  lie  sang 
in  a  Avcak,  husky  voice,  as  though  to  himself;  he  could  not 
have  been  heard  twenty  yards  away.  But  then1  was  sincerity 
and  emotion  in  his  voice;  it  was  as  though  he  were  thinking 
aloud,  and  that  through  the  song,  as  through  clear  water,  the 
very  inmost  heart  of  him  was  to  he  seen.  Never  had  Jean- 
Christophe  heard  such  singing,  and  never  had  he  heard  such 
a  song.  Slow,  simple,  childish,  it  moved  gravely,  sadly,  a  little 
monotonously,  never  hurrying — -with  long  pauses — then  setting 
out  again  on  its  way,  careless  where  it  arrived,  and  losing 
itself  in  the  night.  It  seemed  to  come  from  far  away,  and  it 
went  no  man  knows  whither.  Its  serenitv  was  full  of 
and  beneath  its  seeming  peace  there  dwelt  an  agony 
ages.  Jean-Christophe  held  his  breath;  he  dared  not 
he  was  cold  with  emotion.  When  it  was  done  he  crawled  to- 
wards Gottfried,  and  in  a  choking  voice  said: 

«  Uncle !  " 

Gottfried   did  not  reply. 


THE  DAWN  87 

"  Uncle ! "  repeated  the  boy,  placing  his  hands  and  chin  on 
Gottfried's  knees. 

Gottfried  said  kindly: 

"  Well,  boy  .  .  ." 

"  What  is  it,  uncle  ?  Tell  me !  What  were  you  sing- 
ing?" 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  Tell  me  what  it  is !  " 

"  I  don't  know.     Just  a  song." 

"  A  song  that  you  made." 

"  No,  not  I !     What  an  idea !  ...  It  is  an  old  song/' 

"  Who  made  it  ?  " 

"  No  one  knows.  .  .  ." 

"When?" 

"  No  one  knows.  .  .  ." 

"  When  you  were  little  ?  " 

"  Before  I  was  born,  before  my  father  was  born,  and  before 
his  father,  and  before  his  father's  father.  ...  It  has  always 
been." 

"  How  strange !     No  one  has  ever  told  me  about  it." 

He  thought  for  a  moment. 

"  Uncle,  do  you  know  any  other  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Sing  another,  please." 

"  Why  should  I  sing  another  ?  One  is  enough.  One  sings 
when  one  wants  to  sing,  when  one  has  to  sing.  One  must  not 
sing  for  the  fun  of  it." 

"  But  what  about  when  one  makes  music  ?  " 

"  That  is  not  music." 

The  boy  was  lost  in  thought.  He  did  not  quite  understand. 
But  he  asked  for  no  explanation.  It  was  true,  it  was  not  music, 
not  like  all  the  rest.  He  went  on : 

"Uncle,  have  you  ever  made  them?" 

"Made  what?" 

"  Songs !  " 

"  Songs  ?  Oh !  How  should  I  make  them  ?  They  can't  be 
made." 

With  his  usual  logic  the  boy  insisted : 

"  But,  uncle,  it  must  have  been  made  once.  .   .  ." 


88  JEAX-CHBISTOPHE 

Gottfried  shook  his  head  obstinately. 

"  It  lias  alwavs  been." 

The  boy  returned  to  tlic  attack: 

"  But.  uncle,  isn't  it  possible  to  make  other  songs,  new 
songs  ?  " 

"  \Vhy  make  them  ?  There  are  enough  for  everything.  Then; 
are  songs  for  when  you  are  sad,  and  for  when  you  are  gay; 
for  when  YOU  are  weary,  and  for  when  you  are  thinking  of 
home;  for  when  you  despise  yourself,  because  you  have  been 
a  vile  sinner.  ;i  worm  upon  the  earth;  for  when  vou  want  to 
weep,  because  people  have  not  been  kind  to  you  :  and  for  when 
your  heart  is  glad  because  the  world  is  beautiful,  and  you  see 
Cod's  heaven,  which,  like  Him,  is  always  kind,  and  seems  to 
laugh  at  you.  .  .  .  There  are  songs  for  evervthing,  everything. 
Why  should  1  make  them?" 

"  To  be  a  great  man!  "  said  the  boy,  full  of  his  grandfather's 
teaching  and  his  simple  dreams. 

Gottfried  laughed  softly.  Jean-Christophe,  a  little  hurt, 
asked  him  : 

"Why  are  you   laughing?" 

Gottfried  said  : 

"  Oh  !     I?...!  am  nobody." 

He  kissed  the  boy's  head,  and  said: 

"You  want  to  be  a  great  man?"' 

"Yes,"  said  Jean-Christophe  proudly.  He  thought  Gott- 
fried would  admire  him.  But  Gottfried  replied: 

"  What   for?  '; 

Jean-Christophe  was  taken  aback.  He  thought  for  a  moment, 
and  said  : 

"To  make  beautiful  songs!" 

Gottfried   laughed   again,  and   said: 

"You  want  to  make  beautiful  songs,  so  as  to  be  a  great  man; 
and  you  want  to  be  a  great  man.  so  as  to  make  beautiful  songs. 
You  are  like  a  dog  chasing  its  own  tail." 

Jean-Christophe  \\as  dashed.  At  anv  other  time  he  would 
not  have  borne  his  uncle  laughing  at  him,  he  at  whom  he  was 
used  to  laughing.  And.  at  the  same  time,  hi.-  would  never 
have  thought  Gottfried  clever  enough  to  stum])  him  with  an 
argument.  He  cast  about  for  some  answer  or  some  impel1- 


THE  DAWX  89 

tinence  to  throw  at  him,  but  could  iind  none.  Gottfried  went 
on: 

"  When  you  are  as  great  as  from  here  to  Coblentz,  you  will 
never  make  a  single  song." 

Jean-Christophe  revolted  on  that. 

"And  if  I  will!  .  .  ." 

"  The  more  you  want  to.  the  less  you  can.  To  make  gongs. 
you  have  to  be  like  those  creatures.  Listen.  .  .  .'' 

The  moon  had  risen,  round  and  gleaming,  behind  the  fields. 
A  silvery  mist  hovered  above  the  ground  and  the  shimmering 
waters.  The  frogs  croaked,  and  in  the  meadows  the  melodious 
fluting  of  the  toads  arose.  The  shrill  tremolo  of  the  grass- 
hoppers seemed  to  answer  the  twinkling  of  the  stars.  The  wind 
rustled  softly  in  the  branches  of  the  alders.  From  the  hills 
above  the  river  there  came  down  the  sweet  light  song  of  a 
nightingale. 

"  What  need  is  there  to  sing?  "  sighed  Gottfried,  after  a  long 
silence.  (It  was  not  clear  whether  he  were  talking  to  himself 
or  to  Jean-Christophe.)  "  Don't  they  sing  sweeter  than  any- 
thing that  you  could  make  ?  " 

Jean-Christophe  had  often  heard  these  sounds  of  the  night. 
and  he  loved  them.  But  never  had  he  heard  them  as  he  heard 
them  now.  It  was  true:  what  need  was  there  to  sing?  .  .  .  His 
heart  was  full  of  tenderness  and  sorrow.  He  was  fain  to  em- 
brace the  meadows,  the  river,  the  sky.  the  clear  stars.  He  was 
filled  with  love  for  his  uncle  Gottfried,  who  seemed  to  him 
now  the  best,  the  cleverest,  the  most  beautiful  of  men.  He 
thought  how  he  had  misjudged  him.  and  he  thought  that  his 
uncle  was  sad  because  he,  Jean-Christophe,  had  misjudged  him. 
He  was  remorseful.  He  wanted  to  cry  out:  "Uncle,  do  not 
be  sad!  I  will  not  be  naughty  again.  Forgive  me.  I  love  you  !  " 
But  he  dared  not.  And  suddenly  he  threw  himself  into  Gott- 
fried's arms,  but  the  words  would  not  come,  only  he  repeated. 
"I  love  you!  "  and  kissed  him  passionately.  Gottfried  was  sur- 
prised and  touched,  and  went  on  saying.  "What?  What?" 
and  kissed  him.  Then  he  got  up.  took  him  by  the  hand,  and 
.said :  "  We  must  go  in."'  Jean-Christophe  was  sad  because 
his  uncle  had  not  understood  him.  But  as  they  came  to  the 
house,  Gottfried  said :  "  If  you  like  we'll  go  again  to  hear  God's 


90  JEAX-CIIKISTOPHE 

music,  and  I  will  sing  you  some  more  songs."  And  when  Jean- 
Christophe  kissed  him  gratefully  as  they  said  good-night,  he 
saw  that  his  uncle  had  understood. 

Thereafter  they  often  went  for  walks  together  in  the  evening, 
and  the}  walked  without  a  word  along  by  the  river,  or  through 
the  fields.  Gottfried  slowly  smoked  his  pipe,  and  Jean-Chris- 
tophe., ti  little  frightened  by  the  darkness,  would  give  him  his 
hand.  They  would  sit  down  on  the  grass,  and  after  a  few 
moments  01  silence  Gottfried  would  talk  to  him  about  the  stars 
and  the  clouds;  he  taught  him  to  distinguish  the  breathing  of 
the  earth,  air,  and  water,  the  songs,  cries,  and  sounds  of  the 
little  worlds  of  flying,  creeping,  hopping,  and  swimming  things 
swarming  in  the  darkness,  and  the  signs  of  rain  and  fine 
weather,  and  the  countless  instruments  of  the  symphony  of  the 
night.  Sometimes  Gottfried  would  sing  tunes,  sad  or  gay,  but 
always  of  the  «ame  kind,  and  always  in  the  end  Jean-Christophe 
would  be  brought  to  the  same  sorrow.  But  he  would  never 
sing  more  than  one  song  in  an  evening,  and  Jean-Christophe 
noticed  that  he  did  not  sing  gladly  when  he  was  asked  to  do 
so;  it  had  to  come  of  itself,  just  when  he  wanted  to.  Some- 
times they  had  to  wait  for  a  long  time  without  speaking,  and 
just  when  Jean-Christophe  was  beginning  to  think,  "  He  is  not 
going  to  sing  this  evening,"  Gottfried  would  make  up  his  mind. 

One  evening,  when  nothing  would  induce  Gottfried  to  sing, 
Jean-Christophe  thought  of  submitting  to  him  one  of  his  own 
small  compositions,  in  the  making  of  which  he  found  so  much 
trouble  and  pride.  He  wanted  to  show  what  an  artist  he  was. 
Gottfried  listened  very  quietly,  and  then  said : 

"  That  is  very  ugly,  my  poor  dear  Jean-Christophe !  " 

Jean-Christophe  was  so  hurt  that  he  could  find  .nothing  to 
say.  Gottfried  went  on  pityingly: 

"Why  did  you  do  it?  it  is  so  ugly!  Xo  one  forced  you 
to  do  it." 

Hot  with  anger,  Jean-Christophe  protested: 

"  My  grandfather  thinks  my  music  fine." 

"Ah!"  said  Gottfried,  not  turning  a  hair.  '' Xo  doubt  he 
is  right.  He  is  a  learned  man.  lie  knows  all  about  music. 
1  kno\v  nothing  about  it.  .  .  ." 

And  after  a  moment : 


THE  DAWN  91 

"  But  I  think  that  is  very  ugly." 

Ho  looked  quietly  at  Jean-Christophe,  and  saw  his  angry  face, 
and  smiled,  and  said : 

"  Have  you  composed  any  others  ?  Perhaps  I  shall  like  the 
others  better  than  that." 

Jean-Christophe  thought  that  his  other  compositions  might 
wipe  out  the  impression  of  the  first,  and  he  sang  them  all. 
Gottfried  said  nothing;  he  waited  until  they  were  finished. 
Then  he  shook  his  head,  and  with  profound  conviction  said : 

"  They  are  even  more  ugly." 

Jean-Christophe  shut  his  lips,  and  his  chin  trembled;  he 
wanted  to  cry.  Gottfried  went  on  as  though  he  himself  were 
upset. 

"  How  ugly  they  are !  " 

Jean-Christophe,  with  tears  in  his  voice,  cried  out: 

"  But  why  do  you  say  they  are  ugly  ?  " 

Gottfried  looked  at  him  with  his  frank  eyes. 

"Why?  ...  I  don't  know.  .  .  .  Wait.  .  .  .  They  are  ugly 
.  .  .  first,  because  they  are  stupid.  .  .  .  Yes,  that's  it.  ... 
They  are  stupid,  they  don't  mean  anything.  .  .  .  You  see? 
When  you  wrote,  you  had  nothing  to  say.  Why  did  you  write 
them?'" 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Jean-Christophe,  in  a  piteous  voice. 
"  I  wanted  to  write  something  pretty." 

"There  you  arc!  You  wrote  for  the  sake  of  writing.  You 
wrote  because  you  wanted  to  be  a  great  musician,  and  to  be 
admired.  You  have  been  proud;  you  have  been  a  liar;  you 
have  been  punished.  .  .  .  You  see !  A  man  is  always  punished 
when  he  is  proud  and  a  liar  in  music.  Music  must  be  modest 
and  sincere — or  else,  what  is  it?  Impious,  a  blasphemy  of  the 
Lord,  who  has  given  us  song  to  tell  tlie  honest  truth.'' 

He  saw  the  boy's  distress,  and  tried  to  kiss  him.  But  Jean- 
Christophe  turned  angrily  away,  and  for  several  days  he  sulked. 
He  hated  Gottfried.  But  it  was  in  vain  that  he  said  over  and 
over  to  himself:  "He  is  an  ass!  lie  knows  nothing — nothing! 
My  grandfather,  who  is  much  cleverer,  likes  my  music."  In 
his  heart  he  knew  that  his  uncle  was  right,  and  Gottfried's  words 
were  graven  on  his  inmost  soul ;  he  was  ashamed  to  have  been 
a  liar. 


92  JEAtf-CHRISTOPHE 

And,  in  spite  of  his  resentment,  lie  always  thought  of  it 
when  lie  was  writing  music',  and  often  he  tore  up  what  lie  had 
written,  being  ashamed  already  of  what  Gottfried  would  have 
thought  of  it.  When  he  got  over  it,  and  wrote  a  melody  which 
he  knew  to  be  not  quite  sincere,  he  hid  it  carefully  from  his 
uncle;  he  was  fearful  of  his  judgment,  and  was  quite  happy 
when  G-oti  fried,  just  said  of  one  of  his  pieces:  "  That  is- not  so 
very  ugly.  .  .  .  I  like  it.  .  .  .'" 

Sometimes,  by  way  of  revenge,  lie  used  to  trick  him  by  giving 
him  as  his  own  melodies  from  the  great  musicians,  and  he  was 
delighted  when  it  happened  that  (Jottfried  disliked  them  heart- 
ily. But  that  did  not  trouble  Gottfried.  He  would  laugh  loudly 
when  he  saw  Jean-Christophe  clap  his  hands  and  dance  about 
him  delightedly,  and  he  always  returned  to  his  usual  argument: 
"It  is  well  enough  written,  but  it  says  nothing."  He  always 
refused  to  be  present  at  one  of  the  little  concerts  given  in 
Mclehior's  house.  However  beautiful  the  music  might  be,  he 
would  begin  to  yawn  and  look  sleepy  with  boredom.  Very  soon 
he  would  be  unable  to  bear  it  any  longer,  and  would  steal  away 
quietly.  He  used  to  say : 

"  Yon  see,  my  boy,  everything  that  you  write  in  the  house 
is  not  music.  Music  in  a  house  is  like  sunshine  in  a  room. 
Music  is  to  be  found  outside  where  you  breathe  God's  dear  fresh 
air." 

He  was  always  talking  of  God,  for  he  was  very  pious,  unlike 
the  two  Kraffts,  father  and  son,  who  were  free-thinkers,  and 
took  care  to  eat  meat  on  Fridays. 

Suddenly,  for  no  apparent  reason,  Melchior  changed  his 
opinion.  Xot  only  did  he  approve  of  his  father  having  put 
together  Jean-Christophe's  inspirations,  but,  to  the  boy's  great 
surprise,  he  spent  several  evenings  in  making  t\vo  or  three  copies 
of  his  manuscript.  To  every  question  put  to  him  on  the  subject, 
he  replied  impressively,  "We  shall  see ;  .  .  ."  or  he  would  rub 
his  hands  and  laugh,  smack  the  boy's  head  by  way  of  a  joke, 
or  turn  him  up  and  blithely  spank  him.  Jean-Christophe  loathed 
these  familiarities,  but  he  saw  that  his  father  was  pleased,  and 
did  not  know  why. 

Then  there  were  mysterious  confabulations  between  Melchior 


THE  DAWN  93 

and  liis  father.  And  one  evening  Jean-Christophe,  to  his  aston- 
ishment, learned  that  he,  Jean-Chriatophe,  liad  dedicated  to 
H.S.H.  the  Grand  Duke  Leopold  the  Pleasure*  of  Childhood. 
Melchior  had  sounded  the  disposition  of  the  Prince,  who  had 
shown  himself  graciously  inclined  to  accept  the  homage.  There- 
upon Melchior  declared  that  without  losing  a  moment  they  must, 
primo,  draw  up  the  official  request  to  the  Prince;  xecomlu, 
publish  the  work;  teriio,  organize  a  concert  to  give  it  a  hearing. 

There  were  further  long  conferences  between  Melchior  and 
Jean  Michel.  They  argued  heatedly  for  two  or  three  evenings. 
It  was  forbidden  to  interrupt  them.  Melchior  wrote,  erased; 
erased,  wrote.  The  old  man  talked  loudly,  as  though  he  were 
reciting  verses.  Sometimes  they  squabbled  or  thumped  on  the 
table  because  they  could  not  find  a  word. 

Then  Jean-Christophe  was  called,  made  to  sit  at  the  table 
with  a  pen  in  his  hand,  his  father  on  his  right,  his  grandfather 
on  his  left,  and  the  old  man  began  to  dictate  words  which 
he  did  not  understand,  because  lie  found  it  diflicult  to  write 
every  word  in  his  enormous  letters,  because  Melchior  was  shout- 
ing in  his  car,  and  because  the  old  man  declaimed  with  such 
emphasis  that  Jean-Christophe,  put  out  by  the  sound  of  the 
words,  could  not  bother  to  listen  to  their  meaning.  The  old 
man  was  no  less  in  a  state  of  emotion.  He  could  not  sit  still, 
and  ho  walked  up  and  down  the  room,  involuntarily  illustrating 
the  text  of  what  he  read  with  gestures,  but  he  came  every  minute 
to  look  over  what  the  boy  had  written,  and  Jean-Christophe, 
frightened  by  the  two  large  faces  looking  over  his  shoulder, 
put  out  his  tongue,  and  held  his  pen  clumsily.  A  mist  floated 
before  his  eyes :  he  made  too  many  strokes,  or  smudged  what 
he  had  written;  and  Melchior  roared,  and  Jean  Michel  stormed: 
and  he  had  to  begin  again,  and  then  again,  and  when  he  thought 
that  they  had  at  last  come  to  an  end.  a  great  blot  fell  on  tin1 
immaculate  page.  Then  they  pulled  his  ears,  and  he  burst 
into  tears:  but  they  forbade  him  to  weep,  because  he  was  spoiling 
the  paper,  and  they  began  to  dictate,  beginning  all  over  again. 
and  he  thought  it  would  go  on  like  that  to  the  end  of  his 
life. 

At  last  it  was  finished,  and  Jean  "Michel  leaned  against  the 
mantelpiece,  and  read  over  their  handiwork  in  a  voice  trembling 


94  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

with  pleasure,  while  Melchior  sat  straddled  across  a  chair,  and 
looked  at  the  ceiling  and  wagged  his  chair  and,  as  a  connoisseur, 
rolled  round  his  tongue  the  style  of  the  following  epistle: 

"Most  Noble  and  Sublime  Highness!    Most 
Gracious  Lord! 

"  From  my  fourth  year  Music  has  been  the  first  occupation 
of  my  childish  days.  So  soon  as  I  allied  myself  to  the  noble 
Muse,  who  roused  my  soul  to  pure  harmony,  I  loved  her,  and. 
as  it  seemed  to  me,  she  returned  my  love.  Now  I  am  in  my 
sixth  year,  and  for  some  time  my  Muse  in  hours  of  inspiration 
has  whispered  in  my  ears:  'Be  bold!  Be  bold!  Write  down 
the  harmonies  of  thy  soul ! '  '  Six  years  old/  thought  I,  '  and 
how  should  I  be  bold?  What  would  the  learned  in  the  art  say 
of  me?'  I  hesitated.  I  trembled.  But  my  Muse  insisted.  I 
obeyed.  I  wrote. 

"  And  now  shall  1, 

0  Most  Sublime  Highness! 

— shall  I  have  the  temerity  and  audacity  to  place  upon  the 
steps  of  Thy  Throne  the  first-fruits  of  my  youthful  labors?  .  .  . 
Shall  I  make  so  bold  as  to  hope  that  Thou  wilt  let  fall  upon 
them  the  august  approbation  of  Thy  paternal  regard?  .  .  . 

"  Oh,  yes !  For  Science  and  the  Arts  have  ever  found  in 
Thee  their  sage  Mfficenas,  their  generous  champion,  and  talent 
puts  forth  its  flowers  under  the  a'gis  of  Thy  holy  protection. 

"  In  this  profound  and  certain  faith  I  dare,  then,  approach 
Thee  with  these  youthful  efforts.  Keceive  them  as  a  pure  offer- 
ing of  my  childish  veneration,  and  of  Thy  goodness  deign, 

0  Most  Sublime  Highness! 

to  glance  at  them,  and  at  their  young  author,  who  hows  at  Thy 
feet  deeply  and  in  humility ! 

"From  the  most  submissive,  faithful,  and  obedient  servant 
of  His  Most  Noble  and  Most  Sublime  Highness, 

"  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  KRAFFT." 


THE  DAWN  95 

Jean-Christophe  heard  nothing.  He  was  very  happy  to  have 
finished,  and,  fearing  that  he  would  be  made  to  begin  again, 
he  ran  away  to  the  fields.  He  had  no  idea  of  what  he  had 
written,  and  he  cared  not  at  all.  But  when  the  old  man  had 
finished  his  reading  he  began  again  to  taste  the  full  flavor  of  it, 
and  when  the  second  reading  came  to  an  end  Melchior  and  he 
declared  that  it  was  a  little  masterpiece.  That  was  also  the 
opinion  of  the  Grand  Duke,  to  whom  the  letter  was  presented, 
with  a  copy  of  the  musical  work.  He  was  kind  enough  to 
send  word  that  he  found  both  quite  charming.  He  granted 
permission  for  the  concert,  and  ordered  that  the  hall  of  his 
Academy  of  Music  should  be  put  at  Melchior's  disposal,  and 
deigned  to  promise  that  he  would  have  the  young  artist  pre- 
sented to  himself  on  the  day  of  the  performance. 

Melchior  set  about  organizing  the  concert  as  quickly  as  pos- 
sible. He  engaged  the  support  of  the  H.of  Musik  Verein,  and 
as  the  success  of  his  first  ventures  had  blown  out  his  sense  of 
proportion,  he  undertook  at  the  same  time  to  publish  a  mag- 
nificent edition  of  the  Pleasures  of  Childhood.  He  wanted  to 
have  printed  on  the  cover  of  it  a  portrait  of  Jean-Christophe 
at  the  piano,  with  himself,  Melchior,  standing  by  his  side, 
violin  in  hand.  He  had  to  abandon  that,  not  on  account  of 
the  cost — Melchior  did  not  stop  at  any  expense — hut  because 
there  was  not  time  enough.  He  fell  back  on  an  allegorical 
design  representing  a  cradle,  a  trumpet,  a  drum,  a  wooden  horse, 
grouped  round  a  lyre  which  put  forth  rays  like  the  sun.  The 
title-page  bore,  together  with  a  long  dedication,  in  which  the 
name  of  the  Prince  stood  out  in  enormous  letters,  a  notice  to 
the  effect  that  "  Herr  Jean-Christophe  Krafft  was  six  years  old." 
He  was,  in  fact,  seven  and  a  half.  The  printing  of  the  design 
was  very  expensive.  To  meet  the  bill  for  it,  Jean  Michel  had 
to  sell  an  old  eighteenth-century  chest,  carved  with  faces,  which 
he  had  never  consented  to  sell,  in  spite  of  the  repeated  otl'ers 
of  Wormser,  the  furniture-dealer.  But  Melchior  had  no  doubt 
but  the  subscriptions  would  cover  the  cost,  and  beyond  that  the 
expenses  of  printing  the  composition. 

One  other  question  occupied  his  mind :  how  to  dress  Jean- 
Christophe  on  the  day  of  the  concert.  There  was  a  family 
council  to  decide  the  matter.  Melchior  would  have  liked  the 


Uti  JEAN-CHK1STOPHE 

boy  to  appear  in  a  short  frock  and  bare  logs*,  like  a  child  of 
four.  But  Jean-Christophe  was  very  large  for  his  age,  and 
everybody  knew  him.  They  could  not  hope  to  deceive  any  one. 
Melchior  had  a  great  idea.  He  decided  that  the  boy  should 
wear  a  dress-coat  and  white  tie.  In  vain  did  Louisa  protest 
that  they  would  make  her  poor  boy  ridiculous.  Melchior  antici- 
pated exactly  the  success  and  merriment  that  would  be  pro- 
duced by  such  an  unexpected  appearance.  Jt  was  decided  on, 
and  the  tailor  came  and  measured  Jean-Christophe  for  his 
little  coat.  He  had  also  to  have  line  linen  and  patent-leather 
pumps,  and  all  that  swallowed  up  their  last  penny.  Jean- 
Christophe  was  very  uncomfortable  in  his  new  clothes.  To 
make  him  used  to  them  they  made  him  try  on  his  various  gar- 
ments. For  a  whole  month  he  hardly  left  the  piano-stool. 
They  taught  him  to  bow.  He  had  never  a  moment  of  liberty. 
He  raged  against  it,  but  dared  not  rebel,  for  he  thought  that 
he  was  going  to  accomplish  something  startling.  He  was  both 
proud  and  afraid  of  it.  They  pampered  him;  they  were  afraid 
he  would  catch  cold;  they  swathed  his  neck  in  scarves;  they 
warmed  his  boots  in  case  they  were  wet;  and  at  table  he  had 
the  best  of  everything. 

At  last  the  great  day  arrived.  The  barber  came  to  preside 
over  his  toilet  and  curl  Jean-Christophe's  rebellious  hair.  He 
did  not  leave  it  until  he  had  made  it  look  like  a  sheep-skin. 
All  the  family  walked  round  Jean-Christophe  and  declared  that 
he  was  superb.  Melchior,  after  looking  him  up  and  down, 
and  turning  him  about  and  about,  was  seized  with  an  idea, 
and  went  off  to  fetch  a  large  flower,  which  he  put  in  his  button- 
hole. But  when  Lquisa  saw  him  she  raised  her  hands,  and 
cried  out  distressfully  that  he  looked  like  a  monkey.  That  hurt 
him  cruelly.  He  did  not  know  whether  to  be  ashamed  or  proud 
of  his  garb.  Instinctively  he  felt  humiliated,  and  he  was  more 
so  at  the  concert.  Humiliation  was  to  be  for  him  the  out- 
standing emotion  of  that  memorable  day. 

The  concert  was  aboui  to  begin.  The  hall  was  half  empty; 
the  (irand  Duke  had  not  arrived.  One  of  those  kindly  and 
well-informed  friends  who  always  appear  on  these  occasions 
came  and  told  them  that  there  was  a  Council  being  held  at 


THE  DAWN  (J7 

the  Palace,  and  that  the  Grand  Duke  would  not  tome.  He  had 
it  on  good  authority.  Melchior  was.  in  despair.  He  fidgeted, 
paced  up  and  down,  and  looked  repeatedly  out  of  the  window. 
Old  Jean  Michel  was  also  in  torment,  but  he  was  concerned 
for  his  grandson.  He  bombarded  him  with  instructions.  Jean- 
Christophe  was  infected  by  the  nervousness  of  his  family,  lie 
was  not  in  the  least  anxious  about  his  compositions,  but  he  was 
troubled  by  the  thought  of  the  bows  that  he  had  to  make  to  the 
audience,  and  thinking  of  them  brought  him  to  agony. 

However,  he  had  to  begin;  the  audience  was  growing  im- 
patient. The  orchestra  of  the  Hof  Muxik  Vcrein  began  the 
Coriolan  Overture.  The  boy  knew  neither  Coriolan  nor  Bee- 
thoven, for  though  he  had  often  heard  Beethoven's  music,  lie 
had  not  known  it.  He  never  bothered  about  the  names  of  the 
works  he  heard.  He  gave  them  names  of  his  own  invention, 
while  he  created  little  stories  or  pictures  for  them.  He  classi- 
fied them  usually  in  three  categories:  fire,  water,  and  earth, 
with  a  thousand  degrees  between  each.  Mo/art  belonged  almost 
always  to  water.  He  was  a  meadow  by  the  side  of  a  river,  a 
transparent  mist  floating  over  the  water,  a  spring  shower,  or 
a  rainbow.  Beethoven  was  fire — now  a  furnace  with  gigantic- 
flames  and  vast  columns  of  smoke ;  now  a  burning  forest,  a 
heavy  and  terrible  cloud,  flashing  lightning;  now  a  wide  sky 
full  of  quivering  stars,  one  of  which  breaks  free,  swoops,  and 
dies  on  a  fine  September  night  setting  the  heart  beating.  Now 
the  imperious  ardor  of  that  heroic  soul  burned  him  like  fire. 
Everything  else  disappeared.  What  was  it  all  to  him? — Mel- 
chior  in  despair,  Jean  Michel  agitated,  all  the  busy  world,  the 
audience,  the  Grand  Duke,  little  Jean-Christophe.  What  had 
he  to  do  with  all  these?  What  lay  between  them  and  him? 
Was  that  he — he,  himself?  ...  He  was  given  up  to  the  furious 
will  that  carried  him  headlong.  He  followed  it  breathlessly, 
with  tears  in  his  eyes,  and  his  legs  numb,  thrilling  from  the 
palms  of  his  hands  to  the  soles  of  his  feet.  His  blood  drummed 
"  Charge!  "  and  he  trembled  in  every  limb.  And  as  he  listened 
so  intensely,  hiding  behind  a  curtain,  his  heart  suddenly  leaped 
violently.  The  orchestra  had  stopped  short  in  the  middle  of  a 
bar,  and  after  a  moment's  silence,  it;  broke  into  a  crashing  of 
brass  and  cymbals  with  a  military  march,  officially  strident. 


98  JEAX-CHRISTOPHE 

The  transition  from  one  sort  of  music  to  another  was  so  brutal, 
so  unexpected,  that  Jean-Christophe  ground  his  teetli  and 
stamped  his  foot  with  rage,  and  shook  his  fist  at  the  wall.  But 
Melchicr  rejoiced.  The  Grand  Duke  had  come  in,  and  the 
orchestra  was  saluting  him  with  the  National  Anthem.  And 
in  a  trembling  voice  Jean  Michel  gave  his  last  instructions  to 
his  grandson. 

The  overture  began  again,  and  this  time  was  finished.  It 
was  now  Jean-Christophe's  turn.  Melchior  had  arranged  the 
programme  to  show  off  at  the  same  time  the  skill  of  both  father 
and  son.  They  were  to  play  together  a  sonata  of  Mozart  for 
violin  and  piano.  For  the  sake  of  ell'ect  he  had  decided  that 
Jean-Christophe  should  enter  alone.  He  was  led  to  the  entrance 
of  the  stage  and  showed  the  piano  at  the  front,  and  for  the 
last  time  it  was  explained  what  he  had  to  do,  and  then  he  was 
pushed  on  from  the  wings. 

He  was  not  much  afraid,  for  he  was  used  to  the  theater;  but 
when  he  found  himself  alone  on  the  platform,  with  hundreds  of 
eyes  staring  at  him,  he  became  suddenly  so  frightened  that  in- 
stinctively he  moved  backwards  and  turned  towards  the  wings 
to  go  back  again,  lie  saw  his  father  there  gesticulating  and 
with  his  eyes  blazing.  He  had  to  go  on.  Besides,  the  audience 
had  seen  him.  As  he  advanced  there  arose  a  twittering  of 
curiosity,  followed  soon  by  laughter,  which  grew  louder  and 
louder.  Melchior  had  not  been  wrong,  and  the  boy's  garb 
had  all  the  effect  anticipated.  The  audience  rocked  with  laugh- 
ter at  the  sight  of  the  child  with  his  long  hair  and  gipsy  com- 
plexion timidly  trotting  across  the  platform  in  the  evening 
dress  of  a  man  of  the  world.  They  got  up  to  see  him  better. 
Soon  the  hilarity  was  general.  There  was  nothing  unkindly 
in  it,  but  it  would  have  made  the  most  hardened  musician  lose 
his  head.  Jean-Christophe,  terrified  by  the  noise,  and  the  eyes 
watching,  and  the  glasses  turned  upon  him,  had  only  one  idea: 
to  reach  the  piano  as  quickly  as  possible,  for  it  seemed  to  him 
a  refuge,  an  island  in  the  midst  of  the  sea.  With  head  down, 
looking  neither  to  right  nor  left,  he  ran  quickly  across  the  plat- 
form, and  when  he  reached  the  middle  of  it.  instead  of  bowing 
to  the  audience,  as  had  been  arranged,  he  turned  his  back  on 
it,  and  plunged  straight  for  the  piano.  The  chair  was  too  high 


THE  DAWN  99 

for  him  to  sit  down  without  his  father's  help,  and  in  his  dis- 
tress, instead  of  waiting,  he  climbed  up  on  to  it  on  his  knees. 
That  increased  the  merriment  of  the  audience,  but  now  Jean- 
Christophe  was  safe.  Sitting  at  his  instrument,  he  was  afraid 
of  no  one. 

Melchior  came  at  last.  He  gained  by  the  good-humor  of 
the  audience,  who  welcomed  him  with  warm  applause.  The 
sonata  began.  The  boy  played  it  with  imperturbable  certainty, 
with  his  lips  pressed  tight  in  concentration,  his  eyes  fixed  on 
the  keys,  his  little  legs  hanging  down  from  the  chair.  He 
became  more  at  ease  as  the  notes  rolled  out;  he  was  among 
friends  that  he  knew.  A  murmur  of  approbation  reached  him, 
and  waves  of  pride  and  satisfaction  surged  through  him  as  he 
thought  that  all  these  people  were  silent  to  listen  to  him  and 
to  admire  him.  But  hardly  had  he  finished  when  fear  overcame 
him  again,  and  the  applause  which  greeted  him  gave  him  more 
shame  than  pleasure.  His  shame  increased  when  Melchior  took 
him  by  the  hand,  and  advanced  with  him  to  the  edge  of  the 
platform,  and  made  him  bow  to  the  public.  Ho  obeyed,  and 
bowed  very  low,  with  a  funny  awkwardness;  but  he  was  hu- 
miliated, and  blushed  for  what  he  had  done,  as  though  it  were 
a  thing  ridiculous  and  ugly. 

He  had  to  sit  at  the  piano  again,  and  he  played  the  Pleasures 
of  Childhood.  Then  the  audience  was  enraptured.  After  each 
piece  they  shouted  enthusiastically.  They  wanted  him  to  begin 
again,  and  he  was  proud  of  his  success  and  at  the  same  time 
almost  hurt  by  such  applause,  which  was  also  a  command.  At 
the  end  the  whole  audience  rose  to  acclaim  him;  the  Grand 
'Duke  led  the  applause.  But  as  Jean-Christophe  was  now  alone 
on  the  platform  he  dared  not  budge  from  his  seat.  The  ap- 
plause redoubled.  He  bent  his  head  lower  and  lower,  blushing 
and  hang-dog  in  expression,  and  he  looked  steadily  away  from 
the  audience.  Melchior  came.  He  took  him  in  his  arms,  and 
told  him  to  blow  kisses.  He  pointed  out  to  him  the  Grand 
Duke's  box.  Jean-Christophe  turned  a  deaf  ear.  Melchior  took 
his  arm,  and  threatened  him  in  a  low  voice.  Then  lie  did  as 
he  was  told  passively,  but  he  did  not  look  at  anybody,  he  did 
not  raise  his  eyes,  but  went  on  turning  hi?  head  away,  and  he 
was  unhappy.  He  was  suffering;  how,  he  did  not  know.  His 


100  JEAN-CHRTSTOPHE 

vanity  was  suffering,  lie  did  not  like  the  people  who  were 
there  at  all.  It  was  no  use  their  applauding;  he  could  not 
forgive  them  for  having  laughed  and  for  being  amused  by  his 
humiliation;  he.',  could  not  forgive  them  for  having  seen  him 
in  such  a  ridiculous  position — held  in  mid-air  to  blow  kisses. 
He  disliked  them  even  for  applauding,  and  when  Melchior  did 
at  last  put  him  down,  he  ran  away  to  the  wings.  A  lady  threw 
a  bunch  of  violets  up  at  him  as  he  went.  It  brushed  his  face. 
He  was  panic-stricken  and  ran  as  fast  as  he  could,  turning 
over  a  chair  that  was  in  his  way.  The  faster  he  ran  the  more 
they  laughed,  and  the  more  they  laughed  the  faster  he  ran. 

At  last  he  reached  the  exit,  which  was  filled  with  people 
looking  at  him.  He  forced  his  way  through,  butting,  and  ran 
and  hid  himself  at  the  back  of  the  anteroom.  His  grandfather 
was  in  high  feather,  and  covered  him  with  blessings.  The 
musicians  of  the  orchestra  shouted  with  laughter,  and  con- 
gratulated the  boy,  who  refused  to  look  at  them  or  to  shake 
hands  with  them.  Melchior  listened  intently,  gaging  the  ap- 
plause, which  had  not  yet  ceased,  and  wanted  to  take  Jean- 
Christophe  on  to  the  stage  again.  Hut  the  boy  refused  angrily, 
clung  to  his  grandfather's  coat-tails,  and  kicked  at  everybody 
who  came  near  him.  At  last  he  burst  into  tears,  and  they 
had  to  let  him  be. 

Just  at  this  moment  an  officer  came  to  say  that  the  (Jrand 
Duke  wished  the  artists  to  go  to  his  box.  How  could  the  child 
be  presented  in  such  a  state?  Melchior  swore,  angrily,  and  his 
wrath  only  had  the  effect  of  making  Jean-Christophe's  tears 
flow  faster.  To  stop  them,  his  grandfather  promised  him  a 
pound  of  chocolates  if  he  would  not  cry  any  more,  and  ,lean- 
Christophe.  who  was  greedy,  stopped  dead,  swallowed  down 
his  tears,  and  let  them  carrv  him  off;  but  they  had  to  swear 
at  first  most  solemnly  that  they  would  not  take  him  on  to 
the  platform  again. 

In  the  anteroom  of  the  (Jrand  Ducal  box  he  was  presented 
to  a  gentleman  in  a  dress-coat,  with  a  face  like  a  pug-dog, 
bristling  mustaches,  and  a  short,  pointed  beard- — a  little  red- 
faced  man,  inclined  to  stoutness,  who  addressed  him  with  ban- 
tering familiarity,  and  called  him  "Mo/art  redivivus!"  This 
was  the  Crrand  Duke.  Then  he  was  presented  in  turn  to  the 


THE  DAWtf  101 

Grand  Duchess  and  her  daughter,  and  their  suite.  But  as  he 
did  not  dare  raise  his  eyes,  the  only  thing  he  could  remember 
of  this  brilliant  company  was  a  series  of  gowns  and  uniforms 
from  the  waist  down  to  the  feet.  He  sat  on  the  lap  of  the 
young  Princess,  and  dared  not  move  or  breathe.  She  asked 
him  questions,  which  Melchior  answered  in  an  obsequious  voice 
with  formal  replies,  respectful  and  servile;  but  she  did  not 
listen  to  Melchior,  and  went  on  teasing  the  child.  He  grew 
redder  and  redder,  and,  thinking  that  everybody  must  have 
noticed  it,  he  thought  he  must  explain  it  away  and  said  with 
a  long  sigh: 

"  My  face  is  red.    I  am  hot." 

That  made  the  girl  shout  witli  laughter.  But  Jean-Chris- 
tophe  did  not  mind  it  in  her,  as  he  had  in  his  audience  just 
before,  for  her  laughter  was  pleasant,  and  she  kissed  him,  and 
he  did  not  dislike  that. 

Then  he  saw  his  grandfather  in  the  passage  at  the  door  of 
the  box,  beaming  and  bashful.  The  old  man  was  fain  to  show 
himself,  and  also  to  say  a  few  words,  but  he  dared  not,  because 
no  one  had  spoken  to  him.  He  was  enjoying  his  grandson's 
glory  at  a  distance.  Jean-Christophe  became  tender,  and  felt 
an  irresistible  impulse  to  procure  justice  also  for  the  old  man, 
so  that  they  should  know  his  worth.  His  tongue  wa?  loosed, 
and  he  reached  up  to  the  ear  of  his  new  friend  and  whispered 
to  her: 

"  I  will  tell  you  a  secret/' 

She  laughed,  and  said: 

"What?" 

"  You  know,"  he  went  on — '"  you  know  the  pretty  trio  in  my 
minuetto,  the  minuet  to  I  played?  .  .  .  You  know  it?  .  .  ." 
(He  hummed  it  gently.)  ".  .  .  Well,  grandfather  wrote  it.  not 
I.  All  the  other  airs  are  mine.  But  that  is  the  best,  (i rand- 
father  wrote  it.  Grandfather  did  not  want  me  to  say  anything. 
You  won't  tell  anybody?  .  .  ."  (He  pointed  out  the  old  man.) 
"That  is  my  grandfather.  1  love  him;  he  is  very  kind  to  me." 

At  that  the  young  Princess  laughed  again,  said  that  he  was 
a  darling,  covered  him  with  kisses,  and.  to  the  consternation 
of  Jean-Christophe  and  his  grandfather,  told  everybody. 
Everybody  laughed  then,  and  the  Grand  Duke  congratulated 


102  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

the  old  man,  who  was  covered  with  confusion,  tried  in  vain 
to  explain  himself,  and  stammered  like  a  guilty  criminal.  But 
Jean-Christophe  said  not  another  word  to  the  girl,  and  in 
spite  of  her  wheedling  he  remained  dumh  and  still'.  He  de- 
spised her  for  having  broken  her  promise.  His  idea  of  princes 
suffered  considerably  from  this  disloyalty.  He  was  so  angry 
about  it  that  he  did  not  hear  anything  that  was  said,  or  that 
the  Prince  had  appointed  him  laughingly  his  pianist  in  ordinary, 
his  llof  Muticus. 

He  went  out  with  his  relatives,  and  found  himself  surrounded 
in  the  corridors  of  the  theater,  and  even  in  the  street,  with 
people  congratulating  him  or  kissing  him.  That  displeased 
him  greatly,  for  he  did  not  like  being  kissed,  and  did  not 
like  people  meddling  with  him  without  asking  his  permission. 

At  last  they  reached  home,  and  then  hardly  was  the  door 
closed  than  Melchior  began  to  call  him  a  "  little  idiot  "  because 
he  had  said  that  the  trio  was  not  his  own.  As  the  boy  was 
under  the  impression  that  he  had  done  a  tine  thing,  which 
deserved  praise,  and  not  blame,  he  rebelled,  and  was  impertinent. 
Melchior  lost  his  temper,  and  said  that  he  would  box  his  ears, 
although  he  had  played  his  music  well  enough,  because  with 
his  idiocy  he  had  spoiled  the  whole  effect  of  the  concert.  Jean- 
Christophe  had  a  profound  sense  of  justice.  He  went  and 
sulked  in  a  corner;  he  visited  his  contempt  upon  his  father, 
the  Princess,  and  the  whole  world.  He  was  hurt  also  because 
the  neighbors  came  and  congratulated  his  parents  and  laughed 
with  them,  as  if  it  were  they  who  had  played,  and  as  if  it 
were  their  affair. 

At  this  moment  a  servant  of  the  Court  came  with  a  beautiful 
gold  watch  from  the  Grand  Duke  and  a  box  of  lovely  sweets 
from  the  young  Princess.  Both  presents  gave  great  pleasure 
to  Jean-Christophe,  and  he  did  not  know  which  gave  him  the 
more;  but  he  was  in  such  a  bad  temper  that  he  would  not  admit 
it  to  himself,  and  he  went  on  sulking,  scowling  at  the  sweets, 
and  wondering  whether  he  could  properly  accept  a  gift  from  a 
person  who  had  betrayed  his  confidence.  As  he  was  on  the 
point  of  giving  in  his  father  wanted  to  set  him  down  at  once 
at  the  table,  and  make  him  write  at  his  dictation  2  letter  of 
thanks.  This  was  too  much.  Either  from  the  nervous  strain 


THE  DAWN  103 

of  the  day,  or  from  instinctive  shame  at  beginning  the  letter, 
as  Melchior  wanted  him  to,  with  the  words,  "  The  little  servant 
and  musician — Knecht  und  Musicus — of  Your  Highness  .  .  ." 
he  burst  into  tears,  and  was  inconsolable.  The  servant  waited 
and  scoffed.  Melchior  had  to  write  the  letter.  That  did  not 
make  him  exactly  kindly  disposed  towards  Jean-Christophe.  As 
a  crowning  misfortune,  the  boy  let  his  watch  fall  and  broke  it. 
A  storm  of '  reproaches  broke  upon  him.  Melchior  shouted  that 
he  would  have  to  go  without  dessert.  Jean-Christophe  said 
angrily  that  that  was  what  he  wanted.  To  punish  him,  Louisa 
said  that  she  would  begin  by  confiscating  his  sweets.  Jean- 
Christophe  was  up  in  arms  at  that,  and  said  that  the  box 
was  his,  and  no  one  else's,  and  that  no  one  should  take  it  away 
from  him !  He  was  smacked,  and  in  a  fit  of  anger  snatched 
the  box  from  his  mother's  hands,  hurled  it  on  the  floor,  and 
stamped  on  it.  He  was  whipped,  taken  to  .his  room,  undressed, 
and  put  to  bed. 

In  the  evening  he  heard  his  parents  dining  with  friends — 
a  magnificent  repast,  prepared  a  week  before  in  honor  of  the 
concert.  He  was  like  to  die  with  wrath  at  such  injustice.  They 
laughed  loudly,  and  touched  glasses.  They  had  told  the  guests 
that  the  boy  was  tired,  and  no  one  bothered  about  him.  Only 
after  dinner,  when  the  party  was  breaking  up,  he  heard  a  slow, 
shuffling  step  come  into  his  room,  and  old  Jean  Michel  bent 
over  his  bed  and  kissed  him,  and  said:  "Dear  little  Jean- 
Christophe  !  .  .  ."  Then,  as  if  he  were  ashamed,  he  went  away 
without  another  word.  He  had  slipped  into  his  hand  some 
sweetmeats  which  he  had  hidden  in  his  pocket. 

That  softened  Jean-Christophe;  but  lie  was  so  tired  with 
all  the  day's  emotions  that  he  had  not  the  strength  to  think 
about  what  his  grandfather  had  done.  He  had  not  even  the 
strength  to  reach  out  to  the  good  things  the  old  man  had  given 
him.  He  was  worn  out,  and  went  to  sleep  almost  at  once. 

His  sleep  was  light.  He  had  acute  nervous  attacks,  like 
electric  shocks,  which  shook  his  whole  body.  In  his  dreams 
he  was  haunted  by  wild  music.  He  awoke  in  the  night.  The 
Beethoven  overture  that  he  had  heard  at  the  concert  was  roaring 
in  his  ears.  It  filled  the  room  with  its  mighty  beat.  He  sat 
up  in  his  bed,  rubbed  his  eyes  and  ears,  and  asked  himself  if 


104  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

he  were  asleep.  No ;  he  was  not  asleep.  He  recognized  the 
sound,  he  recognized  those  roars  of  anger,  those  savage  cries; 
he  heard  the  throbbing  of  that  passionate  heart  leaping  in  his 
bosom,  that  tumult  of  the  blood;  he  felt  on  bis  face  the  frantic 
beating  of  the  wind,  lashing  and  destroying,  then  stopping 
suddenly,  cut  oil'  by  an  Herculean  will.  That  Titanic  soui 
entered  his  body,  blew  out  his  limbs  and  his  soul,  and  seemed 
to  give  them  colossal  proportions.  He  strode  over  all  the 
world.  He  »nis  like  a  mountain,  and  storms  raged  within  him 
— storms  ol'  wrath,  storms  ol'  sorrow!  .  .  .  Ah,  what  sorrow! 
.  .  .  But  they  were  nothing!  He  felt  so  strong!  .  .  .  To  suffer 
— still  to  suil'er!  .  .  .  Ah,  how  good  it  is  to  be  strong!  How 
good  it  is  to  suiter  when  a  man  is  strong !  .  .  . 

He  laughed.  His  laughter  rang  out  in  the  silence  of  the 
night.  His  father  woke  up  and  cried: 

"  Who  is  there  ?  " 

His  mother  whispered: 

"  Ssh  !  the  boy  is  dreaming  !  " 

All  then  were  silent;  round  them  all  was  silence.  The  music 
died  away,  and  nothing  sounded  but  the  regular  breathing  of 
the  human  creatures  asleep  in  the  room,  comrades  in  misery, 
thrown  together  by  Fate  in  the  same  frail  barque,  bound  on- 
wards by  a  wild  whirling  force  through  the  night. 

( Jean-Christ ophe's  letter  to  the  Grand  Duke  Leopold  is  inspired  by 
Beethoven's  letter  to  the  Prince  Elector  of  Bonn,  written  when  he  was 
eleven. ) 


MORNING 


THE  DEATH   OF  JEAN   MICHEL 

YEARS  have  passed.  Jean-Christophe  is  nearly  eleven.  His 
musical  education  is  proceeding'.  He  is  learning  harmony  with 
Florian  Holzer,  the  organist  of  St.  Martin's,  a  friend  of  his 
grandfather's,  a  very  learned  man,  who  teaches  him  that  the 
chords  and  series  of  chords  that  he  most  loves,  and  the  har- 
monies which  softly  greet  his  heart  and  ear,  those  that  he 
cannot  hear  without  a  little  thrill  running  down  his  spine, 
are  bad  and  forbidden.  When  he  asks  why,  no  reply  is  forth- 
coming but  that  it  is  so;  the  rules  forbid  them.  As  he  is 
naturally  in  revolt  against  discipline,  he  loves  them  only  the 
more.  His  delight  is  to  find  examples  of  them  in  the  great 
and  admired  musicians,  and  to  take  them  to  his  grandfather  or 
his  master.  His  grandfather  replies  that  in  the  great  musicians 
they  arc  admirable,  and  that  Beethoven  and  Bach  can  take  any 
liberty.  His  master,  less  conciliatory,  is  angry,  and  says  acidly 
that  the  masters  did  better  things. 

Jean-Christophe  has  a  free  pass  for  the  concerts  and  the 
theater.  He  has  learned  to  play  every  instrument  a  little. 
He  is  already  quite  skilful  with  the  violin,  and  his  father 
procured  him  a  seat  in  the  orchestra.  He  acquitted  himself 
so  well  there  that  after  a  few  months'  probation  he  was  officially 
appointed  second  violin  in  the  Hof  Muxik  Vcrcln.  He  lias 
begun  to  earn  his  living.  Xot  too  soon  either,  for  affairs  at 
home  have  gone  from  bad  to  worse.  Melchior's  intemperance 
has  swamped  him,  and  his  grandfather  is  growing  old. 

Jean-Christophe  has  taken  in  the  melancholy  situation.  He 
is  already  as  grave  and  anxious  as  a  man.  lie  fill  tils  his  task 
valiantly,  though  it  does  not  interest  him,  and  he  is  apt  to 
fall  asleep  in  the  orchestra  in  the  evenings,  because  it  is  late 
and  he  is  tired.  The  theater  no  longer  rouses  in  him  the  emotion 
it  used  to  do  when  he  was  little.  When  he  was  little — four 

107 


108  JEAX-CHRISTOPHE 

years  ago — his  greatest  ambition  had  been  to  occupy  the  place 
that  lie  now  holds.  l?ut  no\\  lie  dislikes  most  of  the  music  he 
is  made  to  play.  lie  dare  not  yet  pronounce  judgment  upon 
it,  but  he  does  lind  it  foolish;  and  if  by  chance  they  do  play 
lovely  things,  he  is  displeased  by  the  carelessness  with  which 
they  are  rendered,  and  his  best-beloved  \vorks  are  made  to 
appear  like  his  neighbors  and  colleagues  in  the  orchestra,  who, 
as  soon  as  the  curtain  has  fallen,  when  they  have  done  with 
blowing  and  scraping,  mop  their  brows  and  smile  and  chatter 
quietly,  as  though  they  had  just  finished  an  hour's  gymnastics. 
And  ho  has  been  close  to  his  former  flame,  the  fair  barefooted 
singer.  He  meets  her  quite  often  during  the  entr'acte  in  the 
saloon.  She  knows  that  he  was  once  in  love  with  her,  and  she 
kisses  him  often.  That  gives  him  no  pleasure.  He  is  dis- 
gusted by  her  paint  and  scent  and  her  fat  arms  and  her  greedi- 
ness. He  hates  her  now. 

The  (irand  Duke  did  not  forget  his  pianist  in  ordinary. 
Not  that  the  small  pension  which  was  granted  to  him  with  this 
title  was  regularly  paid — it  had  to  be  asked  for — but  from  time 
to  time  Jean-Christophe  used  to  receive  orders  to  go  to  the 
Palace  when  there  were  distinguished  guests,  or  simply  when 
Their  Highnesses  took  it  into  their  heads  that  they  wanted  to 
hear  him.  It  was  almost  alwavs  in  the  evening,  at  the  time 
when  Jean-Christopho  wanted  to  he  alone.  lie  had  to  leave 
everything  and  hurry  off.  Sometimes  he  was  made  to  wait 
in  the  anteroom,  because  dinner  was  not  finished.  The  serv- 
ants, accustomed  to  see  him,  used  to  address  him  familiarly. 
Then  he  would  be  led  into  a  great  room  full  of  mirrors  and 
lights,  iii  which  well-fed  men  and  women  used  to  stare  at  him 
with  horrid  curiosity.  He  had  to  cross  the  waxed  floor  to  kiss 
Their  Highnesses'  hands,  and  the  more  he  grew  the  more  awk- 
ivard  lie  became,  for  he  felt  that  he  was  in  a  ridiculous  position, 
and  his  pride  used  to  suffer. 

When  it  was  all  done  he  used  to  sit  at  the  piano  and  have 
to  plav  for  these  idiots.  Me  thought  them  idiots.  There  were 
moments  when  their  indifference  so  oppressed  him  as  he  played 
thai  he  was  often  on  the  point  of  stopping  in  the  middle  of  a 
piece.  There  was  no  air  about  him:  he  was  near  suffocation, 
seemed  losing  hi<  senses.  When  he  finished  he  was  overwhelmed 


MORNING  1'J!) 

with  congratulations  and  laden  with  compliments;  he  was  intro- 
duced all  round.  He  thought  they  looked  at  him  like  some 
strange  animal  in  the  Prince's  menagerie,  and  thai  the  words 
of  praise  were  addressed  rather  to  his  master  than  to  himself. 
He  thought  himself  hrought  low,  and  he  developed  a  morbid 
sensibility  from  which  he  suffered  the  more  as  he  dared  not 
show  it.  lie  saw  offense  in  the  most  simple  actions.  If  any 
one  laughed  in  a  corner  of  the  room,  he  imagined  himself  to 
be  the  cause  of  it,  and  he  knew  not  whether  it  were  his  manners, 
or  his  clothes,  or  his  person,  or  his  hands,  or  his  feet,  that 
caused  the  laughter.  He  was  humiliated  by  everything.  He 
was  humiliated  if  people  did  not  talk  to  him,  humiliated  if  they 
did,  humiliated  if  they  gave  him  sweets  like  a  child,  humiliated 
especially  when  the  Grand  Duke,  as  sometimes  happened,  in 
princely  fashion  dismissed  him  by  pressing  a  piece  of  money 
into  his  hand.  He  was  wretched  at  being,  poor  and  at  being 
treated  as  a  poor  boy.  One  evening,  as  he  was  going  home, 
the  money  that  he  had  received  weighed  so  heavily  upon  him 
that  he  threw  it  through  a  cellar  window,  and  then  immediately 
he  would  have  done  anything  to  get  it  hack,  for  at  home  there 
was  a  month's  old  account  with  the  butcher  to  pay. 

His  relatives  never  suspected  these  injuries  to  his  pride. 
They  were  delighted  at  his  favor  with  the  Prince.  P;>or  Louisa 
could  conceive  of  nothing  finer  for  her  son  than  these  evenings 
at  the  Palace  in  splendid  society.  As  for  Melchior,  he  used 
to  brag  of  it  continually  to  his  boon-fellows.  Hut  Jean-Chris- 
tophe's  grandfather  was  happier  than  any.  He  pretended  to 
be  independent  and  democratic,  and  to  despise  greatness,  but 
he  had  a  simple  admiration  for  money,  power,  honors,  social 
distinction,  and  he  took  unbounded  pride  ii?  seeing  his  grandson 
moving  among  those  who  had  these  things.  He  delighted  in 
them  as  though  such  glory  was  a  reflection  upon  himself,  and 
in  spite  of  all  his  efforts  to  appear  calm  and  indifferent,  his 
face  used  to  glow.  On  the  evenings  when  Jean-Christophe  went 
to  the  Palace,  old  .lean  Michel  used  always  to  contrive  to  stay 
about  the  house  on  some  pretext  or  another,  lie  used  to  await 
his  grandson's  return  with  childish  impatience,  and  when  Jean- 
Christophe  came  in  he  would  begin  at  once  with  a  careless  air 
to  ply  him  with  seeming  idle  questions,  such  as: 


110  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

"Well,  did  tiling  go  well  to-night?" 

Or  lie  would  .make  little  hints  like: 

"Here's  our  Jean-Christophe;  lie  can  tell  us  some  news." 

Or  he  would  produce  some  ingenious  compliment  hy  way  of 
flattery : 

"  Here's  our  young  nobleman !  " 

But  Jean-Christophe,  out  of  sorts  and  out  of  temper,  would 
reply  with  a  curt  "  Good-evening!  "  and  go  and  sulk  in  a  corner. 
But  the  old  man  would  persist,  and  ply  him  with  more  direct 
questions,  to  which  the  boy  replied  only  "  Yes,"  or  "  No."  Then 
the  others  would  join  in  and  ask  for  details.  Jean-Christophe 
would  look  more  and  more  thunderous.  They  had  to  drag 
the  words  from  his  lips  until  Jean  ]\Iichel  would  lose  his  temper 
and  hurl  insults  at  him.  Then  Jean-Christophe  would  reply 
with  scant  respect,  and  the  end  would  be  a  rumpus.  The  old 
man  would  go  out  and  slam  the  door.  So  Jean-Christophe 
spoiled  the  joy  of  these  poor  people,  who  had  no  inkling  of  the 
cause  of  his  bad  temper.  Jt  was  not  their  fault  if  they  had  the 
souls  of  servants,  and  never  dreamed  that  it  is  possible  to  be 
otherwise. 

Jean-Christophe  was  turned  into  himself,  and  though  he  never 
judged  his  family,  yet  he  felt  a  gulf  between  himself  and  them. 
Xo  doubt  he  exaggerated  what  lay  between  them,  and  in  spite 
of  their  different  ways  of  thought  it  is  quite  probable  that  they 
could  have  understood  each  other  if  he  had  been  able  to  talk 
intimately  to  them.  But  it  is  known  that  nothing  is  more 
difficult  than  absolute  intimacy  between  children  and  parents, 
even  when  there  is  much  love  between  them,  for  on  the  one 
side  respect  discourages  confidence,  and  on  the  other  the  idea, 
often  erroneous,  of  the  superiority  of  age  and  experience  pi'e- 
vents  them  taking  seriously  enough  the  child's  feelings,  which 
are  often  just  as  interesting  as  those  of  grown-up  persons,  and 
almost  always  more  sincere. 

But  the  people  that  Jean-Christophe  saw  at  home  and  the 
conversation  that  he  heard  there  widened  the  distance  between 
himself  and  his  family. 

Melchior's  friends  used  to  frequent  the  house— mostly  musi- 
cians of  the  orchestra,  single  men  and  hard  drinkers.  They 
were  not  bad  fellows,  but  vulgar.  Thev  made  the  house  shake 


MORNING  111 

with  their  footsteps  and  their  laughter.  They  loved  music,  but 
they  spoke  of  it  with  a  stupidity  that  was  revolting.  The  coarse 
indiscretion  of  their  enthusiasm  wounded  the  boy's  modesty  of 
feeling.  When  they  praised  a  work  that  he  loved  it  was  as 
though  they  were  insulting  him  personally.  He  would  stiffen 
himself  and  grow  pale,  frozen,  and  pretend  not  to  take  any 
interest  in  music.  He  would  have  hated  it  had  that  been 
possible.  Melchior  used  to  say: 

"  The  fellow  has  no  heart.  He  feels  nothing.  I  don't  know 
where  he  gets  it  from." 

Sometimes  they  used  to  sing  German  four-part  songs — four- 
footed  as  well — and  these  were  all  exactly  like  themselves — slow- 
moving,  solemn  and  broad,  fashioned  of  dull  melodies.  Then 
Jean-Christophe  used  to  fly  to  the  most  distant  room  and  hurl 
insults  at  the  wall. 

His  grandfather  also  had  friends:  the  organist,  the  furniture- 
dealer,  the  watch-maker,  the  contra-bass — garrulous  old  men, 
who  used  always  to  pass  round  the  same  jokes  and  plunge  into 
interminable  discussions  on  art,  politics,  or  the  family  trees  of 
the  country-side,  much  less  interested  in  the  subjects  of  which 
they  talked  than  happy  to  talk  and  to  find  an  audience. 

As  for  Louisa,  she  used  only  to  see  some  of  her  neighbors 
who  brought  her  the  gossip  of  the  place,  and  at  rare  intervals 
a  "  kind  lady,"  who,  under  pretext  of  taking  an  interest  in  her, 
used  to  come  and  engage  her  services  for  a  dinner-party,  and 
pretend  to  watch  over  the  religious  education  of  the  children. 

But  of  all  who  came  to  the  house,  none  was  more  repugnant 
to  Jean-Christophe  than  his  Uncle  Theodore,  a  stepson  of  his 
grandfather's,  a  son  by  a  former  marriage  of  his  grandmother 
Clara.  Jean  Michel's  first  wife.  He  was  a  partner  in  a  great 
commercial  house  which  did  business  in  Africa  and  the  Far 
East.  He  was  the  exact  type  of  one  of  those  Germans  of  the 
new  style,  whose  affectation  it  is  scoffing! y  to  repudiate  the  old 
idealism  of  the  race,  and,  intoxicated  by  conquest,  to  maintain 
a  cult  of  strength  and  success  which  shows  that  they  are  not 
accustomed  to  seeing  them  on  their  side.  But  as  it  is  difficult 
at  once  to  change  the  age-old  nature  of  a  people,  the  despised 
idealism  sprang  up  again  in  him  at  every  turn  in  language, 
manners,  and  moral  habits  and  the  quotations  from  Goethe  to 


112  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

fit  the  smallest  incidents  of  domestic  life,  for  lie  was  a  singular 
compound  of  conscience  ;md  self-interest.  There  was  in  him  a 
curious  eii'ort  to  reconcile  the  honest  principles  of  the  old 
German  bourgeoisie  with  the  cynicism  of  these  new  commercial 
condoitieri — a  compound  which  forever  gave  out  a  repulsive 
flavor  of  hypocrisy,  forever  striving  to  make  of  German  strength, 
avarice,  and  self-interest  the  symhols  of  all  right,  justice,  and 
truth. 

Jean-Christophe's  loyalty  was  deeply  injured  hy  all  this.  He 
could  not  tell  whether  his  uncle  were  right  or  no,  hut  he  hated 
him,  and  marked  him  down  for  an  enemy.  His  grandfather 
had  no  great  love  for  him  either,  and  was  in  revolt  against  his 
theories;  but  he  was  easily  crushed  in  argument  hy  Theodore's 
fluency,  which  was  never  hard  put  to  it  to  turn  into  ridicule 
the  old  man's  simple  generosity.  In  the  end  Jean  Michel  came 
to  be  ashamed  of  his  own  good-heartedness,  and  by  way  of 
showing  that  he  was  not  so  much  behind  the  times  as  they 
thought,  he  used  to  try  to  talk  like  Theodore;  but  the  words 
came  hollow  from  his  lips,  and  he  was  ill  at  ease  with  them. 
Whatever  he  may  have  thought  of  him,  Theodore  did  impress 
him.  He  felt  respect  for  such  practical  skill,  which  he  admired 
the  more  for  knowing  himself  to  be  absolutely  incapable  of  it. 
He  used  to  dream  of  putting  one  of  his  grandsons  to  similar 
work.  That  was  Melchior's  idea  also.  He  intended  to  make 
Rodolphe  follow  in  his  uncle's  footsteps.  And  so  the  whole 
family  set  itself  to  flatter  this  rich  relation  of  whom  they  ex- 
pected help.  He,  seeing  that  he  was  necessary  to  them,  took 
advantage  of  it  to  cut  a  fine  masterful  figure.  He  meddled  in 
everything,  gave  advice  upon  everything,  and  made  no  attempt 
to  conceal  his  contempt  for  art  and  artists.  Kather,  he  blazoned 
it  abroad  for  the  mere  pleasure  of  humiliating  his  imisicianly 
relations,  and  he  used  to  indulge  in  stupid  jokes  at  their  ex- 
pense, and  the  cowards  used  to  laugh. 

Jean-Christophe,  especially,  was  singled  out  as  a  butt  for  his 
uncle's  jests.  .He  was  not  patient  under  them.  lie  would  say 
nothing,  but  he  used  to  grind  his  teeth  angrily,  and  his  uncle 
used,  to  laugh  at  his  speechless  rage.  But  one  day,  when  Theo- 
dore went  too  far  in  his  teasing.  Jean-Christophe,  losing  control 
of  himself,  spat  in  his  face.  Jt  was  a  fearful  affair.  The  insult 


MOENIKG  113 

was  so  monstrous  that  his  undo  was  at  first  paralyzed  by  it ; 
then  words  came  back  to  him,  and  he  broke  out  into  a  flood 
of  abuse.  Jean-Christophe  sat  petrified  by  the  enormity  of 
the  thing  that  he  had  done,  and  did  not  even  feel  the  blows  that 
rained  down  upon  him;  but  when  they  tried  to  force  him  down 
on  his  knees  before  his  uncle,  he  broke  away,  jostled  his  mother 
aside,  and  ran  out  of  the  house.  He  did  not  stop  until  he  could 
breathe  no  more,  and  then  he  was  right  out  in  the  country. 
He  heard  voices  calling  him,  and  he  debated  within  himself 
whether  he  had  not  better  thro\v  himself  into  the  river,  since 
he  could  not  do  so  with  his  enemy.  He  spent  the  night  in 
the  fields.  At  dawn  he  went  and  knocked  at  his  grandfather's 
door.  The  old  man  had  been  so  upset  by  Jean-Christophe's 
disappearance — lie  had  not  slept  for  it — that  he  had  not  the 
heart  to  scold  him.  He  took  him  home,  and  then  nothing  was 
said  to  him,  because  it  was  apparent  that  he  was  still  in  an 
excited  condition,  and  they  had  to  smooth  him  down,  for  he 
had  to  play  at  the  Palace  that  evening.  But  for  several  weeks 
Melehior  continued  to  overwhelm  him  with  his  complaints, 
addressed  to  nobodv  in  particular,  about  the  trouble  that  a  man 
takes  to  give  an  example  of  an  irreproachable  life  and  good 
manners  to  unworthy  creatures  who  dishonor  him.  And  when 
his  Uncle  Theodore  met  him  in  the  street,  he  turned  his  head 
and  held  his  nose  by  way  of  showing  his  extreme  disgust. 

Finding  so  little  sympathy  at  home,  Jean-Christophe  spent 
as  little  time  there  as  possible.  He  chafed  against  the  continual 
restraint  which  they  strove  to  set  upon  him.  There  were  too 
many  things,  too  many  people,  that  he  had  to  respect,  and  he 
was  never  allowed  to  ask  why,  and  Jean-Christophe  did  not 
possess  the  bump  of  respect.  The  more  they  tried  to  discipline 
him  and  to  turn  him  into  an  honest  little  German  bourn^-n't, 
the  more  he  felt  the  need  of  breaking  free  from  it  all.  It  would 
have  been  his  pleasure  after  the  dull,  tedious,  formal  perform- 
ances' which  he  had  to  attend  in  the  orchestra  or  at  tin1  Palace 
to  roll  in  the  grass  like  a  fowl,  and  to  slide  down  the  grassy 
slope  on  the  seat  of  his  new  trousers,  or  to  have  a  stone-light 
with  the  urchins  of  the  neighborhood.  It  was  not  because  he 
was  afraid  of  scoldings  and  thwackings  that  he  did  not  do 
these  things  more  often,  but  because  be  had  no  playmates.  He 


114  JEAX-CIIRISTOPHE 

could  not  get  on  with  other  children.  Even  the  little  gutter- 
snipes did  not  like  playing  with  him,  because  he  took  every 
game  too  seriously,  and  struck  too  lustily.  He  had  grown  used 
to  being  driven  in  on  himself,  and  to  living  apart  from  children 
of  his  own  age.  He  was  ashamed  of  not  being  clever  at  games, 
and  dared  not  take  part  in  their  sport.  And  he  used  to  pretend 
to  take  no  interest  in  it.  although  he  was  consumed  by  the 
desire  to  be  asked  to  play  with  them.  But  they  never  said 
anything  to  him.  and  then  he  would  go  away  hurt,  but  assum- 
ing indifference. 

He  found  consolation  in  wandering  with  Uncle  Gottfried 
when  he  was  in  the  neighborhood.  He  became  more  and  more 
friendly  with  him,  and  sympathized  with  his  independent  tem- 
per. He  understood  so  well  now  Gottfried's  delight  in  tramping 
the  roads  without  a  tie  in  the  world !  Often  they  used  to 
go  out  together  in  the  evening  into  the  country,  straight  on, 
aimlessly,  and  as  Gottfried  always  forgot  the  time,  they  used  to 
come  back  very  late,  and  then  were  scolded.  Gottfried  knew 
that  it  was  wrong,  but  Jean-Christophe  used  to  implore,  and 
he  could  not  himself  resist  the  pleasure  of  it.  About  midnight 
he  would  stand  in  front  of  the  house  and  whistle,  an  agreed 
signal.  Jean-Christophe  would  be  in  his  bed  fully  dressed. 
He  would  slip  out  with  his  shoes  in  his  hand,  and,  holding  his 
breath,  creep  with  all  the  artful  skill  of  a  savage  to  the  kitchen 
window,  which  opened  on  to  the  road.  He  would  climb  on  to 
the  table;  Gottfried  would  take  him  on  his  shoulders,  and  then 
off  they  would  go,  happy  as  truants. 

Sometimes  they  would  go  and  seek  out  Jeremy  the  fisherman. 
a  friend  of  Gottfried's,  and  then  they  would  slip  out  in  his 
boat  under  the  moon.  The  water  dropping  from  the  oars  gave 
out  little  arpeggios,  then  chromatic  scales.  A  milky  vapor  hung 
tremulous  over  the  surface  of  the  waters.  The  stars  quivered. 
The  cocks  called  to  each  other  from  either  bank,  and  some- 
times in  the  depths  of  the  sky  they  heard  the  trilling  of  larks 
ascending  from  earth,  deceived  by  the  light  of  the  moon.  They 
were  silent.  Gottfried  hummed  a  tune.  Jeremy  told  strange 
talcs  of  the  lives  of  the  beasts — talcs  that  gained  in  mystery 
from  the  curt  and  enigmatic  manner  of  their  telling.  The  moon 
hid  herself  behind  the  woods.  They  skirted  the  black  mass 


MORNING  115 

of  the  hills.  The  darkness  of  the  water  and  the  sky  mingled. 
There  was  never  a  ripple  on  the  water.  Sounds  died  down. 
The  boat  glided  through  the  night.  Was  she  gliding?  Was 
she  moving?  Was  she  still?  .  .  .  The  reeds  parted  with  a 
sound  like  the  rustling  of  silk.  The  boat  grounded  noiselessly. 
They  climbed  out  on  to  the  bank,  and  returned  on  foot.  They 
would  not  return  until  dawn.  They  followed  the  river-bank. 
Clouds  of  silver  ablets,  green  as  ears  of  corn,  or  blue  as  jewels, 
teemed  in  the  first  light  of  day.  They  swarmed  like  the  ser- 
pents of  Medusa's  head,  and  flung  themselves  greedily  at  the 
bread  thrown  to  them ;  they  plunged  -for  it  as  it  sank,  and 
turned  in  spirals,  and  then  darted  away  in  a  flash,  like  a  ray 
of  light.  The  river  took  on  rosy  and  purple  hues  of  reflection. 
The  birds  woke  one  after  another.  The -truants  hurried  back. 
Just  as  carefully  as  when  they  had  set  out,  they  returned  to  the 
room,  with  its  thick  atmosphere,  and  Jean-Christophe,  worn  out, 
fell  into  bed,  and  slept  at  once,  with  his  body  sweet-smelling  with 
the  smell  of  the  fields. 

All  was  well,  and  nothing  would  have  been  known,  but  that 
one  day  Ernest,  his  younger  brother,  betrayed  Jean-Christophe's 
midnight  sallies.  From  that  moment  they  were  forbidden,  and 
he  was  watched.  But  he  contrived  to  escape,  and  he  preferred 
the  society  of  the  little  peddler  and  his  friends  to  any  other. 
His  family  was  scandalized.  Melchior  said  that  he  had  the 
tastes  of  a  laborer.  Old  Jean  Michel  was  jealous  of  Jean- 
Christophe's  affection  for  Gottfried,  and  used  to  lecture  him 
about  lowering  himself  so  far  as  to  like  such  vulgar  company 
when  he  had  the  honor  of  mixing  with  the  best  people  and  of 
being  the  servant  of  princes.  It  was  considered  that  Jean- 
Christophe  was  lacking  in  dignity  and  self-respect. 

In  spite  of  the  penury  which  increased  with  Melchior's  in- 
temperance and  folly,  life  was  tolerable  as  long  as  Jean  Michel 
was  there.  He  was  the  only  creature  who  had  any  influence 
over  Melchior,  and  who  could  hold  him  back  to  a  certain  extent 
from  his  vice.  The  esteem  in  which  he  was  generally  held  did 
serve  to  pass  over  the  drunkard's  freaks,  and  he  used  constantly 
to  come  to  the  aid  of  the  household  with  money.  Besides  the 
modest  pension  which  he  enjoyed  as  retired  Kapellmeister,  he 
was  still  able  to  earn  small  sums  by  giving  lessons  and  tuning 


116  JEAX-CHRISTOPHE 

pianos.  He  gave  most  of  it  to  his  daughter-in-law,  for  he 
perceived  her  difficulties,  though  she  strove  to  hide  them  from 
him.  Louisa  hated  the  idea  that  he  was  denying  himself  for 
them,  and  it  was  all  the  more  to  the  old  man's  credit  in  that  he 
had  always  heen  accustomed  to  a  large  way  of  living  and  had 
great  needs  to  satisfy.  Sometimes  even  his  ordinary  sacrifices 
were  not  sullicieiit,  and  to  meet  some  urgent  debt  Jean  Michel 
would  have  secretly  to  sell  a  piece  of  furniture  or  books,  or  some 
relic  that  he  set  store  by.  Melchior  knew  that  his  father  made 
presents  to  Louisa  that  were  concealed  from  himself,  and  very 
often  he  would  lay  hands  on  them,  in  spite  of  protest.  But 
when  this  came  to  the  old  man's  cars — not  from  Louisa,  who 
said  nothing  of  her  troubles  to  him,  but  from  one  of  his  grand- 
children— he  would  fi-y  into  a  terrible  passion,  and  there  were 
frightful  scenes  between  the  two  men.  They  were  both  extraor- 
dinarily violent,  and  they  would  como  to  round  caths  and 
threats — almost  it  seemed  as  though  they  would  come  to  blows. 
But  even  in  his  most  angry  passion  respect  would  hold  Melchior 
in  check,  and,  however  drunk  he  might  be,  in  the  end  he  would 
bow  his  head  to  the  torrent  of  insults  and  humiliating  reproach 
which  his  father  poured  out  upon  him.  But  for  that  he  did 
not  cease  to  watch  for  the  first  opportunity  of  breaking  out 
again,  and  with  his  thoughts  on  tha  future,  Jean  Michel  would 
be  filled  with  melancholy  and  anxious  fears. 

"  My  poor  children,"  he  used  to  say  to  Louisa,  "  what  will 
become  of  you  when  I  am  no  longer  here?  .  .  .  Fortunately," 
he  would  add,  fondling  Jean-Christophe,  "  I  can  go  on  until 
this  fellow  pulls  you  out  of  the  mire."  But  he  was  out  in  his 
reckoning;  he  was  at  the  end  of  his  road.  Xo  one  would 
have  suspected  it.  He  was  surprisingly  strong.  He  was  past 
eighty;  he  had  a  full  head  of  hair,  a  white  mane,  still  gray 
in  patches,  and  in  his  thick  beard  were  still  black  hairs.  Ho 
had  only  about  ten  teeth  left,  but  with  these  he  could  chew 
lustily.  It  was  a  pleasure  to  see  him  at  table.  He  had  a  hearty 
appetite,  and  though  he  reproached  Melchior  for  drinking,  he 
always  emptied  his  bottle  himself.  He  had  a  preference  for 
while  Moselle.  For  the  rest — wine,  beer,  cider — he  could  do 
justice  to  all  the  good  things  that  the  Lord  hath  made.  He 
was  not  so  foolish  as  to  lose  his  reason  in  his  cups,  and  he 


MORNING  117 

kept  to  his  allowance.  It  is  true  that  it  was  a  plentiful  allow- 
ance, and  that  a  feebler  intelligence  must  have  been  made  drunk 
by  it.  He  was  strong  of  foot  and  eye,  and  indefatigably  active. 
He  got  up  at  six,  and  performed  his  ablutions  scrupulously, 
for  he  cared  for  his  appearance  and  respected  his  person,  lie 
lived  alone  in  his  house,  of  which  he  was  sole  occupant,  and 
never  let  his  daughter-in-law  meddle  with  his  affairs.  He 
cleaned  out  his  room,  made  his  own  coffee,  sewed  on  his  buttons, 
nailed,  and  glued,  and  altered;  and  going  to  and  fro  and  up 
and  down  stairs  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  he  never  stopped  singing 
in  a  sounding  bass  which  he  loved  to  let  ring  out  as  he  accom- 
panied himself  with  operatic  gestures.  And  then  he  used  to 
go  out  in  all  weathers.  He  went  about  his  business,  omitting 
none,  but  he  was  not  often  punctual.  He  was  to  be  seen  at 
every  street  corner  arguing  with  some  acquaintance  or  joking 
with  some  woman  whose  face  he  had  remembered,  for  he  loved 
pretty  women  and  old  friends.  And  so  he  was  always  late, 
and  never  knew  the  time.  But  he  never  let  the  dinner-hour 
slip  by.  He  dined  wherever  he  might  be.  inviting  himself,  and 
he  would  not  go  home  until  late— after  nightfall,  after  a  visit 
to  his  grandchildren.  Then  he  would  go  to  bed,  and  before 
he  went  to  sleep  read  a  page  of  his  old  Bible,  and  during  the 
night — for  he  never  slept  for  more  than  an  hour  or  two  to- 
gether— he  would  get  up  to  take  down  one  of  his  old  books, 
bought  second-hand — history,  theology,  belles-lettres,  or  science. 
He  used  to  read  at  random  a  few  pages,  which  interested  and 
bored  him,  and  lie  did  not  rightly  understand  them,  though  he 
did  not  skip  a  word,  until  sleep  came  to  him  again.  On  Sunday 
he  would  go  to  church,  walk  with  the  children,  and  play  bowls. 
He  had  never  been  ill,  except  for  a  little  gout  in  his  toes,  which 
used  to  make  him  swear  at  night  while  he  was  reading  his 
Bible.  ]t  seemed  as  though  be  might  live  to  be  a  hundred, 
and  he  himself  could  see  no  reason  why  he  should  not  live 
longer.  When  people  said  that  he  would  die  a  centenarian,  he 
used  to  think,  like  another  illustrious;  old  man.  that  no  limit 
can  be  appointed  to  the  goodness  of  Providence.  The  only  sign 
that  he  was  growing  old  was  that  he  was  more  easily  brought 
to  tears,  and  was  becoming  every  (lav  more  irritable.  The 
smallest  impatience  with  him  could  throw  him  into  a  violent 


118  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

fury.  His  red  face  and  short  neck  would  grow  redder  than 
ever.  lie  would  stutter  angrily,  and  have  to  stop,  choking. 
The  family  doctor,  an  old  friend,  had  warned  him  to  take  care 
and  to  moderate  both  his  anger  and  his  appetite.  But  with 
an  old  man's  obstinacy  he  plunged  into  acts  of  still  greater 
recklessness  out  of  bravado,  and  he  laughed  at  medicine  and 
doctors.  He  pretended  to  despise  death,  and  did  not  mince 
his  language  when  he  declared  that  he  was  not  afraid  of  it. 

One  summer  day,  when  it  was  very  hot,  and  he  had  drunk 
copiously,  and  argued  in  the  market-place,  he  went  home  and 
began  to  work  quietly  in  his  garden.  He  loved  digging.  Bare- 
headed under  the  sun,  still  irritated  by  his  argument,  he  dug 
angrily.  Jean-Christophe  \vas  sitting  in  the  arbor  with  a  book 
in  his  hand,  but  ho  was  not  reading.  He  was  dreaming  and 
listening  to  the  cheeping  of  the  crickets,  and  mechanically  fol- 
lowing his  grandfather's  movements.  The  old  man's  back  was 
towards  him;  he  was  bending  and  plucking  out  weeds.  Sud- 
denly Jean-Christophe  saw  him  rise,  beat  against  the  air  with 
his  arms,  .and  fall  heavily  with  his  face  to  the  ground.  For 
a  moment  he  wanted  to  laugh ;  then  he  saw  that  the  old  man 
did  not  stir.  He  called  to  him,  ran  to  him,  and  shook  him 
with  all  his  strength.  Fear  seized  him.  lie  knelt,  and  with 
his  two  hands  tried  to  raise  the  great  head  from  the  ground. 
It  was  so  heavy  and  he  trembled  so  that  he  could  hardly  move 
it.  But  when  he  saw  the  eyes  turned  up,  white  and  bloody, 
he  was  frozen  with  horror  and,  with  a  shrill  cry.  let  the  head 
fall.  He  got  up  in  terror,  ran  away  and  out  of  the  place. 
He  cried  and  wept.  A  man  passing  by  stopped  the  boy.  Jean- 
Christophe  could  not  speak,  but  he  pointed  to  the  house. 
The  man  went  in,  and  Jean-Christophe  followed  him.  Others 
had  heard  his  cries,  and  they  came  from  the  neighboring  houses. 
Soon  the  garden  was  full  of  people.  They  trampled  the  llowers, 
and  bent  down  over  the  old  man.  They  cried  aloud.  Two 
or  three  men  lifted  him  up.  Jean-Christophe  stayed  by  the 
gate,  turned  to  the  wall,  and  bid  his  face  in  his  hands.  He 
was  afraid  to  look,  but  be  could  not  help  himself,  and  when 
they  passed  him  he  saw  through  his  fingers  the  old  man's  huge 
body,  limp  and  flabby.  One  arm  dragged  along  the  ground, 
the  head,  leaning  against  the  knee  of  one  of  the  men  carrying 


MORNING  119 

the  body,  bobbed  at  every  step,  and  the  face  was  scarred,  covered 
with  mud,  bleeding.  The  mouth  was  open  and  the  eyes  were 
fearful.  He  howled  again,  and  took  to  flight.  He  ran  as 
though  something  were  after  him,  and  never  stopped  until  he 
reached  home.  He  burst  into  the  kitchen  with  frightful  cries. 
Louisa  was  cleaning  vegetables.  He  hurled  himself  at  her, 
and  hugged  her  desperately,  imploring  her  help.  His  face  was 
distorted  with  his  sobs;  he  could  hardly  speak.  But  at  the 
first  word  she  understood.  She  went  white,  let  the  things  fall 
from  her  hands,  and  without  a  word  rushed  from  the  house. 

Jean-Christophe  was  left  alone,  crouching  against  a  cupboard. 
He  went  on  weeping.  His  brothers  were  playing.  He  could 
not  make  out  quite  what  had  happened.  He  did  not  think 
of  his  grandfather;  he  was  thinking  only  of  the  dreadful  sights 
he  had  just  seen,  and  he  was  in  terror  lest  he  should  be  made 
to  return  to  see  them  again. 

xVnd  as  it  turned  out  in  the  evening,  when  the  other  children, 
tired  of  doing  every  sort  of  mischief  in  the  house,  were  begin- 
ning to  feel  wearied  and  hungry,  Louisa  rushed  in  again,  took 
them  by  the  hand,  and  led  them  to  their  grandfather's  house. 
She  walked  very  fast,  and  Ernest  and  "Rodolphe  tried  to  com- 
plain, as  usual;  but  Louisa  hade  them  be  silent  in  such  a  tone 
of  voice  that  they  held  their  peace.  An  instinctive  fear  seixed 
them,  and  when  they  entered  the  house  they  began  to  weep. 
It  was  not  yet  night.  The  last  hours  of  the-  sunset  cast  strange 
lights  over  the  inside  of  the  house — on  the  door-handle,  on 
the  mirror,  on  the  violin  hung  on  the  wall  in  the  chief  room, 
which  was  half  in  darkness.  Hut  in  the  old  man's  room  a  candle 
was  alight,  and  the  flickering  flame,  vying  with  the  livid,  dying 
day,  made  the  heavy  darkness  of  the  room  more  oppressive. 
Melchior  was  sitting  near  the  window,  loudlv  weeping.  The 
doctor,  leaning  over  the  bed,  hid  from  sight  what  was  Iving 
there.  Jean-Christ ophe's  heart  beat  so  that  it  was  like  to  break. 
Louisa  made  the  children  kneel  at  the  foot  of  the  bed.  Jean- 
Christophe  stole  a  glance.  He  expected  something  so  terrifving 
after  what  he  had  seen  in  the  afternoon  that  at  the  lirst  glimpse 
he  was  almost'  comforted.  His  grandfather  lay  motionless, 
and  seemed  to  be  asleep.  For  a  moment  the  child  believed  that 
the  old  man  was  better,  and  that  all  was  at  an  end.  Hut  when 


120  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

he  heard  his  heavy  breathing;  when,  as  lie  looked  closer,  he 
saw  the  swollen  face,  on  which  the  wound  that  he  had  come 
by  in  the  fall  had  made  a  broad  scar;  when  he  understood  that 
here  was  a  man  at  point  of  death,  he  began  to  tremble;  and 
while  he  repeated  Louisa's  prayer  for  the  restoration  of  his 
grandfather,  in  his  heart  he  prayed  that  if  the  old  man  could 
not  get  well  he  might  be  already  dead.  He  was  terrified  at  the 
prospect  of  what  was  going  to  happen. 

The  old  man  had  not  been  conscious  since  the  moment  of 
his  fall.  He  only  returned  to  consciousness  for  a  moment, 
enough  to  learn  his  condition,  and  that  was  lamentable.  The 
priest  was  there,  and  recited  the  last  prayers  over  him.  They 
raised  the  old  man  on  his  pillow.  He  opened  his  eyes  slowly, 
and  they  seemed  no  longer  to  obey  his  will.  He  breathed  noisily, 
and  with  unseeing  eyes  looked  at  the  faces  and  the  lights,  and 
suddenly  he  opened  his  mouth.  A  nameless  terror  showed  on 
his  features. 

"But  then  .  .  ."  he  gasped — "but  I  am  going  to  die!" 

The  awful  sound  of  his  voice  pierced  Jean-Christophe's  heart. 
Never,  never  was  it  to  fade  from  his  memory.  The  old  man 
said  no  more.  He  moaned  like  a  little  child.  The  stupor  took 
him  once  more,  but  his  breathing  became  more  and  more  diffi- 
cult. He  groaned,  he  fidgeted  with  his  hands,  lie  seemed  to 
struggle  against  the  mortal  sleep.  In  his  semi-consciousness  he 
cried  once : 

"  Mother ! " 

Oh,  the  biting  impression  that  it  made,  this  mumbling  of 
the  old  man,  calling  in  anguish  on  his  mother,  as  Jean-Chris- 
tophe  would  himself  have  done — his  mother,  of  whom  he  was 
never  known  to  talk  in  life,  to  whom  he  now  turned  instinc- 
tively, the  last  futile  refuge  in  the  last  terror !  .  .  .  Then  he 
seemed  to  be  comforted  for  a  moment.  He  had  once  more  a 
flicker  of  consciousness.  His  heavy  eyes,  the  pupils  of  which 
seemed  to  move  aimlessly,  met  those  of  the  boy  frozen  in  his 
fear.  They  lit  up.  The  old  man  tried  to  smile  and  speak. 
Louisa  took  Jean-Christophe  and  led  him  to  the  bedside.  Jean 
Michel  moved  his  lips,  and  tried  to  caress  his'  head  with  his 
hand,  but  then  he  fell  back  into  his  torpor.  It  was  the  end. 

They  sent  the  children  into  the  next  room,  but  they  had  too 


MORNING  121 

much  to  do  to  worry  about  them,  and  Jean-Christophe,  under 
the  attraction  of  the  horror  of  it,  peeped  through  the  half-open 
door  at  the  tragic  face  on  the  pillow;  the  man  strangled  by 
the  firm  clutch  that  had  him  by  the  neck ;  the  face  which  grew 
ever  more  hollow  as  he  watched ;  the  sinking  of  the  creature 
into  the  void,  which  seemed  to  suck  it  down  like  a  pump ;  and 
the  horrible  death-rattle,  the  mechanical  breathing,  like  a  bubble 
of  air  bursting  on  the  surface  of  waters;  the  last  efforts  of  the 
body,  which  strives  to  live  when  the  soul  is  no  longer.  Then 
the  head  fell  on  one  side  on  the  pillow.  All,  all  was  silence. 

A  few  moments  later,  in  the  midst  of  the  sobs  and  prayers 
and  the  confusion  caused  by  the  death,  Louisa  saw  the  child, 
pale,  wide-eyed,  with  gaping  mouth,  clutching  convulsively  at 
the  handle  of  the  door.  She  ran  to  him.  He  had  a  seizure 
in  her  arms.  She  carried  him  away.  He  lost  consciousness. 
He  woke  up  to  find  himself  in  his  bed.  He  howled  in  terror, 
because  he  had  been  left  alone  for  a  moment,  had  another 
seizure,  and  fainted  again.  For  the  rest  of  the  night  and  the 
next  day  he  was  in  a  fever.  Finally,  he  grew  calm,  and  on  the 
next  night  fell  into  a  deep  sleep,  which  lasted  until  the  middle 
of  the  following  day.  He  felt  that  some  one  was  walking  in 
his  room,  that  his  mother  was  leaning  over  his  bed  and  kissing 
him.  He  thought  he  heard  the  sweet  distant  sound  of  bells. 
But  he  would  not  stir;  he  was  in  a  dream. 

When  he  opened  his  eyes  again  his  Uncle  Gottfried  was  sit- 
ting at  the  foot  of  his  bed.  Jean-Christophe  was  worn  out, 
and  could  remember  nothing.  Then  his  memory  returned,  and 
he  began  to  weep.  Gottfried  got  up  and  kissed  him. 

"  Well,  my  boy — well  ?  "  he  said  gently. 

"  Oh,  uncle,  uncle !  "  sobbed  the  boy,  clinging  to  him. 

"  Cry,  then  .  .  ."  said  Gottfried.    "  Cry  !  " 

He  also  was  wreeping. 

When  he  was  a  little  comforted  Jean-Christophe  dried  his 
eyes  and  looked  at  Gottfried.  Gottfried  understood  that  he 
wanted  to  ask  something. 

"  No."  he  said,  putting  a  finger  to  his  lips,  tc  you  must  not 
talk.  It  is  good  to  cry,  bad  to  talk." 

The  boy  insisted. 

"  It  is  no  good." 


122  JEAX-CIIRISTOFIIE 

"  Only  one  thing — only  one !  .  .  ." 
"What?" 

Jean-Christoplio  hesitated. 

"Oh,  uncle!'"  he  asked,  "where  is  he  now?" 

Gottfried  answered : 

"  He  is  with  the  Lord,  my  boy." 

But  that  was  not  what  Jean-Christophe  had  asked. 

"Xo;  you  do  not  understand.     Where  is  he — he  himself?" 

(He  meant  the  body.) 

He  went  on  in  a  trembling  voice : 

"Is  lie  still  in  the  house?" 

"  They  buried  the  good  man  this  morning,"  said  Gottfried. 
"Did  you  not  hear  the  bells?" 

Jean-Christophe  was  comforted.  Then,  when  he  thought  that 
he  would  never  see  his  beloved  grandfather  again,  he  wept  once 
more  bitterly. 

"Poor  little  beast!"  said  Gottfried,  looking  pityingly  at  the 
child. 

Jean-Christophe  expected  Gottfried  to  console  him,  but  Gott- 
fried made  no  attempt  to  do  so,  knowing  that  it  was  useless. 

"Uncle  Gottfried,"  asked  the  boy,  "are  not  you  afraid  of  it, 
too  ?  " 

(Much  did  he  wish  that  Gottfried  should  not  have  been  afraid, 
and  would  tell  him  the  secret  of  it!) 

"  'Ssh !  "  he  said,  in  a  troubled  voice.  .  .  . 

"And  how  is  one  not  to  be  afraid?  "  he  said,  after  a  moment. 
"But  what  can  one  do?  It  is  so.  One  must  put  up  with 
it." 

Jean-Christophe  shook  his  head  in  protest. 

"  One  has  to  put  up  with  it,  my  boy,"  said  Gottfried.  "  lie 
ordered  it  up  yonder.  One  has  to  love  what  lie-  has  ordered." 

"I  hate  Him!"  said  Jean-Christophe,  angrily  shaking  his 
fist  at  the  sky. 

Gottfried  fearfully  bade  him  be  silent.  Jean-Christophe  him- 
self was  afraid  of  what  he  had  just  said,  and  he  began  to  pray 
with  Gottfried.  But  blood  boiled,  and  as  he  repeated  the  words 
of  servile  humility  and  resignation  there  was  in  his  inmost 
heart  a  feeling  of  passionate  revolt  and  horror  of  the  abominable 
thing  and  the  monstrous  Beini:  who  had  been  able  to  create  it. 


MORNIXtt  123 

Days  passed  and  nights  of  rain  over  the  freshly-turned  earth 
under  which  lay  the  remains  of  poor  old  Jean  Michel.  At 
the  moment  Melchior  wept  and  cried  and  sobbed  much,  but 
the  week  was  not  out  before  Jean-Christophe  heard  him  laugh- 
ing heartily.  When  the  name  of  the  dead  man  was  pronounced 
in  his  presence,  his  face  grew  longer  and  a  lugubrious  ex- 
pression came  into  it,  but  in  a  moment  he  would  begin  to  talk 
and  gesticulate  excitedly.  He  was  sincerely  aillicted,  but  it  was 
impossible  for  him  to  remain  sad  for  long. 

Louisa,  passive  and  resigned,  accepted  the  misfortune  as  she 
accepted  everything.  She  added  a  prayer  to  her  daily  prayers; 
she  went  regularly  to  the  cemetery,  and  cared  for  the  grass 
as  if  it  were  part  of  her  household. 

Gottfried  paid  touching  attention  to  the  little  patch  of  ground 
where  the  old  man  slept.  When  he  came  to  the  neighborhood, 
he  brought  a  little  souvenir — a  cross  that  he  had  made,  or 
flowers  that  Jean  Michel  had  loved.  He  never  missed,  even 
if  he  were  only  in  the  town  for  a  few  hours,  and  he  did  it  by 
stealth. 

Sometimes  Louisa  took  Jean-Christophe  with  her  on  her  visits 
to  the  cemetery.  Jean-Christophe  revolted  in  disgust  against 
the  fat  patch  of  earth  clad  in  its  sinister  adornment  of  flowers 
and  trees,  and  against  the  heavy  scent  which  mounts  to  the  sun. 
mingling  with  the  breath  of  the  .sonorous  cypress.  Hut  he  dared 
not  confess  his  disgust,  because  he  condemned  it  in  himself  as 
cowardly  and  impious.  lie  was  very  unhappy.  His  grand- 
father's death  haunted  him  incessantly,  and  yet  he  had  long 
known  what  death  was,  and  had  thought  about  it  and  been 
afraid  of  it.  But  he  had  never  before  seen  it.  and  he  who 
sees  it  for  the  first  time  learns  that  he  knew  nothing,  neither 
of  death  nor  of  life.  One  moment  brings  everything  loitering. 
Keason  is  of  no  avail.  You  thought  you  were  alive,  you  thought 
you  had  some  experience  of  life:  you  see  then  that  you  knew 
nothing,  that  you  have  been  living  in  a  veil  of  illusions  spun 
by  your  own  mind  to  hide  from  your  eyes  the  awful  counte- 
nance of  reality.  There  is  no  connection  between  the  idea  of 
suffering  and  the  creature  who  bleeds  and  sull'ers.  There  is 
no  connection  between  the  idea  of  death  and  the  convulsions 
of  body  and  soul  in  combat  and  in  death.  Human  language. 


124  JEAN-CHBISTOPHE 

human  wisdom,  are  only  a  puppet-show  of  stiff  mechanical  dolls 
by  the  side  of  the  grim  charm  of  reality  and  the  creatures  of 
mind  and  blood,  whose  desperate  and  vain  efforts  are  strained 
to  the  fixing  of  a  life  which  crumbles  away  with  every  day. 

Jean-Christophe  thought  of  death  day  and  night.  Memories 
of  the  last  agony  pursued  him.  He  heard  that  horrible  breath- 
ing; ever}"  night,  whatever  he  might  be  doing,  he  saw  his  grand- 
father again.  All  Nature  was  changed;  it  seemed  as  though 
there  were  an  icy  vapor  drawn  over  her.  Round  him,  every- 
where, whichever  way  he  turned,  he  felt  upon  his  face  the  fatal 
breathing  of  the  blind,  all-powerful  Beast;  he  felt  himself  in 
the  grip  of  that  fearful  destructive  Form,  and  he  felt  that 
there  was  nothing  to  be  done.  But.  far  from  crushing  him, 
the  thought  of  it  set  him  aflame  with  hate  and  indignation. 
He  was  never  resigned  to  it.  He  butted  head  down  against 
the  impossible;  it  mattered  nothing  that  he  broke  his  head, 
and  was  forced  to  realize  that  he  was  not  the  stronger.  He 
never  ceased  to  revolt  against  suffering.  From  that  time  on 
his  life  wras  an  unceasing  struggle  against  the  savagery  of  a 
Fate  which  he  could  not  admit. 

The  very  misery  of  his  life  afforded  him  relief  from  the 
obsession  of  his  thoughts.  The  ruin  of  his  family,  which  only 
Jean  Michel  had  withheld,  proceeded  apace  when  he  was  re- 
moved. With  him  the  Kraifts  had  lost  their  chief  means  of 
support,  and  misery  entered  the  house. 

Melchior  increased  it.  Far  from  working  more,  he  abandoned 
himself  utterly  to  his  vice  when  he  was  free  of  the  only  force 
that  had  held  him  in  check.  Almost  every  night  he  returned 
home  drunk,  and  he  never  brought  back  his  earnings.  Besides, 
he  had  lost  almost  all  his  lessons.  One  day  he  had  appeared 
at  the  house  of  one  of  his  pupils  in  a  state  of  complete  in- 
toxication, and,  as  a  consequence  of  this  scandal,  all  doors  were 
closed  to  him.  He  was  only  tolerated  in  the  orchestra  out  of 
regard  for  the  memory  of  his  father,  but  Louisa  trembled  lest 
he  should  be  dismissed  any  day  after  a  scene.  He  had  already 
been  threatened  with  it  on  several  evenings  when  he  had  turned 
up  in  his  place  about  the  end  of  the  performance. 

Twice  or  thrice  he  had  forgotten  altogether  to  put  in  an 
appearance.  And  of  what  was  lie  not  capable  in  those  moments 


MORNING  1-35 

of  stupid  excitement  when  he  was  taken  with  the  itch  to  do 
and  say  idiotic  things!  Had  he  not  taken  it  into  his  head 
one  evening  to  try  and  play  his  great  violin  concerto  in  the 
middle  of  an  act  of  the  Valkyrie?  They  were  hard  put  to  it 
to  stop  him.  Sometimes,  too,  lie  would  shout  with  laughter 
in  the  middle  of  a  performance  at  the  amusing  pictures  that 
were  presented  on  the  stage  or  whirling  in  his  own  brain.  He 
was  a  joy  to  his  colleagues,  and  they  passed  over  many  things 
because  he  was  so  funny.  But  such  indulgence  was  worse  than 
severit}',  and  Jean-Christophe  could  have  died  for  shame. 

The  boy  was  now  first  violin  in  the  orchestra.  He  sat  so 
that  he  could  watch  over  his  father,  and,  when  necessary,  be- 
seech him,  and  make  him  be  silent.  It  was  not  easy,  and  the 
best  thing  was  not  to  pay  any  attention  to  him,  for  if  he  did, 
as  soon  as  the  sot  felt  that  eyes  were  upon  him,  he  would  take 
to  making  faces  or  launch  out  into  a  speech.  Then  Jean- 
Christophe  would  turn  away,  trembling  with  fear  lest  he  should 
commit  some  outrageous  prank.  He  would  try  to  be  absorbed 
in  his  work,  but  he  could  not  help  hearing  Melchior's  utter- 
ances and  the  laughter  of  his  colleagues.  Tears  would  come  into 
his  eyes.  The  musicians,  good  fellows  that  they  were,  had  seen 
that,  and  were  sorry  for  him.  They  would  hush  their  laughter, 
and  only  talk  about  his  father  when  Jean-Christophe  was  not 
by.  But  Jean-Christophe  was  conscious  of  their  pity.  He 
knew  that  as  soon  as  he  had  gone  their  jokes  would  break  out 
again,  and  that  Melchior  was  the  laughing-stock  of  the  town. 
He  could  not  stop  him,  and  he  was  in  torment.  He  used  to 
bring  his  father  home  after  the  play.  He  would  take  his  arm, 
put  up  with  his  pleasantries,  and  try  to  conceal  the  stumbling 
in  his  walk.  But  he  deceived  no  one,  and  in  spite  of  all  his 
efforts  it  was  very  rarely  that  he  could  succeed  in  leading  Mel- 
chior all  the  way  home.  At  the  corner  of  the  street  Melchior 
would  declare  that  he  had  an  urgent  appointment  with  some 
friends,  and  no  argument  could  dissuade  him  from  keeping 
this  engagement.  Jean-Christophe  took  care  not  to  insist  too 
much,  so  as  not  to  expose  himself  to  a  scene  and  paternal 
imprecations  which  might  attract  the  neighbors  to  their  windows. 

All  the  household  money  slipped  a\vav  in  this  fashion.  Mel- 
chior was  not  satisiied  with  drinking  away  his  earnings;  he 


126  JEAX-CHRISTOPHE 

drank  away  all  that  his  wife  and  son  so  hardly  earned.  Louisa 
used  to  weep,  hut  she  dared  not  resist,  since  her  hushand  had 
harshly  reminded  her  that  nothing  in  the  house  belonged  to 
her,  and  that  he  had  married  her  without  a  sou.  Jean-Chris- 
tophe  tried  to  resist.  Melchior  boxed  his  ears,  treated  him 
like  a  naughty  child,  and  took  the  money  out  of  his  hands. 
The  boy  was  twelve  or  thirteen.  lie  was  strong,  and  was 
beginning  10  kick  against  being  beaten;  but  he  was  still  afraid 
to  rebel,  and  rather  than  expose  himself  to  fresh  humiliations 
of  the  kind  he  let  himself  be  plundered.  The  only  resource  that 
Louisa  and  Jean-Christophe  had  was  to  hide  their  money ;  but 
Melehior  was  singularly  ingenious  in  discovering  their  hiding- 
places  when  they  were  not  there. 

Soon  that  was  not  enough  for  him.  lie  sold  the  things  that 
he  had  inherited  from  his  father.  Jean-Christophe  sadly  saw 
the  precious  relics  go — the  books,  .the  bed,  the  furniture,  the 
portraits  of  musicians.  He  could  say  nothing.  But  one  day, 
when  Melehior  had  crashed  into  Jean  Michel's  old  piano,  he 
swore  as  he  rubbed  his  knee,  and  said  that  there  was  no  longer 
room  to  move  about  in  his  own  house,  and  that  he  would  rid 
the  house  of  all  such  gimcrackery.  Jean-Christophe  cried  aloud. 
It  was  true  that  the  rooms  were  too  full,  since  all  Jean  Michel's 
belongings  were  crowded  into  them,  so  as  to  be  able  to  sell 
the  house,  that  dear  house  in  which  Jean-Christophe  had  spent 
the  happiest  hours  of  his  childhood.  It  was  true  also  that  the 
old  piano  was  not  worth  much,  that  it  was  husky  in  tone,  and 
that  for  a  long  time  Jean-Christophe  had  not  used  it,  since 
he  played  on  the  line  new  piano  due  to  the  generosity  of  the 
Prince;  but  however  old  and  useless  it  might  be,  it  was  Jean- 
Christophe's  best  friend.  Jt  had  awakened  the  child  to  the 
boundless  world  of  music;  on  its  worn  vellow  keys  he  had 
discovered  \\ith  his  fingers  the  kingdom  of  sounds  and  its  laws; 
it  had  been  his  grandfather's  work  (months  had  gone  to  repair- 
ing it  for  his  grandson),  and  he  was  proud  of  it;  it  was  in 
some!  sort  a  holy  relic,  and  Jean-Chriftophe  protested  that  his 
father  had  no  right  to  sell  it.  Melchior  bade  him  be  silent. 
Jean-Christophe  cried  louder  than  ever  that  the  piano  was  his, 
and  that  he  forbade  any  one  to  touch  it:  but  Melchior  looked 
at  him  with  an  evil  smile,  and  said  nothing. 


MORNING  127 

Next  day  Jean-Christophe  had  forgotten  the  affair.  He  came 
home  tired,  but  in  a  fairly  good  temper.  He  was  struck  by 
the  sly  looks  of  his  brothers.  They  pretended  to  be  absorbed 
in  their  books,  but  they  followed  him  with  their  eyes,  and 
watched  all  his  movements,  and  bent  over  their  books  again 
when  he  looked  at  them.  He  had  no  doubt  that  they  had  played 
some  trick  upon  him,  but  he  was  used  to  that,  and  did  not 
worry  about  it,  but  determined,  when  he  had  found  it  out,  to 
give  them  a  good  thrashing,  as  he  always  did  on  such  occasions. 
He  scorned  to  look  into  the  matter,  and  he  began  to  talk  to  his 
father,  who  was  sitting  by  the  fire,  and  questioned  him  as  to 
the  doings  of  the  day  with  an  affectation  of  interest  which  suited 
him  but  ill;  and  while  lie  talked  he  saw  that  Melchior  was 
exchanging  stealthy  nods  and  winks  with  the  two  children. 
Something  caught  at  his  heart.  He  ran  into  his  room.  The 
place  where  the  piano  had  stood  was  empty!  He  gave  a  cry 
of  anguish.  In  the  next  room  lie  heard  the  stifled  laughter  of 
his  brothers.  The  blood  rushed  to  his  face.  He  rushed  in  to 
them,  and  cried : 

"  My  piano !  " 

Melchior  raised  his  head  with  an  air  of  calm  bewilderment 
which  made  the  children  roar  with  laughter.  He  could  not 
contain  himself  when  he  saw  Jean-Christophe's  piteous  look, 
and  he  turned  aside  to  guffaw.  Jean-Christophe  no  longer 
knew  what  he  was  doing.  He  hurled  himself  like  a  mad  thing 
on  his  father.  Melchior,  lolling  in  his  chair,  had  no  time  to 
protect  himself.  The  boy  seixed  him  bv  the  throat  and  cried: 

"'Thief!     Thief!" 

It  was  only  for  a  moment.  Melchior  shook  himself,  and  sent 
Jean-Christophe  rolling  down  on  to  the  tile  floor,  though  in 
his  fury  he  was  clinging  to  him  like  grim  death.  The  hoy's 
head  crashed  against  the  tiles.  Jean-Christophe  got  upon  his 
knees.  He  was  livid,  and  he  went  on  saying  in  a  choking 
voice : 

"Thief,  thief!  .  .  .  You  are  robbing  us— nuii'hcr  and  me. 
.  .  .  Thief!  .  .  .  You  are  selling  mv  grandfather!"' 

Melchior  rose  to  his  feet,  and  held  his  list  above  .Ican-Chris- 
tophe's  head.  The  hov  stared  at  him  with  hate  in  his  eves. 
He  was  trembling  with  rage.  Melchior  be^an  to  tremble,  too. 


128  JEAX-CHRISTOPIIE 

He  sat  down,  and  hid  his  face  in  his  hands.  The  two  children 
had  run  away  screaming.  Silence  followed  the  uproar.  Mel- 
chior  groaned  and  mumbled.  Jean-Christophe,  against  the  wall, 
never  ceased  glaring  at  him  with  clenched  teeth,  and  he  trembled 
in  every  limb.  Melchior  began  to  blame  himself. 

"  I  am  a  thief  !  I  rob  my  family  !  My  children  despise  me ! 
It  were  better  if  I  were  dead !  " 

When  he  had  finished  whining,  Jean-Christophe  did  not 
budge,  but  asked  him  harshly: 

"  Where  is  the  piano  ?  " 

"  At  Wormser's,"  said  Melchior,  not  daring  to  look  at  him. 

Jean-Christophe  took  a  step  forward,  and  said: 

"  The  money !  " 

Melchior,  crushed,  took  the  money  from  his  pocket  and  gave 
it  to  his  son.  Jean-Christophe  turned  towards  the  door.  Mel- 
chior called  him : 

"  Jean-Christophe ! " 

Jean-Christophe  stopped.  Melchior  went  on  in  a  quavering 
voice : 

"  Dear  Jean-Christophe  ...  do  not  despise  me !  " 

Jean-Christophe  flung  his  arms  round  his  neck  and  sobbed : 

"  No,  father — dear  father !  I  do  not  despise  you !  I  am  so 
unhappy ! " 

They  wept  loudly.     Melchior  lamented : 

"  It  is  not  my  fault.  I  am  not  bad.  That's  true,  Jean- 
Christophe  ?  I  am  not  bad  ?  " 

He  promised  that  he  would  drink  no  more.  Jean-Christophe 
wagged  his  head  doubtfully,  and  Melchior  admitted  that  lie 
could  not  resist  it  when  he  had  money  in  his  hands.  Jean- 
Christophe  thought  for  a  moment  and  said: 

"  You  see,  father,  we  must  .  .  ." 

He  stopped. 

"  What  then  ?  " 

"  I  am  ashamed  .  .  ." 

"  Of  whom  ?  "  asked  Melchior  naively 

"  Of  you." 

Melchior  made  a  face  and  said : 

"That's  nothing." 

Jean-Christophe  explained  that  they  would  have  to  put  all 


MORNING  129 

the  family  money,  even  Melchior's  contribution,  into  the  hands 
of  some  one  else,  who  would  dole  it  out  to  Melchior  day  by 
day,  or  week  by  week,  as  he  needed  it.  Melchior,  who  was 
in  humble  mood — he  was  not  altogether  starving — agreed  to 
the  proposition,  and  declared  that  he  would  then  and  there 
write  a  letter  to  the  Grand  Duke  to  ask  that  the  pension  which 
came  to  him  should  be  regularly  paid  over  in  his  name  to  Jean- 
Christophe.  Jean-Christophe  refused,  blushing  for  his  father's 
humiliation.  But  Melchior,  thirsting  for  self-sacrifice,  insisted 
on  writing.  He  was  much  moved  by  his  own  magnanimity. 
Jean-Christophe  refused  to  take  the  letter,  and  when  Louisa 
came  in  and  was  acquainted  with  the  turn  of  events,  she  declared 
that  she  would  rather  beg  in  the  streets  than  expose  her  hus- 
band to  such  an  insult.  She  added  that  she  had  every  confidence 
in  him,  and  that  she  was  sure  he  would  make  amends  out  of 
love  for  the  children  and  herself.  In  the  end  there  was  a 
scene  of  tender  reconciliation  and  Melchior's  letter  was  left  on 
the  table,  and  then  fell  under  the  cupboard,  where  it  remained 
concealed. 

But  a  few  days  later,  when  she  was  cleaning  up,  Louisa 
found  it  there,  and  as  she  was  very  unhappy  about  Melchior's 
fresh  outbreaks — he  had  forgotten  all  about  it — instead  of  tear- 
ing it  up,  she  kept  it.  She  kept  it  for  several  months,  always 
rejecting  the  idea  of  making  use  of  it,  in  spite  of  the  suffering 
she  had  to  endure.  But  one  day,  when  she  saw  Melchior  once 
more  beating  Jean-Christophe  and  robbing  him  of  his  money, 
she  could  bear  it  no  longer,  and  when  she  was  left  alone  with 
the  boy,  who  was  weeping,  she  went  and  fetched  the  letter,  and 
gave  it  him,  and  said: 

"Go!" 

Jean-Christophe  hesitated,  but  he  understood  that  there  was 
no  other  way  if  they  wished  to  save  from  the  wreck  the  little 
that  was  left  to  them.  He  went  to  the  Palace.  lie  took  nearly 
an  hour  to  walk  a  distance  that  ordinarily  took  twenty  minutes. 
He  was  overwhelmed  by  the  shame  of  what  he  was  doing.  His 
pride,  which  had  grown  great  in  the  years  of  sorrow  and  isola- 
tion, hied  at  the  thought  of  publicly  confessing  his  father's 
vice.  lie  knew  perfectly  well  that  it  was  known  to  everybody, 
but  by  a  strange  and  natural  inconsequence  he  would  not  admit 


130  JEAN-CH1USTOPHE 

it,  and  pretended  to  notice  nothing,  and  he  would  rather  have 
been  hewn  in  piece.-  than  agree.  And  now,  of  his  own  accord, 
he  was  going!  .  .  .  Twenty  times  he  was  on  the  point  of  turn- 
ing back,  lie  walked  two  or  three  times  round  the  town,  turn- 
ing away  just  as  he  came  near  the  Palace,  lie  was  not  alone 
in  his  plight.  His  mother  and  brothers  had  also  to  be  con- 
sidered. Since  his  father  had  deserted  them  and  betrayed  them, 
it  was  his  business  as  eldest  son  to  take  his  place  and  come  to 
their  assistance.  There  was  no  room  for  hesitation  or  pride; 
he  had  to  swallow  down  his  shame.  He  entered  the  Palace. 
On  the  staircase  he  almost  turned  and  lied.  He  knelt  down  on 
a  step;  he  stayed  for  several  minutes  on  the  landing,  with  his 
hand  on  the  door,  until  some  one  coming  made  him  go  in. 

Every  one  in  the  offices  knew  him.  He  asked  to  see  His 
Excellency  the  Director  of  the  Theaters,  .Baron  de  Hammer 
Langbach.  A  young  clerk,  sleek,  bald,  pink-faced,  with  a  white 
waistcoat  and  a  pink  tie,  shook  his  hand  familiarly,  and  began 
to  talk  about  the  opera  of  the  night  before.  Jean-Christophe 
repeated  his  question.  The  clerk  replied  that  His  Excellency 
was  busy  for  the  moment,  but  that  if  Jean-Christophe  had  a 
request  to  make  they  could  present  it  with  other  documents 
which  were  to  be  sent  in  for  His  Excellency's  signature.  Jean- 
Christophe  held  out  his  letter.  The  clerk  read  it,  and  gave 
a  cry  of  surprise. 

"'Oh,  indeed!''  he  said  brightly.  "That  is  a  good  idea.  He 
ought  to  have  thought  of  that  long  ago!  He  never  did  any- 
thing better  in  his  life!  Ah,  the  old  sot!  How  the  devil  did 
he  bring  himself  to  do  it?" 

He  stopped  short.  Jean-Christophe  had  snatched  the  paper 
out  of  bis  hands,  and.  white  with  rage,  shouted: 

"I  forbid  you!   ...   I  forbid  you  to  insult  me!" 

The  clerk  was  staggered. 

"  But,  my  dear  Jean-Christophe,"  he  began  to  say.  "  whoever 
thought  of  insulting  you?  I  only  said  what  everybody  thinks, 
and  what  you  think  yourself." 

"  Xo  !  "  cried  Jean-Christophe  angrily. 

"'What!  you  don't  think  so?  You  don't  think  that  he 
drinks?  " 

"It  is  not  true!''  said  Jean-Christophe. 


MORNING  131 

He  stamped  his  foot. 

The  clerk  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"In  that  case,  why  did  he  write  this  letter?" 

"Because,"  said  Jean-Christophe  (he  did  not  know  what  to 
say) — "because,  when  1  come  for  my  wages  every  month.  I 
prefer  to  take  my  fathers  at  the  same  time.  It  is  no  good 
our  both  putting  ourselves  out.  .  .  .  My  father  is  very  busy." 

He  reddened  at  the  absurdity  of  his  explanation.  The  clerk 
looked  at  him  with  pity  and  irony  in  his  eyes.  Jean-Christophe 
crumpled  the  paper  in  his  hands,  and  turned  to  go.  The  clerk 
got  up  and  took  him  by  the  arm. 

"  Wait  a  moment,"  he  said.     "  Fll  go  and  fix  it  up  for  you." 

He  went  into  the  Director's  office.  Jean-Christophe  waited, 
with  the  eyes  of  the  other  clerks  upon  him.  His  blood  boiled. 
He  did  not  know  what  he  was  doing,  what  to  do,  or  what  he 
ought  to  do.  He  thought  of  going  away  before  the  answer  was 
brought  to  him,  and  he  had  just  made  up  his  mind  to  that  when 
the  door  opened. 

"  His  Excellency  will  see  you,"  said  the  too  obliging  clerk. 

Jean-Christophe  had  to  go  in. 

His  Excellency  Baron  de  Hammer  Langbach,  a  little  neat  old 
man  with  whiskers,  mustaches,  and  a  shaven  chin,  looked  at 
Jean-Christophe  over  his  golden  spectacles  without  stopping 
writing,  nor  did  he  give  any  response  to  the  boy's  awkward  bow. 

"So,"  he  said,  after  a  moment,  "you  are  asking,  Herr 
Krafft  ...  ?  " 

"  Your  Excellency,"  said  Jean-Christophe  hurriedly,  "  I  ask 
your  pardon.  1  have  thought  better  of  it.  I  have  nothing  to 
ask." 

The  old  man  sought  no  explanation  for  this  sudden  recon- 
sideration. He  looked  more  closely  at  Jean-Christophe,  coughed, 
and  said : 

"  Herr  KrafTt,  will  you  give  me  the  letter  that  is  in  your 
hand  ? " 

Jean-Christophe  saw  that  the  Director's  gaxe  was  fixed  on 
tlie  paper  which  he  was  still  unconsciously  holding  crumpled 
up  in  his  hand. 

"  It  is  no  use,  Your  Excellency,"  he  murmured.  "'  It  is  not 
worth  while  now." 


133  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

"  Please  give  it  me,"  said  the  old  man  quietly,  as  though 
he  had  not  heard. 

Mechanically  Jean-Christophe  gave  him  the  crumpled  letter, 
but  he  plunged  into  a  torrent  of  stuttered  words  while  he  held 
out  his  hand  for  the  letter.  His  Excellency  carefully  smoothed 
out  the  paper,  read  it,  looked  at  Jean-Christophe,  let  him  floun- 
der about  with  his  explanations,  then  checked  him,  and  said  with 
a  malicious  light  in  his  eyes : 

"  \7ery  well,  Herr  Krafft;  the  request  is  granted." 

He  dismissed  him  with  a  wave  of  his  hand  and  went  on  with 
his  writing. 

Jean-Christophe  went  out,  crushed. 

"  No  offense,  .Jean-Christophe !  "  said  the  clerk  kindly,  when 
the  boy  came  into  the  office  again.  Jean-Christophe  let  him 
shake  his  hand  without  daring  to  raise  his  eyes.  He  found 
himself  outside  the  Palace.  He  was  cold  with  shame.  Every- 
thing that  had  been  said  to  him  recurred  in  his  memory,  and 
he  imagined  that  there  was  an  insulting  irony  in  the  pity  of 
the  people  who  honored  and  were  sorry  for  him.  He  went  home, 
and  answered  only  with  a  few  irritable  words  Louisa's  questions, 
as  though  he  bore  a  grudge  against  her  for  what  he  had  just 
done.  He  was  racked  by  remorse  when  he  thought  of  his  father. 
He  wanted  to  confess  everything  to  him,  and  to  beg  his  pardon. 
Melchior  was  not  there.  Jean-Christophe  kept  awake  far  into 
the  night,  waiting  for  him.  The  more  he  thought  of  him  the 
more  his  remorse  quickened.  He  idealized  him;  he  thought  of 
him  as  weak,  kind,  unhappy,  betrayed  by  his  own  family.  As 
soon  as  he  heard  his  step  on  the  stairs  he  leaped  from  Iris 
bed  to  go  and  meet  him,  and  throw  himself  in  his  arms;  but 
Melchior  was  in  such  a  disgusting  state  of  intoxication  that 
Jean-Christophe  had  not  even  the  courage  to  go  near  him, 
and  he  went  to  bed  again,  laughing  bitterly  at  his  own  illusions. 

When  Melchior  learned  a  few  days  later  of  what  had  hap- 
pened, he  was  in  a  towering  passion,  and,  in  spite  of  all  Jean- 
Christbphe's  entreat'ies,  he  went  and  made  a  scene  at  the  Palace. 
But  he  returned  with  his  tail  between  his  legs,  and  breathed 
not  a  word  of  what  had  happened.  He  had  been  very  badly 
received.  He  had  been  told  that  he  would  have  to  take  a  very 
different  tone  about  the  matter,  that  the  pension  had  only  been 


MORNING  133 

continued  out  of  consideration  for  the  worth  of  his  son,  and 
that  if  in  the  future  there  came  any  scandal  concerning  him 
to  their  ears,  it  would  be  suppressed.  And  so  Jean-Christophe 
was  much  surprised  and  comforted  to  see  his  father  accept  his 
living  from  day  to  day,  and  even  boast  about  having  taken  the 
initiative  in  the  sacrifice. 

But  that  did  not  keep  Melchior  from  complaining  outside 
that  he  had  been  robbed  by  his  wife  and  children,  that  he  had 
put  himself  out  for  them  all  his  life,  and  that  now  they  let 
him  want  for  everything.  He  tried  also  to  extract  money  from 
Jean-Christophe  by  all  sorts  of  ingenious  tricks  and  devices, 
which  often  used  to  make  Jean-Christophe  laugh,  although  he 
was  hardly  ever  taken  in  by  them.  But  as  Jean-Christophe 
held  firm,  Melchior  did  not  insist.  He  was  curiously  intimi- 
dated by  the  severity  in  the  eyes  of  this  boy  of  fourteen  who 
judged  him.  He  used  to  avenge  himself  by  some  stealthy, 
dirty  trick.  He  used  to  go  to  the  cabaret  and  eat  and  drink 
as  much  as  he  pleased,  and  then  pay  nothing,  pretending  that 
his  son  would  pay  his  debts.  Jean-Christophe  did  not  protest, 
for  fear  of  increasing  the  scandal,  and  he  and  Louisa  exhausted 
their  resources  in  discharging  Melchior's  debts.  In  the  end 
Melchior  more  and  more  lost  interest  in  his  work  as  violinist, 
since  he  no  longer  received  his  wages,  and  his  absence  from 
the  theater  became  so  frequent  that,  in  spite  of  Jean-Chris- 
tophe's  entreaties,  they  had  to  dismiss  him.  The  boy  was  left 
to  support  his  father,  his  brothers,  and  the  whole  household. 

So  at  fourteen  Jean-Christophe  became  the  head  of  the 
family. 

He  stoutly  faced  his  formidable  task.  His  pride  would  not 
allow  him  to  resort  to  the  charity  of  others.  He  vowed  that 
he  would  pull  through  alone.  From  his  earliest  days  he  had 
suffered  too  much  from  seeing  his  mother  accept  and  even  ask 
for  humiliating  charitable  offerings.  He  used  to  argue  the 
matter  with  her  when  she  returned  home  triumphant  with  some 
present  that  she  had  obtained  from  one  of  her  patronesses. 
She  saw  no  harm  in  it,  and  was  glad  to  be  able,  thanks  to  the 
money,  to  spare  Jean-Christophe  a  little,  and  to  bring  another 
meager  dish  forth  for  supper.  But  Jean-Christophe  would  be- 


134  JEAN"-CHRI3TOPHE 

come  gloomy,  and  would  not  talk  all  evening,  and  would  even 
refuse,  without  giving  any  reason,  to  touch  food  gained  in 
this  way.  Louisa  was  vexed,  and  clumsily  urged  her  son  to 
eat.  lie  was  not  to  be  hudged,  and  in  the  end  she  would  lose 
her  temper,  and  sny  unkind  tilings  to  him,  and  he  would  retort. 
Then  he  would  11  ing  his  napkin  on  the  table  and  go  out.  His 
father  would  shrug  his  shoulders  and  call  him  a  poseur;  his 
brothers  would  laugh  at  him  and  eat  his  portion. 

But  he  had  somehow  to  lind  a  livelihood.  His  earnings  from 
the  orchestra  were  not  enough.  He  gave  lessons.  His  talents 
as  an  instrumentalist,  his  good  reputation,  and,  above  all,  the 
Prince's  patronage,  brought  him  a  numerous  clientele  among 
the  middle  classes.  Every  morning  from  nine  o'clock  on  he 
taught  the  piano  to  little  girls,  many  of  them  older  than  him- 
self, who  frightened  him  horribly  with  their  coquetry  and  mad- 
dened him  with  the  clumsiness  of  their  playing.  They  were 
absolutely  stupid  as  far  as  music  went,  but,  on  the  other  hand, 
they  had  all.  more  or  less,  a  keen  sense  of  ridicule,  and  their 
mocking  looks  spared  none  of  Jean-Christophe's  awkwardnesses. 
It  was  torture  for  him.  Sitting  by  their  side  on  the  edge  of 
his  chair,  still',  and  red  in  the  face;  bursting  with  anger,  and 
not  daring  to  stir;  controlling  himself  so  as  not  to  say  stupid 
things,  and  afraid  of  the  sound  of  his  own  voice,  so  that  he 
could  hardly  speak  a  word;  trying  to  look  severe,  and  feeling 
that  his  pupil  was  looking  at  him  out  of  the  corner  of  her  eye, 
he  would  lose  countenance,  grow  confused  in  the  middle  of  a 
remark;  fearing  to  make  himself  ridiculous,  he  would  become 
so,  and  break  out  into  violent  reproach.  ".But  it  was  very  easy 
for  his  pupils  to  avenge  themselves,  and  they  did  not  fail  to 
do  so,  and  upset  him  by  a  certain  way  of  looking  at  him,  and 
by  asking  him  the  simplest  questions,  which  made  him  blush 
up  to  the  roots  of  his  hair;  or  they  would  ask  him  to  do  them 
some  small  service,  such  as  fetching  something  they  bad  for- 
gotten from  a  piece  of  furniture,  and  that  was  for  him  a  most 
painful  ordeal,  for  he  had  to  cross  the  room  under  fire  of 
malicious  looks,  which  pitilessly  remarked  the  least  awkward- 
ness in  his  movements  and  his  clumsy  legs,  his  still'  arms,  his 
body  cramped  by  his  shyness. 

From  these  lessons  he  had  to  hasten  to  rehearsal  at  the  theater. 


MOENIXG  135 

Often  he  had  no  time  for  lunch,  and  he  used  to  carry  a  piece 
of  bread  and  some  cold  meat  in  his  pocket  to  cat  during  the 
interval.  Sometimes  he  had  to  take  the  place  of  Tobias  Pl'eiffer, 
the  Musik  Direktor,  who  was  interested  in  him,  and  sometimes 
had  him  to  conduct  the  orchestra  rehearsals  instead  of  himself. 
And  he  had  also  to  go  on  with  his  own  musical  education. 
Other  piano  lessons  filled  his  day  until  the  hour  of  the  per- 
formance, and  very  often  in  the  evening  after  the  play  he  was 
sent  for  to  play  at  the  Palace.  There  he  had  to  play  for  an 
hour  or  two.  The  Princess  laid  claim  to  a  knowledge  of  music. 
She  was  very  fond  of  it,  but  had  never  been  able  to  perceive 
the  difference  between  good  and  bad.  She  used  to  make  Jean- 
Christophe  play  through  strange  programmes,  in  which  dull 
ihapsodies  stood  side  by  side  with  masterpieces.  But  her 
greatest  pleasure  was  to  make  him  improvise,  and  she  used  to 
provide  him  with  heartbreakingly  sentimental  themes. 

Jean-Christophe  used  to  leave  about  midnight,  worn  out,  with 
his  hands  burning,  his  head  aching,  his  stomach  empty.  He 
was  in  a  sweat,  and  outside  snow  would  be  falling,  or  there 
would  be  an  icy  fog.  He  had  to  walk  across  half  the  town  to 
reach  home.  He  went  on  Coot,  his  teeth  chattering,  longing 
to  sleep  and  to  cry,  and  he  had  to  take  care  not  to  splash  his 
only  evening  dress-suit  in  the  puddles. 

He  would  go  up  to  his  room,  which  he  still  shared  with  his 
brothers,  and  never  was  he  so  overwhelmed  by  disgust  and 
despair  with  his  life  as  at  the  moment  when  in  his  attic, 
with  its  stifling  smell,  he  was  at  last  permitted  to  take  off 
the  halter  of  his  misery.  He  had  hardly  the  heart  to  undress 
himself.  Happily,  no  sooner  did  his  head  touch  the  pillow 
than  he  would  sink  into  a  heavy  sleep  which  deprived  him  of 
all  consciousness  of  his  troubles. 

But  he  had  to  get  up  by  dawn  in  summer,  and  before  dawn 
in  winter.  lie  wished  to  do  his  own  work.  It  was  all  the 
free  time  that  he  had  between  five  o'clock  and  eight.  Even 
then  he  had  to  waste  some  of  it  by  work  to  command,  for  his 
title  of  Uof  Muxicux  and  his  favor  with  the  (Jrand  Duke  exacted 
from  him  official  compositions  for  the  Court  festivals. 

So  the  very  source  of  his  life  was  poisoned.  Even  his  dreams 
were  not  free,  but,  as  usual,  this  restraint  made  them  only  the 


136  JEAX-CHRISTOPHE 

stronger.  When  nothing  hampers  action,  the  soul  has  fewer 
reasons  for  action,  and  the  closer  the  walls  of  Jean-Christophe's 
prison  of  care  and  banal  tasks  were  drawn  about  him,  the  more 
his  heart  in  its  revolt  felt  its  independence.  \ln  a  life  without 
obstacles  he  would  doubtless  have  abandoned  himself  to  chance 
and  to  the  voluptuous  sauntering  of  adolescence.  \  As  he  could 
be  free  only  for  an  hour  or  two  a  day,  his  strength  flowed  into 
that  space  of  time  like  a  river  between  walls  of  rock.  I  It  is  a 
good  discipline  for  art  for  a  man  to  confine  his  efforts  between 
unshakable  bounds.  In  that  sense  it  may  be  said  that  misery 
is  a  master,  not  only  of  thought,  but  of  style ;  it  teaches  sobriety 
to  the  mind  as  to  the  body.  When  time  is  doled  out  and 
thoughts  measured,  a  man  says  no  word  too  much,  and  grows 
iaccustomed  to  thinking  only  what  is  essential;  so  he  lives  at 
'double  pressure,  having  less  time  for  living. 

This  had  happened  in  Jean-Christophe's  case.  Under  his 
yoke  he  took  full  stock  of  the  value  of  liberty  and  he  never 
frittered  away  the  precious  minutes  with  useless  words  or 
actions.  His  natural  tendency  to  write  diffusely,  given  up  to 
all  the  caprice  of  a  mind  sincere  but  indiscriminating,  found 
correction  in  being  forced  to  think  and  do  as  much  as  possible 
in  the  least  possible  time.  Nothing  had  so  much  influence 
on  his  artistic  and  moral  development — not  the  lessons  of 
his  masters,  nor  the  example  of  the  masterpieces.  During 
the  years  when  the  character  is  formed  he  came  to  consider 
music  as  an  exact  language,  in  which  every  sound  has  a  mean- 
ing, and  at  the  same  time  he  came  to  loathe  those  musicians 
who  talk  without  saying  anything. 

And  yet  the  compositions  which  he  wrote  at  this  time  were 
still  far  from  expressing  himself  completely,  because  he  was 
still  very  far  from  having  completely  discovered  himself.  He 
was  seeking  himself  through  the  mass  of  acquired  feelings  which 
education  imposes  on  a  child  as  second  nature.  He  had  only 
intuitions  of  his  true  being,  until-  he  should  feel  the  passions 
of  adolescence,  which  strip  the  personality  of  its  borrowed  gar- 
ments as  a  thunder-clap  purges  the  sky  of  the  mists  that  hang 
over  it.  Vague  and  great  forebodings  were  mingled  in  him 
with  strange  memories,  of  which  he  could  not  rid  himself.  He 
raged  against  these  lies;  he  was  wretched  to  see  how  inferior 


MORNING  13? 

what  he  wrote  was  to  what  he  thought;  he  had  bitter  doubts 
of  himself.  But  he  could  not  resign  himself  to  such  a  stupid 
defeat.  He  longed  passionately  to  do  better,  to  write  great 
things,  and  always  he  missed  fire.  After  a  moment  of  illusion 
as  he  wrote,  he  saw  that  what  he  had  done  was  worthless.  He 
tore  it  up;  he  burned  everything  that  he  did;  and,  to  crown 
his  humiliation,  he  had  to  see  his  official  works,  the  most 
mediocre  of  all,  preserved,  and  he  could  not  destroy  them — 
the  concerto,  The  Royal  Eagle,  for  the  Prince's  birthday  and 
the  cantata,  The  Marriage  of  Pallas,  written  on  the  occasion 
of  the  marriage  of  Princess  Adelaide — published  at  great  ex- 
pense in  editions  de  luxe,  which  perpetuated  his  imbecilities 
for  posterity;  for  he  believed  in  posterity.  He  wept  in  his 
humiliation. 

Fevered  years!  No  respite,  no  release — nothing  to  create 
a  diversion  from  such  maddening  toil;  no  games,  no  friends. 
How  should  he  have  them?  In  the  afternoon,  when  other 
children  played,  young  Jean-Christophe,  with  his  brows  knit 
in  attention,  was  at  his  place  in  the  orchestra  in  the  dusty 
and  ill-lighted  theater;  and  in  the  evening,  when  other  children 
were  abed,  he  was  still  there,  sitting  in  his  chair,  bowed  with 
weariness. 

No  intimacy  with  his  brothers.  The  younger,  Ernest,  was 
twelve.  He  was  a  little  ragamuffin,  vicious  and  impudent, 
who  spent  his  days  witli  other  rapscallions  like  himself,  and 
from  their  company  had  caught  not  only  deplorable  manners, 
but  shameful  habits  which  good  Jean-Christophe,  who  had  never 
so  much  as  suspected  their  existence,  was  horrified  to  see  one 
day.  The  other,  Rodolphe,  the  favorite  of  Uncle  Theodore, 
was  to  go  into  business.  He  was  steady,  quiet,  but  sly.  He 
thought  himself  much  superior  to  Jean-Christophe,  and  did  not 
admit  his  authority  in  the  house,  although  it  seemed  natural 
to  him  to  eat  the  food  that  he  provided,  lie  had  espoused  the 
cause  of  Theodore  and  Melchior's  ill-feeling  against  Jean-Chris- 
tophe  and  used  to  repeat  their  absurd  gossip.  Xeither  of 
the  brothers  cared  for  music,  and  Rodolphe,  in  imitation  of  his 
uncle,  affected  to  despise  it.  Chafing  against  Jean-Christophe's 
authority  and  lectures — for  he  took  himself  very  seriously  as 
the  head  of  the  family — the  two  boys  had  tried  to  rebel;  but 


138  JEAN-CHEISTOPHE 

Jean-Christophe,  who  had  lusty  fists  and  the  consciousness  of 
right,  sent  them  packing.  Still  they  did  not  for  that  cease 
to  do  with  him  as  they  liked.  They  abused  his  credulity,  and 
laid  traps  for  him,  into  which  he  invariably  fell.  They  used 
to  extort  money  from  him  with  barefaced  lies,  and  laughed  at 
him  behind  his  back.  Jean-Christophe  was  a  1  \vays  taken  in. 
He  had  so  much  need  of  being  loved  that  an  all'eclionate  word 
was  enough  to  disarm  Ins  rancor.  He  would  have  forgiven 
them  everything  for  a  little  love.  But  his  confidence  was  cruelly 
shaken  when  he  'heard  them  laughing  at  his  stupidity  after  a 
scene  of  hypocritical  embracing  which  had  moved  him  to  tears, 
and  they  had  taken  advantage  of  it  to  rob  him  of  a  gold  watch, 
a  present  from  the  Prince,  which  they  coveted.  He  despised 
them,  and  yet  went  on  letting  himself  be  taken  in  from  his 
unconquerable  tendency  .to  trust  and  to  love.  He  knew  it.  He 
raged  against  himself,  and  he  used  to  thrash  his  brothers 
soundly  when  he  discovered  once  more  that  they  had  tricked 
him.  That  did  not  keep  him  from  swallowing  almost  immedi- 
ately the  fresh  hook  which  it  pleased  them  to  bait  for  him. 

A  more  bitter  cause  of  sull'ering  was  in  store  for  him.  He 
learned  from  officious  neighbors  that  his  father  was  speaking 
ill  of  him.  After  having  been  proud  of  his  son's  successes,  and 
having  boasted  of  them  everywhere,  Melchior  was  weak  and 
shameful  enough  to  be  jealous  of  them.  He  tried  to  decry 
them.  It  was  stupid  to  weep:  Jean-Christophe  could  only  shrug 
his  shoulders  in  contempt.  It  was  no  use  being  angry  about  it, 
for  his  father  did  not  know  what  he  was  doing,  and  was  em- 
bittered by  his  own  downfall.  The  boy  said  nothing.  He  was 
afraid,  if  he  said  anything,  of  being  too  hard;  but  he  was  cut 
to  the  heart. 

They  were  melancholy  gatherings  at  the  family  evening  meal 
round  the  lamp,  with  a  spotted  cloth,  with  all  the  stupid  chatter 
and  the  sound  of  the  jaws  of  these  people  whom  he  despised 
and  pitied,  and  yet  loved  in  spite  of  everything.  Only  between 
himself  and  his  brave  mother  did  Jean-Christophe  feel  a  bond 
of  affection.  But  Louisa,  like  himself,  exhausted  herself  during 
the  day,  and  in  the  evening  she  was  worn  out  and  hardly  spoke, 
and  after  dinner  used  to  sleep  in  her  chair  over  her  darning, 
And  she  was  so  good  that  she  seemed  to  make  no  difference 


MORNING  139 

in  her  love  between  her  husband  and  her  three  sons.  She  loved 
them  all  equally.  Jean-Christophe  did  not  find  in  her  the 
trusted  friend  that  he  so  much  needed. 

So  he  was  driven  in  upon  himself.  For  days  together  he 
would  not  speak,  fulfilling  his  tiresome  and  wearing  task  with 
a  sort  of  silent  rage.  Such  a  mode  of  living  was  dangerous, 
especially  for  a  child  at  a  critical  age,  when  he  is  mo.st  sensitive, 
and  is  exposed  to  every  agent  of  destruction  and  the  risk  of 
being  deformed  for  the  rest  of  his  life.  Jean-Christophe's 
health  suffered  seriously.  He  had  been  endowed  by  his  parents 
with  a  healthy  constitution  and  a  sound  and  healthy  body;  but 
his  very  healthiness  only  served  to  feed  his  suffering  when  the 
weight  of  weariness  and  too  early  cares  had  opened  up  a  gap 
by  which  it  might  enter.  Quite  early  in  life  there  were  signs 
of  grave  nervous  disorders.  When  he  was  a  small  boy  he  was 
subject  to  fainting-fits  and  convulsions  and  vomiting  whenever 
he  encountered  opposition.  When  he  was  seven  or  eight,  about 
the  time  of  the  concert,  his  sleep  had  been  troubled.  He  used 
to  talk,  cry,  laugh  and  weep  in  his  sleep,  and  this  habit  re- 
turned to  him  whenever  he  had  too  much  to  think  of.  Then 
he  had  cruel  headaches,  sometimes  shooting  pains  at  the  base 
of  his  skull  or  the  top  of  his  head,  sometimes  a  leaden  heavi- 
ness. His  eyes  troubled  him.  Sometimes  it  was  as  though 
red-hot  needles  were  piercing  his  eyeballs.  He  was  subject  to 
fits  of  dizziness,  when  he  could  not  see  to  read,  and  had  to 
stop  for  a  minute  or  two.  Insufficient  and  unsound  food  and 
irregular  meals  ruined  the  health  of  his  stomach.  He  was 
racked  by  internal  pains  or  exhausted  by  diarrhea.  But  noth- 
ing brought  him  more  suffering  than  his  heart.  It  beat  with 
a  crazy  irregularity.  Sometimes  it  would  leap  in  his  bosom. 
and  seem  like  to  break;  sometimes  it  would  hardly  beat  at 
all,  and  seem  like  to  stop.  At  night  his  temperature  would 
vary  alarmingly;  it  would  change  suddenlv  from  fever-point 
to  next  to  nothing.  He  would  burn,  then  shiver  with  cold, 
pass  through  agony.  His  throat  would  go  dry:  a  lump  in  it 
would  prevent  his  breathing.  Naturallv  his  imagination 
took  fire.  lie  dared  not  say  anything  to  his  family  of  what 
he  was  going  through,  but  he  was  rontinuallv  dissecting  it  with 
a  minuteness  which  either  enlarged  his  sufferings  or  created 


140  JEAX-CIIRISTOPHE 

new  ones.  He  decided  that  he  had  every  known  illness  one 
after  the  other.  He  believed  that  he  was  going  hlind,  and  as 
he  sometimes  used  to  turn  giddy  as  he  walked,  he  thought 
that  he  was  going  to  fall  down  dead.  Always  that  dreadful 
fear  of  being  stopped  on  his  road,  of  dying  before  his  time, 
obsessed  him,  overwhelmed  him,  and  pursued  him.  Ah,  if  he 
had  to  die,  at  least  let  it  not  be  now,  not  before  he  had  tasted 
victory !  .  .  . 

Victory  .  .  .  the  fixed  idea  which  never  ceases  to  burn  within 
him  without  his  being  fully  aware  of  it — the  idea  which  bears 
him  up  through  all  his  disgust  and  fatigues  and  the  stagnant 
morass  of  such  a  life !  A  dim  and  great  foreknowledge  of 
what  he  will  be  some  day,  of  what  he  is  already !  .  .  .  What 
is  he?  A  sick,  nervous  child,  who  plays  the  violin  in  the 
orchestra  and  writes  mediocre  concertos?  Xo;  far  more  than 
such  a  child.  That  is  no  more  than  the  wrapping,  the  seeming 
of  a  day ;  that  is  not  his  Being.  There  is  no  connection  between 
his  Being  and  the  existing  shape  of  his  face  and  thought.  He 
knows  that  well.  When  he  looks  at  himself  in  the  mirror  he 
does  not  know  himself.  That  broad  red  face,  those  prominent 
eyebrows,  those  little  sunken  eyes,  that  short  thick  nose,  that 
sullen  mouth — the  whole  mask,  ugly  and  vulgar,  is  foreign  to 
himself.  Neither  does  he  know  himself  in  his  writings. 
He  judges,  he  knows  that  what  he  does  and  what  he  is  are 
nothing;  and  yet  he  is  sure  of  what  he  will  be  and  do.  Some- 
times he  falls  foul  of  such  certainty  as  a  vain  lie.  He  takes 
pleasure  in  humiliating  himself  and  bitterly  mortifying  him- 
self by  way  of  punishment.  But  his  certainty  endures;  nothing 
can  alter  it.  Whatever  he  does,  whatever  he  thinks,  none  of 
his  thoughts,  actions,  or  writings  contain  him  or  express  him. 
He  knows,  he  lias  this  strange  presentiment,  that  the  more  that 
he  is,  is  not  contained  in  the  present  but  is  what  he  irill  l)c, 
what  he  will  be  to-morrow.  lie  will  be!  .  .  ,  He  is  fired  by 
that  faith,  he  is  intoxicated  by  that  light!  Ah,  if  only  To-day 
does  not  block  the  way !  1  f  only  he  does  not  fall  into  one 
of  the  cunning  traps  which  To-day  is  forever  laying  for  him! 

So  he  steers  his  bark  across  the  sea  of  days,  turning  his  eyes 
neither  to  right  nor  left,  motionless  at  the  helm,  with  his  gaze 
fixed  on  the  bourne,  the  refuge,  the  end  that  he  has  in  sight. 


MORNING  141 

In  the  orchestra,  among  the  talkative  musicians,  at  table  with 
his  own  family,  at  the  Palace,  while  he  is  playing  without  a 
thought  of  what  he  is  playing,  for  the  entertainment  of  Royal 
folk — it  is  in  that  future,  that  future  which  a  speck  may  bring 
toppling  to  earth — no  matter,  it  is  in  that  that  he  lives. 

He  is  at  his  old  piano,  in  his  garret,  alone.  Night  falls. 
The  dying  light  of  day  is  cast  upon  his  music.  He  strains  his 
eyes  to  read  the  notes  until  the  last  ray  of  light  is  dead.  The 
tenderness  of  hearts  that  are  dead  breathed  forth  from  the 
dumb  page  fills  him  with  love.  His  eyes  are  filled  with  tears. 
It  seems  to  him  that  a  beloved  creature  is  standing  behind  him, 
that  soft  breathing  caresses  his  cheek,  that  two  arms  are  about 
his  neck.  He  turns,  trembling.  He  feels,  he  knows,  that  he 
is  not  alone.  A  soul  that  loves  and  is  loved  is  there,  near  him. 
He  groans  aloud  because  he  cannot  perceive  it,  and  yet  that 
shadow  of  bitterness  falling  upon  his  ecstasy  has  sweetness,  too. 
Even  sadness  has  its  light.  He  thinks  of  his  beloved  masters, 
of  the  genius  that  is  gone,  though  its  soul  lives  on  in  the  music 
which  it  had  livod  in  its  life.  His  heart  is  overflowing  with 
love;  he  dreams  of  the  superhuman  happiness  which  must  have 
been  the  lot  of  these  glorious  men,  since  the  reflection  only  of 
their  happiness  is  still  so  much  aflame.  He  dreams  of  being 
like  them,  of  giving  out  such  love  as  this,  with  lost  rays  to 
lighten  his  misery  with  a  godlike  smile.  In  his  turn  to  be 
a  god,  to  give  out  the  warmth  of  joy,  to  be  a  sun  of  life !  .  .  . 

Alas!  if  one  day  he  does  become  the  equal  of  those  whom  he 
loves,  if  he  does  achieve  that  brilliant  happiness  for  which  he 
longs,  he  will  see  the  illusion  that  was  upon  him.  .  .  . 


II 

OTTO 

ONE  Sunday  when  Jean-Christophe  had  been  invited  by  his 
3/?/5!>  Direkior  to  dine  at  the  little  country  house  which  Tobias 
Pfeiffer  owned  an  hour's  journey  from  the  town,  lie  took  the 
Rhine  steamboat.  On  deck  he  sat  next  to  a  boy  about  his  own 


142  JEAN-CHKISTOPHE 

age,  who  eagerly  made  room  for  him.  Jean-Christophe  paid 
no  attention,  but  after  a  moment,  feeling  that  his  neighbor 
had  never  taken  his  eyes  oil'  him,  lie  turned  and  looked  at  him. 
He  was  a  fair  boy,  with  round  pink  cheeks,  with  his  hair  parted 
oil  one  side,  and  a  shade  of  down  on  his  lip.  He  looked  frankly 
what  he  was — a  hobbledehoy — though  he  made  great  eiforts  to 
seem  grown  up.  He  was  dressed  with  ostentatious  care — flannel 
suit,  light  gloves,  white  shoes,  and  a  pale  blue  tie — and  he  car- 
ried a  little  stick  in  his  hand.  He  looked  at  Jean-Christoph.' 
out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye  without  turning  his  head,  with 
his  neck  stilf,  like  a  hen;  and  when  Jean-Christophe  looked 
at  him  he  blushed  up  to  his  ears,  took  a  newspaper  from  his 
pocket,  and  pretended  to  be  absorbed  in  it,  and  to  look  impor- 
tant over  it.  But  a  few  minutes  later  he  dashed  to  pick  up 
Jcan-Christophe's  hat,  which  had  fallen.  Jean-Christophe,  sur- 
prised at  such  politeness,  looked  once  more  at  the  boy,  and 
once  more  he  blushed.  Jean-Christophe  thanked  him  curtly,  for 
he  did  not  like  such  obsequious  eagerness,  and  he  hated  to  be 
fussed  with.  All  the  same,  he  was  flattered  by  it. 

Soon  it  passed  from  his  thoughts;  his  attention  was  occupied 
by  the  view.  It  Avas  long  since  he  had  been  able  to  escape 
from  the  town,  and  so  he  had  keen  pleasure  in  the  wind  that 
beat  against  his  face,  in  the  sound  of  the  water  against  the 
boat,  in  the  great  stretch  of  water  and  the  changing  spectacle 
presented  bv  the  banks — bluffs  gray  and  dull,  willow-trees  half 
under  water,  pale  vines,  legendary  rocks,  towns  crowned  with 
Gothic  towers  and  factory  chimneys  belching  black  smoke. 
And  as  lie  was  in  ecstasy  over  it  all,  his  neighbor  in  a  choking 
voice  timidly  imparted  a  few  historic  facts  concerning  the  ruins 
that  they  saw,  cleverly  restored  and  covered  with  ivy.  He 
seemed  to  be  lecturing  to  himself.  Jean-Christophe.  roused  to 
interest,  plied  him  with  questions.  The  other  replied  eagerly, 
glad  to  disphiv  his  knowledge,  and  with  every  sentence  he  ad- 
dressed himself  directly  to  Jean-Christophe,  calling  him  "  II err 
Ilof  Violinist." 

"You  know  me,  then?"  said  Jean-Christophe. 

"  Oh  yes,"  said  the  buy,  with  a  simple  admiration  that  tickled 
Jean-Christophe's  vanity. 

They   talked.      The   boy   had   often   seen   .lean-Christophe   at 


MORNING  143 

concerts,  and  his  imagination  had  been  touched  by  everything 
that  he  had  heard  about  him.  lie  did  not  say  so  to  Jean- 
Christophe,  but  Jean-Christophe  felt  it,  and  was  pleasantly  sur- 
prised by  it.  He  was  not  used  to  being  spoken  to  in  this  tone 
of  eager  respect.  He  went  on  questioning  his  neighbor  about 
the  history  of  the  country  through  which  they  were  passing. 
The  other  set  out  all  the  knowledge  that  he  had,  and  Jean- 
Christophe  admired  his  learning.  But  that  was  only  the  peg 
on  which  their  conversation  hung,  What  interested  them  was 
the  making  of  each  other's  acquaintance.  They  dared  not 
frankly  approach  the  subject;  they  returned  to  it  again  and 
again  with  awkward  questions.  Finally  they  plunged,  and  Jean- 
Christophe  learned  that  his  new  friend  was  called  Otto  Diener, 
and  was  the  son  of  a  rich  merchant  in  the  town.  It  appeared, 
naturally,  that  they  had  friends  in  common,  and  little  by  little 
their  tongues  were  loosed.  They  were  talking  eagerly  when 
the  boat  arrived  at  the  town  at  which  Jean-Christophe  was 
to  get  out.  Otto  got  out,  too.  That  surprised  them,  and  Jean- 
Christophe  proposed  that  they  should  take  a  walk  together  until 
dinner-time.  They  struck  out  across  the  fields.  Jean-Chris- 
tophe had  taken  Otto's  arm  familiarly,  and  was  telling  him 
his  plans  as  if  he  had  known  him  from  his  birth.  He  had  been 
so  much  deprived  of  the  society  of  children  of  his  own  age 
that  he  found  an  inexpressible  joy  in  being  with  this  boy, 
so  learned  and  well  brought  up,  who  was  in  sympathy  with 
him. 

Time  passed,  and  Jean-Christophe  took  no  count  of  it.  Diener, 
proud  of  the  confidence  which  the  young  musician  showed  him, 
dared  not  point  out  that  the  dinner-hour  had  rung.  At  last 
he  thought  that  lie  must  remind  him  of  it,  but  Jean-Christophe, 
who  had  begun  the  ascent  of  a  hill  in  the  woods,  declared  that 
they  must  go  to  the  top,  and  when  they  readied  it  lie  lay  down 
on  the  grass  as  though  he  meant  to  spend  the  day  there.  After 
a  quarter  of  an  hour  Diener,  seeing  that  he  seemed  to  have 
no  intention  oi.'  moving,  hazarded  again : 

"'And  your  dinner?"' 

Jean-Christophe,  lying  at  full  length,  with  his  hands  behind 
his  head,  said  quietly: 

"  Tssh ! " 


144  JEAX-CHRISTOPHE 

Then  he  looked  at  Otto,  saw  his  scared  look,  and  began  to 
laugh. 

"  It  is  too  good  here/'  he  explained.  "  I  shan't  go.  Let  them 
wait  for  me !  " 

He  half  rose. 

"  Are  you  in  a  hurry  ?  No  ?  Do  you  know  what  we'll  do  ? 
We'll  dine  together.  I  know  of  an  inn." 

Diener  would  have  had  many  objections  to  make — not  that 
any  one  was  waiting  for  him,  but  because  it  was  hard  for  him 
to  come  to  any  sudden  decision,  whatever  it  might  be.  He 
was  methodical,  and  needed  to  be  prepared  beforehand.  But 
Jean-Christophe's  question  was  put  in  such  a  tone  as  allowed 
of  no  refusal.  He  let  himself  be  dragged  off,  and  they  began 
to  talk  again. 

At  the  inn  their  eagerness  died  down.  Both  were  occupied 
with  the  question  as  to  who  should  give  the  dinner,  and  each 
within  himself  made  it  a  point  of  honor  to  give  it — Diener 
because  he  was  the  richer,  Jean-Christophe  because  he  was 
the  poorer.  They  made  no  direct  reference  to  the  matter,  but 
Diener  made  great  efforts  to  assert  his  right  by  the  tone  of 
authority  which  he  tried  to  take  as  he  asked  for  the  menu. 
Jean-Christophe  understood  what  he  was  at  and  turned  the 
tables  on  him  by  ordering  other  dishes  of  a  rare  kind.  He 
wanted  to  show  that  he  was  as  much  at  his  ease  as  anybody, 
and  when  Diener  tried  again  by  endeavoring  to  take  upon  him- 
self the  choice  of  wine,  Jean-Christophe  crushed  him  with  a 
look,  and  ordered  a  bottle  of  one  of  the  most  expensive  vintages 
they  had  in  the  inn. 

When  they  found  themselves  seated  before  a  considerable 
repast,  they  were  abashed  by  it.  They  could  find  nothing  to 
say,  ate  mincingly,  and  were  awkward  and  constrained  in 
their  movements.  They  became  conscious  suddenly  that 
they  were  strangers,  and  they  watched  each  other.  They 
made  vain  efforts  to  revive  the  conversation;  it  dropped 
immediately.  Their  first  half-hour  was  a  time  of  fearful  bore- 
dom. Fortunately,  the  meat  and  drink  soon  had  an  effect  on 
them,  and  they  looked  at  each  other  more  confidently.  Jean- 
Christophe  especially,  who  was  not  used  to  such  good  things, 
became  extraordinarily  loquacious.  He  told  of  the  difficulties 


MORNING  145 

of  his  life,  and  Otio,  breaking  through  his.  reserve,  confessed 
that  he  also  was  not  happy.  He  was  weak  and  timid,  and  his 
schoolfellows  put  upon  him.  They  laughed  at  him,  and  could 
not  forgive  him  for  despising  their  vulgar  manners.  They 
played  all  sorts  of  tricks  on  him.  Jean-Christophe  clenched 
his  fists,  and  said  they  had  better  not  try  it  in  his  presence. 
Otto  also  was  misunderstood  by  his  family.  Jean-Christophe 
knew  the  unhappiness  of  that,  and  they  commiserated  each  other 
on  their  common  misfortunes.  Diener's  parents  wanted  him 
to  become  a  merchant,  and  to  step  into  his  father's  place,  but 
he  wanted  to  be  a  poet.  He  would  be  a  poet,  even  though  he 
had  to  fly  the  town,  like  Schiller,  and  brave  poverty!  (His 
father's  fortune  would  all  come  to  him,  and  it  was  considerable.) 
He  confessed  blushingly  that  he  had  already  Avritten  verses  on 
the  sadness  of  life,  but  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  recite 
them,  in  spite  of  Jean-Christophe's  entreaties.  But  in  the  end 
he  did  give  two  or  three  of  them,  dithering  with  emotion.  Jean- 
Christophe  thought  them  admirable.  They  exchanged  plans. 
Later  on  they  would  work  together;  they  would  write  dramas 
and  song-cycles.  They  admired  each  other.  Besides  his  reputa- 
tion as  a  musician,  Jean-Christophe's  strength  and  bold  ways 
made  an  impression  on  Otto,  and  Jean-Christophe  was  sensible 
of  Otto's  elegance  and  distinguished  manners — everything  in 
this  world  is  relative — and  of  his  ease  of  manner — that  ease  of 
manner  which  he  looked  and  longed  for. 

Made  drowsy  by  their  meal,  with  their  elbows  on  the  table, 
they  talked  and  listened  to  each  other  with  softness  in  their 
eyes.  The  afternoon  drew  on;  they  had  to  go.  Otto  made  a 
last  attempt  to  procure  the  bill,  but  Jean-Christophe  nailed  him 
to  his  seat  with  an  angry  look  which  made  it  impossible  for 
him  to  insist.  Jean-Christophe  was  only  uneasy  on  one  point- 
that  he  might  be  asked  for  more  than  he  had.  He  would  have 
given  his  watch  and  everything  that  he  had  about  him  rather 
than  admit  it  to  Otto.  But  he  was  not  called  on  to  go  so  far. 
He  had  to  spend  on  the  dinner  almost  the  whole  of  his  month's 
money. 

They  went  down  the  hill  again.  The  shades  of  evening  were 
beginning  to  fall  over  the  pine-woods.  Their  tops  were  still 
bathed  in  rosy  light;  they  swung  slowly  with  a  surging  sound. 


140  .TEA  X-C  H1USTOP  RE 

The  carpet  of  purple  pine-needles  deadened  the  sound  of  their 
footsteps.  They  said  no  word.  Jean-Christophc  felt  a  strange 
sweet  sadness  welling  through  his  heart.  Jle  was  happy;  he 
wished  to  talk,  but  was  weighed  down  with  his  sweet  sorrow. 
lie  stopped  for  a  moment,  and  so  did  Otto.  All  was  silence;. 
Flies  buzzed  high  above  them  in  a  ray  of  sunlight;  a  rotten 
branch  fell.  Jean-Christophe  took  Otto's  hand,  and  in  a  trem- 
bling voice  said : 

"  Will  you  be  my  friend  ?  " 

Otto  murmured  : 

"  Yes." 

They  shook  hands;  their  hearts  beat:  they  dared  hardly  look 
at  each  other. 

After  a  moment  they  walked  on.  They  were  a  few  paces 
away  from  each  other,  and  they  dared  say  no  more  until  they 
were  out  of  the  woods.  They  were  fearful  of  each  other,  and 
of  their  strange  emotion.  They  walked  very  fast,  and  never 
stopped  until  they  had  issued  from  the  shadow  of  the  trees; 
then  they  took  courage  again,  and  joined  hands.  They  mar- 
veled at  the  limpid  evening  falling,  and  they  talked  discon- 
nectedly. 

On  the  boat,  sitting  at  the  bows  in  the  brilliant  twilight, 
they  tried  to  talk  of  trivial  matters,  but  they  gave  no  heed 
to  what  the\-  were  saying.  They  were  lost  in  their  own  hap- 
piness and  weariness.  They  felt  no  need  to  talk,  or  to  hold 
hands,  or  even  to  look  at  each  other;  they  were  near  each 
other. 

When  they  were  near  their  journey's  end  they  agreed  to  meet 
again  on  the  following  Sunday.  Jean-Christophe  took  Otto  to 
his  door.  Under  the  light  of  the  gas  they  timidly  smiled  and 
murmured  an  r,-roir.  They  were  glad  to  pail,  so  wearied  were 
they  by  the  tension  at  which  they  had  been  living  for  those 
hours  and  by  the  pain  it  cost  them  to  break  the  silence  with 
a  single  word. 

Jean-Ohristopbe  returned  alone  in  the  night.  1 1  is  heart 
was  singing:  ;M  have  a  friend!  I  have  a  friend!"  lit; 
saw  nothing,  lie  heard  nothing,  he  thought  of  nothing 
else. 

He  was  very  sleepy,  and  fell  asleep  as  soon  as  he  reached 


MORXIXG  14? 

his  room;  but  he  was  awakened  twice  or  thrice  during  the  night, 
as  by  some  fixed  idea.  lie  repeated,  "  1  have  a  friend,''  and 
went  to  sleep  again  at  once. 

Next  morning  it  seemed  to  be  all  a  dream.  To  test  the  reality 
of  it,  he  tried  to  recall  the  smallest  details  of  the  day.  He 
was  absorbed  by  this  occupation  while  he  was  giving  his  lessons, 
and  even  during  the  afternoon  he  was  so  absent  during  the 
orchestra  rehearsal  that  when  he  left  he  could  hardly  remember 
what  he  had  been  playing. 

When  he  returned  home  he  found  a  letter  waiting  for  him. 
He  had  no  need  to  ask  himself  whence!  it  came.  He  ran  and 
shut  himself  up  in  his  room  to  read  it  It  was  written  on  pale 
blue  paper  in  a  labored,  long,  uncertain  hand,  with  very  correct 
flourishes : 

"DEAR  HERR  JEAX-CIIRISTOPIIK — dare  1  say  HONORED 
FRIEND  ? — 

"I  am  thinking  much  of  our  doings  yesterday,  and  I  do 
thank  you  tremendously  for  your  kindness  to  me.  I  am  so 
grateful  for  all  that  you  have  done,  and  for  your  kind  words, 
and  the  delightful  walk  and  the  excellent  dinner!  1  am  only 
worried  that  you  should  have  spent  so  much  money  on  it. 
What  a  lovely  day!  Do  you  not  think  then1  was  something 
providential  in  that  strange  meeting?  It  seems  to  me  that 
it  was  Fate  decreed  that  we  should  meet.  How  glad  I  shall 
be  to  see  you  again  on  Sunday!  1  hope  you  will  not  have  had 
too  much  unpleasantness  for  having  missed  the  llof  Muxik 
Direktor's  dinner.  I  should  be  so  sorry  if  you  had  ady  trouble 
because  of  me. 

"  Dear  Herr  Jean-Christophe,  T  am  always 
"  Your  very  devoted  servant  and  friend, 

"  OTTO  DIKKKH. 

"  P.  S. — On  Sunday  please  do  not  call  for  me  at  home.  It 
would  be  better,  if  you  will,  for  us  to  meet  at  the  Nr///o^ 
Garten." 

Jean-Christophe  read  the  letter  with  tears  in  his  eyes.  He 
kissed  it;  he  laughed  aloud;  he  jumped  about  on  his  bed.  Then 


1-18  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

he  ran  to  the  table  and  took  pen  in  hand  to  reply  at  once.  He 
could  not  wait  a  moment.  But  he  was  not  used  to  writing. 
He  could  not  express  what  was  swelling  in  his  heart;  he  dug 
into  the  paper  with  his  pen,  and  blackened  his  fingers  with 
ink;  he  stamped  impatiently.  At  last,  by  dint  of  putting  out 
his  tongue  and  making  five  or  six  drafts,  he  succeeded  in  writ- 
ing in  malformed  letters,  which  flew  out  in  all  directions,  and 
with  terrific  mistakes  in  spelling : 

"MY  SOUL,— 

"  How  dare  you  speak  of  gratitude,  because  I  love  you  ?  Have 
I  not  told  you  how  sad  I  was  and  lonely  before  I  knew  you? 
Your  friendship  is  the  greatest  of  blessings.  Yesterday  I  was 
happy,  happy ! — for  the  first  time  in  my  life.  I  weep  for  joy 
as  1  read  your  letter.  Yes,  my  beloved,  there  is  no  doubt 
that  it  was  Fate  brought  us  together.  Fate  wishes  that  we 
should  be  friends  to  do  great  things.  Friends !  The  lovely 
word !  Can  it  be  that  at  last  I  have  a  friend  ?  Oh !  you  will 
never  leave  me  ?  You  will  be  faithful  to  me  ?  Always  !  always  ! 
.  .  .  How  beautiful  it  will  be  to  grow  up  together,  to  work 
together,  to  bring  together — I  my  musical  whimsies,  and  all 
the  crazy  things  that  go  chasing  through  my  mind ;  you  your 
intelligence  and  amazing  learning!  How  much  you  know!  I 
have  never  met  a  man  so  clever  as  you.  There  are  moments 
when  I  am  uneasy.  I  seem  to  be  unworthy  of  your  friendship. 
You  are  so  noble  and  so  accomplished,  and  I  am  so  grateful 
to  you  for  loving  so  coarse  a  creature  as  myself !  .  .  .  But  no ! 
I  have  just  said,  let  there  be  no  talk  of  gratitude.  In  friend- 
ship there  is  no  obligation  nor  benefaction.  I  would  not  accept 
any  benefaction!  We  are  equal,  since  we  love.  How  impatient' 
I  am  to  see  you !  I  will  not  call  for  you  at  home,  since  you 
do  not  wish  it — although,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  do  not  understand 
all  these  precautions — but  you  are  the  wiser;  you  are  surely 
right.  .  .  . 

"  One  word  only !  Xo  more  talk  of  money.  I  hate  money — • 
the  word  and  the  thing  itself.  If  I  am  not  rich,  I  am  yet  rich 
enough  to  give  to  my  friend,  and  it  is  my  joy  to  give  all  E 
can  for  him.  Would  not  you  do  the  same?  And  if  1  needed 
it,  would  you  not  be  the  first  to  give  me  all  your  fortune  ?  But 


MORNING  149 

that  shall  never  be!  I  have  sound  fists  and  a  sound  head,  and 
I  shall  always  be  able  to  earn  the  bread  that  I  oat.  Till  Sun- 
day !  Dear  God,  a  whole  week  without  seeing  you !  And  for 
two  days  I  have  not  seen  you!  How  have  1  been  able  to  live 
so  long  without  you? 

"  The  conductor  tried  to  grumble,  but  do  not  bother  about  it 
any  more  than  I  do.  What  are  others  to  me?  I  care  nothing 
what  they  think  or  what  they  may  ever  think  of  me.  Only 
you  matter.  Love  me  well,  my  soul ;  love  me  as  I  love  you ! 
I  cannot  tell  you  how  much  I  love  you.  I  am  yours,  yours, 
yours,  from  the  tips  of  my  fingers  to  the  apple  of  my 
eye. 

"  Yours  always, 

"  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE." 

Jean-Christophe  was  devoured  with  impatience  for  the  rest 
of  the  week.  He  would  go  out  of  his  way,  and  make  long  turns 
to  pass  by  Otto's  house.  Xot  that  he  counted  on  seeing  him, 
but  the  sight  of  the  house  was  enough  to  make  him  grow  pale 
and  red  with  emotion.  On  the  Thursday  he  could  bear  it  no 
longer,  and  sent  a  second  letter  even  more  high-flown  than  the 
first.  Otto  answered  it  sentimentally. 

Sunday  came  at  length,  and  Otto  was  punctually  at  the  meet- 
ing-place. But  Jean-Christophe  had  been  there  for  an  hour, 
waiting  impatiently  for  the  walk.  He  began  to  imagine  dread- 
fully that  Otto  would  not  come.  He  trembled  lest  Otto  should 
be  ill,  for  he  did  not  suppose  for  a  moment  that  Otto  might 
break  his  word.  He  whispered  over  and  over  again,  "  Dear 
God,  let  him  come — let  him  come !  "  and  he  struck  at  the  pebbles 
in  the  avenue  with  his  stick,  saying  to  himself  that  if  he 
missed  three  times  Otto  would  not  come,  but  if  he  hit  them 
Otto  would  appear  at  once.  In  spite  of  his  care  and  the 
easiness  of  the  test,  he  had  just  missed  three  times  when  he 
saw  Otto  coming  at  his  easy,  deliberate  pace;  for  Otto  was 
above  all  things  correct,  even  when  he  was  most  moved.  Jean- 
Christophe  ran  to  him,  and  with  his  throat  dry  wished  him 
"  Good-day  !  "  Otto  replied,  "  Good-day  !  "  anil  they  found 
that  they  had  nothing  more  to  say  to  each  other,  except  that 
the  weather  was  fine  and  that  it  was  five  or  six  minutes  past 


150  JEAX-CIIRISTOrilE 

ten,  or  it  might  bo  ten  past,  because  the  castle  clock  was  always 
slow. 

They  went  to  the  station,  and  went  by  rail  to  a  neighboring 
place  which  was  a  favorite  excursion  from  the  town.  On  the 
way  they  exchanged  not  more  than  ten  words.  They  tried  to 
make  up  for  it  by  eloquent  looks,  but  they  were  no  more  success- 
ful. In  vain  did  they  try  to  tell  each  other  what  friends  they 
were;  their  eyes  would  say  nothing  at  all.  They  were  just  play- 
acting. Jean-Christophe  saw  that,  and  was  humiliated,  lie 
did  not  understand  how  he  could  not  express  or  even  feel  all 
that  had  fdled  his  heart  an  hour  before.  Otto  did  not.  perhaps, 
so  exactly  take  stock  of  their  failure,  because  he  was  less  sin- 
cere, and  examined  himself  with  more  circumspection,  but  he 
was  just  as  disappointed.  The  truth  is  that  the  boys  had,  dur- 
ing their  week  of  separation,  blown  out  their  feelings  to  such 
a  diapason  that  it  was  impossible  for  them  to  keep  them  actu- 
ally at  that  pitch,  and  when  they  met  again  their  first  impression 
must  of  necessity  be  false.  They  had  to  break  away  from  it, 
but  they  could  not  bring  themselves  to  agree  to  it. 

All  day  they  wandered  in  the  country  without  ever  breaking 
through  the  awkwardness  and  constraint  that  were  upon  them. 
It  was  a  holiday.  The  inns  and  woods  were  filled  with  a  rabble 
of  excursionists — little  bourgeois  families  who  made  a  great 
noise  and  ate  everywhere.  That  added  to  their  ill-humor. 
They  attributed  to  the  poor  people  the  impossibility  of  again 
finding  the  carelessness  of  their  first  walk.  But  they  talked, 
they  took  great  pains  to  iind  subjects  of  conversation;  they 
were  afraid  of  finding  that  they  had  nothing  to  say  to  each 
other.  Otto  displayed  his  school-learning;  Jean-Christophe  en- 
tered into  technical  explanations  of  musical  compositions  and 
violin-playing.  They  oppressed  each  other;  they  crushed  each 
other  by  talking;  and  they  never  stopped  talking,  trembling 
lest  they  should,  for  then  there  opened  before  them  abysses  of 
silence  which  horrified  them.  Otto  came  near  to  weeping,  and 
Jean-Christophe  was  near  leaving  him  and  running  away  as 
hard  as  he  could,  he  was  so  bored  and  ashamed. 

Only  an  hour  before  they  had  to  take  the  train  again  did 
they  thaw.  In  the  depths  of  the  woods  a  dog  was  barking:  he 
was  hunting  on  his  own  account.  Jean-Christophe  proposed 


MORNING  151 

that  they  should  hide  by  his  path  to  try  and  see  his  quarry. 
They  ran  into  the  midst  of  the  thicket.  The  dog  came  near 
them,  and  then  went  away  again.  They  went  to  right  and  left, 
went  forward  and  doubled.  The  barking  grew  louder :  the 
dog  was  choking  with  impatience  in  his  lust  for  slaughter.  He 
came  near  once  more.  Jean-Christophe  and  Otto,  lying  on  the 
dead  leaves  in  the  rut  of  a  path,  waited  and  held  their  breath. 
The  barking  stopped;  the  dog  had  lost  the  scent.  They  heard  his 
yap  once  again  in  the  distance;  then  silence  came  upon  the 
woods.  Xot  a  sound,  only  the  mysterious  hum  of  millions  of 
creatures,  insects,  and  creeping  things,  moving  unceasingly,  de- 
stroying the  forest — the  measured  breathing  of  death,  which 
never  stops.  The  boys  listened,  they  did  not  stir.  Just 
when  they  got  up,  disappointed,  and  said,  "It  is  all  over; 
he  will  not  come!"  a  little  hare  plunged  out  of  the  thicket. 
He  came  straight  upon  them.  They  saw  him  at  the  same 
moment,  and  gave  a  cry  of  joy.  The  hare  turned  in  his  tracks 
and  jumped  aside.  They  saw  him  dash  into  the  brushwood 
head  over  heels.  The  stirring  of  the  rumpled  leaves  vanished 
away  like  a  ripple  on  the  face  of  waters.  Although  they  were 
sorry  for  having  cried  out,  the  adventure  filled  them  with  joy. 
They  rocked  with  laughter  as  they  thought  of  the  hare's  terri- 
fied leap,  and  Jean-Christophe  imitated  it  grotesquely.  Otto 
did  the  same.  Then  they  chased  each  other.  Otto  was  the 
hare,  Jean-Christophe  the  dog.  They  plunged  through  woods 
and  meadows,  dashing  through  hedges  and  leaping  ditches.  A 
peasant  shouted  at  them,  because  they  had  rushed  over  a  field 
of  rye.  They  did  not  stop  to  hear  him.  Jean-Christophe 
imitated  the  hoarse  barking  of  the  dog  to  such  perfection  that 
Otto  laughed  until  he  cried.  At  last  they  rolled  down  a  slope, 
shouting  like  mad  things.  When  they  could  not  utter  another 
sound  they  sat  up  and  looked  at  each  other,  with  tears  of 
laughter  in  their  eyes.  They  were  quite  happy  and  pleased 
with  themselves.  They  were  no  longer  trving  to  play  the  heroic 
friend  ;  they  were  frankly  what  tliey  were — two  boys. 

They  came  back  arm-in-arm,  singing  senseless  songs,  and  yet. 
when  they  were  on  the  point  of  returning  to  the  town,  they 
thought  they  had  better  resume  their  pose,  and  under  the  last 
tree  of  the  woods  they  carved  their  initials  intertwined.  But 


153  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

then  good  temper  had  the  better  of  their  sentimentality,  and 
in  the  train  they  shouted  with  laughter  whenever  they  looked 
at  each  other.  They  parted  assuring  each  other  that  they  had 
had  a  "hugely  delightful"  (koloMal  entzuclccnd)  day,  and 
that  conviction  gained  with  them  when  they  were  alone  once 
more. 

They  resumed  their  work  of  construction  more  patient  and 
ingenious  even  than  that  of  the  bees,  for  of  a  few  mediocre 
scraps  of  memory  they  fashioned  a  marvelous  image  of  them- 
selves and  their  friendship.  After  having  idealized  each  other 
during  the  week,  they  met  again  on  the  Sunday,  and  in  spite 
of  the  discrepancy  between  the  truth  and  their  illusion,  they 
got  used  to  not  noticing  it  and  to  twisting  things  to  fit  in  with 
their  desires. 

They  were  proud  of  being  friends.  The  very  contrast  of  their 
natures  brought  them  together.  Jean-Christophe  knew  nothing 
so  beautiful  as  Otto.  His  fine  han.ls,  his  lovely  hair,  his  fresh 
complexion,  his  shy  speech,  the  politeness  of  his  manners,  and 
his  scrupulous  care  of  his  appearance  delighted  him.  Otto  was 
subjugated  by  Jean-Christophe's  brimming  strength  and  in- 
dependence. Accustomed  by  age-old  inheritance  to  religious 
respect  for  all  authority,  he  took  a  fearful  joy  in  the  company 
of  a  comrade  in  whose  nature  was  so  little  reverence  for  the 
established  order  of  things.  He  had  a  little  voluptuous  thrill 
of  terror  whenever  he  heard  him  decry  every  reputation  in  the 
town,  and  even  mimic  the  Grand  Duke  himself.  Jean-l'hris- 
tophe  knew  the  fascination  that  he  exercised  over  his  friend, 
and  used  to  exaggerate  his  aggressive  temper.  Like  some 
old  revolutionary,  he  hewed  awav  at  social  conventions  and 
the  laws  of  the  State.  Otto  would  listen,  scamlali/cd  and 
delighted.  He  used  timidly  to  try  and  join  in,  but  he  was 
always  careful  to  look  round  to  see  if  any  one  could  bear. 

Jean-Christophe  never  failed,  when  thev  walked  together,  to 
leap  the  fences  of  a  Held  whenever  he  saw  a  board  forbidding 
it,  or  he  would  pick  fruit  over  the  walls  of  private  grounds. 
Otto  was  in  terror  lest  they  should  be  discovered.  But  such 
feelings  had  for  him  an  exquisite  savor,  and  in  the  evening, 
when  he  had  returned,  he  would  think  himself  a  hero.  He 


MORNING  153 

admired  Jean-Christophe  fearfully.  His  instinct  of  obedience 
found  a  satisfying  quality  in  a  friendship  in  which  he  had 
only  to  acquiesce  in  the  will  of  his  friend.  Jean-Christophe 
never  put  him  to  the  trouble  of  coming  to  a  decision.  He 
decided  everything,  decreed  the  doings  of  the  day,  decreed  even 
the  ordering  of  life,  making  plans,  which  admitted  of  no  dis- 
cussion, for  Otto's  future,  just  as  he  did  for  his  own  family. 
Otto  fell  in  with  them,  though  lie  Avas  a  little  put  aback  by  hear- 
ing Jean-Christophe  dispose  of  his  fortune  for  the  building  later 
on  of  a  theater  of  his  own  contriving.  But,  intimidated  by  his 
friend's  imperious  tones,  he  did  not  protest,  being  convinced 
also  by  his  friend's  conviction  that  the  money  amassed  by 
Commerzienrath  Oscar  Diener  could  be  put  to  no  nobler  use. 
Jean-Christophe  never  for  a  moment  had  any  idea  that  he 
might  be  violating  Otto's  will.  He  was  instinctively  a  despot, 
and  never  imagined  that  his  friend's  wishes  might  be  different 
from  his  own.  Had  Otto  expressed  a  desire  different  from  his  own, 
he  would  not  have  hesitated  to  sacrifice  his  own  personal  prefer- 
ence. He  would  have  sacrificed  even  more  for  him.  He  was 
consumed  by  the  desire  to  run  some  risk  for  him.  He  wished 
passionately  that  there  might  appear  some  opportunity  of  put- 
ting his  friendship  to  the  test.  When  they  were  out  walking 
he  used  to  hope  that  they  might  meet  some  danger,  so  that  he 
might  fling  himself  forward  to  face  it.  He  would  have  loved 
to  die  for  Otto.  Meanwhile,  he  watched  over  him  with  a  rest- 
less solicitude,  gave  him  his  hand  in  awkward  places,  as  though 
he  were  a  girl.  He  was  afraid  that  he  might  be  tired,  afraid 
that  he  might  be  hot,  afraid  that  he  might  be  cold.  When 
they  sat  down  under  a  tree  he  took  off  his  coat  to  put  it  about 
his  friend's  shoulders ;  when  they  walked  he  carried  his  cloak. 
He  would  have  carried  Otto  himself.  He  used  to  devour  him 
with  his  eyes  like  a  lover,  and,  to  tell  the  truth,  he  was  in 
love. 

He  did  not  know  it,  not  knowing  yet  what  love  was.  Hut 
sometimes,  when  they  were  together,  he  was  overtaken  by  a 
strange  unease — the  same  that  had  choked  him  on  that  first 
day  of  their  friendship  in  the  pine-woods — and  the  blood  would 
rush  to  his  face  and  set  his  cheeks  aflame.  He  was  afraid.  By 
an  instinctive  unanimity  the  two  boys  used  furtively  to  separate 


154  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

and  run  away  from  each  other,  and  one  would  lag  behind  on 
the  road.  They  would  pretend  to  be  busy  looking  for  black- 
berries in  the  hedges,  and  they  did  not  know  what  it  was  that 
so  perturbed  them. 

But  it  was  in  their  letters  especially  that  their  feelings  flew 
high.  They  were  not  then  in  any  danger  of  being  contradicted 
by  facts,  and  nothing  could  check  their  illusions  or  intimidate 
them.  They  wrote  to  each  other  two  or  three  times  a  week  in 
a  passionately  lyric  style.  They  hardly  ever  spoke  of  real  hap- 
penings or  common  things;  they  raised  great  problems  in  an 
apocalyptic  manner,  which  passed  imperceptibly  from  enthusiasm 
to  despair.  They  called  each  other,  "  My  blessing,  my  hope, 
my  beloved,  my  Self."  They  made  a  fearful  hash  of  the  word 
"  Soul."  They  painted  in  tragic  colors  the  sadness  of  their 
lot,  and  were  desolate  at  having  brought  into  the  existence  of 
their  friend  the  sorrows  of  their  existence. 

"  I  am  sorry,  my  love,"  wrote  Jean-Christophc,  "  for  the 
pain  which  I  bring  you.  I  cannot  bear  that  you  should  suffer. 
It  must  not  be.  /  will  not  have  it."  (He  underlined  the  words 
with  a  stroke  of  the  pen  that  dug  into  the  paper.)  "If  you 
suffer,  where  shall  I  find  strength  to  live?  I  have  no  happi- 
ness but  in  you.  Oh,  be  happy !  I  will  gladly  take  all  the 
burden  of  sorrow  upon  myself !  Think  of  me !  Love  me ! 
I  have  such  great  need  of  being  loved.  From  your  love  there 
comes  to  me  a  warmth  which  gives  me  life.  If  you  knew  how 
I  shiver !  There  is  winter  and  a  biting  wind  in  my  heart.  I 
embrace  your  soul." 

"  My  thought  kisses  yours,"  replied   Otto. 

"  I  take  your  face  in  my  hands,"  was  Jean-Ohristophe's 
answer,  "and  what  I  have  not  done  and  will  not  do  with  my 
lips  I  do  with  all  my  being.  I  kiss  you  as  I  love  you,  Pru- 
dence !  " 

Otto  pretended  to  doubt  him. 

"Do  you  love  me  as  much  as  I  love  you?" 

"  0  God,"  wrote  Jean-Christophe,  "  not  as  much,  but  ten, 
a  hundred,  a  thousand  times  more!  What!  Do  you  not  feel 
it?  What  would  you  have  me  do  to  stir  your  heart?" 

"What  a  lovely  friendship  is  ours!"  sighed  Otto.  "Was 
there  ever  its  like  in  history?  It  is  sweet  and  fresh  as  a 


MORNING  155 

dream.  If  only  it  does  not  pass  away!  If  you  were  to  cease 
to  love  me !  " 

"  How  stupid  you  are,  my  beloved  !  "  replied  Jean-Christophe. 
"  Forgive  me,  but  your  weakling  fear  enrages  me.  How  can 
you  ask  whether  I  shall  cease  to  love  you !  For  me  to  live 
is  to  love  you.  Death  is  powerless  against  my  love.  You  your- 
self could  do  nothing  if  you  wished  to  destroy  it.  Even  if  you 
betrayed  me,  even  if  you  rent  my  heart,  I  should  die  with  a 
blessing  upon  you  for  the  love  with  which  you  fill  me.  Once 
for  all,  then,  do  not  be  uneasy,  and  vex  me  no  more  with  these 
cowardly  doubts !  " 

But  £  week  later  it  was  he  who  wrote: 

"  It  is  three  days  now  since  I  heard  a  word  fall  from  your 
lips.  I  tremble.  Would  you  forget  me?  My  blood  freezes 
at  the  thought.  .  .  .  Yes,  doubtless.  .  .  .  The  other  day  only 
I  saw  your  coldness  towards  me.  You  love  me  no  longer!  You 
are  thinking  of  leaving  me!  .  .  .  Listen!  If  you  forget  me, 
if  you  ever  betray  me,  I  will  kill  you  like  a  dog !  " 

"You  do  me  wrong,  my  dear  heart,"  groaned  Otto.  "You 
draw  tears  from  me.  I  do  not  deserve  this.  But  you  can  do 
as  you  will.  You  have  such  rights  over  me  that,  if  you  were 
to  break  my  soul,  there  would  always  be  a  spark  left  to  live 
and  love  you  always !  " 

"  Heavenly  powers !  "  cried  Jean-Christophe.  "  I  have  made 
my  friend  weep !  .  .  .  Heap  insults  on  me,  beat  me,  trample 
me  underfoot!  I  am  a  wretch!  I  do  not  deserve  your  love!" 

They  had  special  ways  of  writing  the  address  on  their  letters, 
of  placing  the  stamp — upside  down,  askew,  at  bottom  in  a 
corner  of  the  envelope — to  distinguish  their  letters  from  those 
which  they  wrote  to  persons  who  did  not  matter.  These  childish 
secrets  had  the  charm  of  the  sweet  mysteries  of  love. 

One  day,  as  he  was  returning  from  a  lesson,  Jean-Christophe 
saw  Otto  in  the  street  with  a  boy  of  his  own  age.  They  were 
laughing  and  talking  familiarly.  Jean-Christophe  went  pale, 
and  followed  them  with  his  eyes  until  they  had  disappeared 
round  the  corner  of  the  street.  They  had  not  seen  him.  He 
went  home.  It  was  as  though  a  cloud  had  passed  over  the  sun; 
all  was  dark. 


156  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

Wlion  they  met  on  the  following  Sunday,  Jean-Christophc 
said  nothing  at  first ;  but  after  they  had  been  walking  for  half 
an  hour  he  said  in  a  choking  voice: 

"  1  saw  you  on  Wednesday  in  the  Koniggasse." 

"  Ah  !  "  'said  Otto. 

And  he  blushed. 

Jean-Chrisiophe  went  on: 

"  You  were  not  alone." 

"  No,"  said  Otto ;  "  I  was  with  some  one." 

Jean-Christophe  swallowed  down  his  spittle  and  asked  in  a 
voice  which  he  strove  to  make  careless : 

"Who  was  it?" 

"  My  cousin  Franz." 

"Ah!"  said  Jean-Christophe;  and  after  a  moment:  "You 
have  never  said  anything  about  him  to.  me." 

"  He  lives  at  Eheinbach." 

"  Do  you  see  him  often  ?  " 

"  He  comes  here  sometimes." 

"  And  you,  do  you  go  and  stay  with  him  ?  " 

"  Sometimes." 

"  Ah !  "  said  Jean-Christophe  again. 

Otto,  who  was  not  sorry  to  turn  the  conversation,  pointed 
out  a  bird  who  was  pecking  at  a  tree.  They  talked  of 
other  things.  Ten  minutes  later  Jean-Christophe  broke  out 
again : 

"  Are  you  friends  with  him  ?  " 

"With  whom?"  asked  Otto. 

(He  knew  perfectly  who  was  meant.) 

"  With  your  cousin." 

"Yes.     Why?" 

"  Oh,  nothing  !  " 

Otto  did  not  like  his  cousin  much,  for  he  used  to  bother 
him  with  bad  jokes;  but  a  strange  malign  instinct  made  him 
add  a  few  moments  later: 

"  He  is  very  nice." 

"Who?"  asked  Jean-Christophe. 

(He  knew  quite  well  who  was  meant.) 

"  Franz." 

Otto  waited   for  Jean-Christophe   to  say  something,  but  he 


MORNING  157 

seemed  not  to  have  hoard.     He  was  cutting  a  switch  from  a 
hazel-tree.     Otto  went  on: 

"  Ho  is  amusing.     He  has  all  sorts  of  stories.'' 

Jean-Christophe   whistled   carelessly. 

Otto  rene\ved  the  attack : 

"And  he  is  so  clover  .  .  .  and  distinguished!  .  .  ." 

Jean-Christophe  shrugged  his  shoulders  as  though  to  say: 

"What  interest  can  this  person  have  for  me?" 

And  as  Otto,  piqued,  bogan  to  go  on,  he  brutally  cut  him 
short,  and  pointod  out  a  spot  to  which  to  run. 

They  did  not  touch  on  the  subject  again  the  whole  after- 
noon, but  they  were  frigid,  affecting  an  exaggerated  politeness 
which  was  unusual  for  them,  especially  for  Jean-Christophe. 
The  words  stuck  in  his  throat.  At  last  he  could  contain  him- 
self no  longer,  and  in  the  middle  of  the  road  he  turned  to  Otto, 
who  was  lagging  five  yards  behind.  He  took  him  fiercely  by 
the  hands,  and  let  loose  upon  him  : 

"  Listen,  Otto !  I  will  not — L  will  not  lot  you  bo  so  friendly 
with  Franz,  because  .  .  .  because  you  are  my  friend,  and  I 
will  not  let  you  love  any  one  more  than  me!  I  will  not!  You 
sec,  you  are  everything  to  me !  You  cannot  .  .  .  you  must  not ! 
...  If  I  lost  you,  there  would  bo  nothing  loft  but  death. 
I  do  not  know  what  I  should  do.  I  should  kill  myself;  I  should 
kill  you !  No,  forgive  me !  .  .  ." 

Tears  foil  from  his  eyes. 

Otto,  moved  and  frightened  by  the  sincerity  of  such  grief, 
growling  out  threats,  made  haste  to  swear  that  he  did  not  and 
never  would  love  anybody  so  much  as  Jean-Christophe,  that 
Franz  was  nothing  to  him,  and  that  lie  would  not  sec  him 
again  if  Jean-Christophe  wished  it.  Jean-Cbristophe  drank 
in  his  words,  and  his  heart  took  new  life.  lie  laughed  and 
breathed  heavily;  he  thanked  Otto  effusively.  He  was  ashamed 
of  having  made  such  a  scone,  but  ho  was  relieved  of  a  great 
weight.  They  stood  face  to  face  and  looked  at  each  oilier,  not' 
moving,  and  holding  hands.  They  were  very  happy  and  very 
much  embarrassed.  They  became  silent;  then  they  began  to 
talk  again,  and  found  their  old  gaiety.  They  felt  more  at  one 
than  ever. 

But  it  was  not  the  last  scone  of  the  kind.      Now  that   Otto 


158  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

felt  his  power  over  Jean-Christophe,  he  was  tempted  to  abuse 
it.  He  knew  his  sore  spot,  and  was  irresistibly  tempted  to 
place  his  finger  on  it.  Not  that  he  had  any  pleasure  in  Jean- 
Christophe's  anger;  on  the  contrary,  it  made  him  unhappy— 
but  he  felt  his  power  by  making  Jean-Christophe  suil'er.  lie 
was  not  bad;  he  had  the  soul  of  a  girl. 

In  spite  of  his  promises,  he  continued  to  appear  arm  in 
arm  with  Franz  or  some  other  comrade.  They  made  a  great 
noise  between  them,  and  lie  used  to  laugh  in  an  affected  way. 
When  Jean-Christophe  reproached  him  with  it,  he  used  to  titter 
and  pretend  not  to  take  him  seriously,  until,  seeing  Jean-Chris- 
tophe's  eyes  change  and  his  lips  tremble  with  anger,  he  would 
change  his  tone,  and  fearfully  promise  not  to  do  it  again,  and 
the  next  day  he  would  do  it.  Jean-Christophe  would  write 
him  furious  letters,  in  which  he  called  him: 

"  Scoundrel !  Let  me  never  hear  of  you  again !  I  do  not 
know  you !  May  the  devil  take  you  and  all  dogs  of  your 
kidney ! " 

But  a  tearful  word  from  Otto,  or,  as  he  ever  did,  the  sending 
of  a  flower  as  a  token  of  his  eternal  constancy,  was  enough  for 
Jean-Christophe  to  be  plunged  in  remorse,  and  to  write : 

"  My  angel,  I  am  mad !  Forget  my  idiocy.  You  are  the 
best  of  men.  Your  little  finger  alone  is  worth  more  than  all 
stupid  Jean-Christophe.  You  have  the  treasures  of  an  in- 
genuous and  delicate  tenderness.  I  kiss  your  flower  with  tears 
in  my  eyes.  It  is  there  on  my  heart.  I  thrust  it  into  my 
skin  with  blows  of  my  fist.  I  would  that  it  could  make  me 
bleed,  so  that  I  might  the  more  feel  your  exquisite  goodness 
and  my  own  infamous  folly!  .  •  ." 

But  they  began  to  weary  of  each  other.  It  is  false  to  pre- 
tend that  little  quarrels  feed  friendship.  Jean-Christophe  was 
sore  against  Otto  for  the  injustice  that  Otto  made  him  be 
guilty  of.  He  tried  to  argue  with  himself;  lie  laid  the  blame. 
'upon  his  own  despotic  temper.  II is  loyal  and  eager  nature, 
brought  for  the  first  time  to  the  test  of  love,  gave  itself  utterly, 
and  demanded  a  gift  as  utter  without  the  reservatirm  of  one 
particle  of  the  heart.  He  admitted  no  sharing  in  friendship. 
Being  ready  to  sacrifice  all  for  his  friend,  he  thought  it  right 
and  even  necessary  that  his  friend  should  wholly  sacrifice  him- 


MOBNTNG  159 

self  and  everything  for  him.  But  he  was  beginning  to  feel 
that  the  world  was  not  built  on  the  model  of  his  own  inflexible 
character,  and  that  he  was  asking  things  which  others  could 
not  give.  Then  he  tried  to  submit.  He  blamed  himself,  he 
regarded  himself  as  an  egoist,  who  had  no  right  to  encroach 
upon  the  liberty  of  his  friend,  and  to  monopolize  his  affection. 
He  did  sincerely  endeavor  to  leave  him  free,  whatever  it  might 
cost  himself.  In  a  spirit  of  humiliation  he  did  set  himself  to 
pledge  Otto  not  to  neglect  Franz ;  he  tried  to  persuade  himself 
that  he  was  glad  to  see  him  finding  pleasure  in  society  other 
than  his  own.  But  when  Otto,  who  was  not  deceived,  maliciously 
obeyed  him,  he  could  not  help  lowering  at  him,  and  then  he 
broke  out  again. 

If  necessary,  he  would  have  forgiven  Otto  for  preferring 
other  friends  to  himself;  but  what  he  could  not  stomach  was 
the  lie.  Otto  was  neither  liar  nor  hypocrite,  but  it  was  as  difficult 
for  him  to  tell  the  truth  as  for  a  stutterer  to  pronounce  words. 
What  he  said  was  never  altogether  true  nor  altogether  false. 
Either  from  timidity  or  from  uncertainty  of  his  own  feelings 
he  rarely  spoke  definitely.  His  answers  were  equivocal,  and, 
above  all,  upon  every  occasion  he  made  mystery  and  was  secret 
in  a  way  that  set  Jean-Christophe  beside  himself.  When  he 
was  caught  tripping,  or  was  caught  in  what,  according  to  the 
conventions  of  their  friendship,  was  a  fault,  instead  of  admit- 
ting it  he  would  go  on  denying  it  and  telling  absurd  stories. 
One  day  Jean-Christophe,  exasperated,  struck  him.  He  thought 
it  must  be  the  end  of  their  friendship  and  that  Otto  would 
never  forgive  him ;  but  after  sulking  for  a  few  hours  Otto 
came  back  as  though  nothing  had  happened.  He  had  no  resent- 
ment for  Jean-Christophe's  violence — perhaps  even  it  was  not 
unpleasing  to  him,  and  had  a  certain  charm  for  him — and  yet 
he  resented  Jean-Christophe  letting  himself  be  tricked,  gulping 
down  all  his  mendacities.  He  despised  him  a  little,  and  thought 
himself  superior.  Jean-Christophe,  for  his  part,  resented  Otto's 
receiving  blows  without  revolting. 

They  no  longer  saw  each  other  with  the  eyes  of  those  first 
days.  Their  failings  showed  up  in  full  light.  Otto  found  Jean- 
Christophe'a  independence  less  charming.  Jean-Christophe  was 
a  tiresome  companion  when  they  went  walking.  He  had  no  sort 


160  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

of  concern  for  correctness.  He  used  to  dress  as  ha  liked,  take 
off  his  coat,  open  his  waistcoat,  walk  with  open  collar,  roll  up 
his  shirt-sleeves,  put  his  hat  on  the  end  of  his  stick,  and  fling 
out  his  chest  in  the  air.  He  used  to  swing  his  arms  as  he 
walked,  whistle,  and  sing  at  the  top  of  his  voice.  He  used 
to  be  red  in  the  face,  sweaty,  and  dusty.  He  looked  like  a 
peasant  returning  from  a  fair.  The  aristocratic  Otto  used  to 
be  mortified  at  being  seen  in  his  company.  When  he  saw  a 
carriage  coming  he  used  to  contrive  to  lag  some  ten  paces 
behind,  and  to  look  as  though  he  were  walking  alone. 

Jcan-Christophe  was  no  less  embarrassing  company  when  he 
began  to  talk  at  an  inn  or  in  a  railway-carriage  when  they 
were  returning  home.  He  used  to  talk  loudly,  and  say  any- 
thing that  came  into  his  head,  and  treat  Otto  with  a  disgusting 
familiarity.  He  used  to  express  opinions  quite  recklessly  con- 
cerning people  known  to  everybody,  or  even  about  the  appear- 
ance of  people  sitting  only  a  few  yards  away  from  him,  or  be 
would  enter  into  intimate  details  concerning  his  health  and 
domestic  affairs.  It  was  useless  for  Otto  to  roll  his  eyes  and 
to  make  signals  of  alarm.  Jean-Christophe  seemed  not  to 
notice  them,  and  no  more  controlled  himself  than  if  he  had 
been  alone.  Otto  would  see  smiles  on  the  faces  of  his  neigh- 
bors, and  would  gladly  have  sunk  into  the  ground.  He  thought 
Jean-Christophe  coarse,  and  could  not  understand  how  he  could 
ever  have  found  delight  in  hirn. 

What  was  most  serious  was  that  Jean-Christophc  was  just  as 
reckless  and  indifferent  concerning  all  the  hedges,  fences',  in- 
closurcs,  walls,  prohibitions  of  entry,  threats  of  fines,  Verbot 
of  all  sorts,  and  everything  that  sought  to  confine  his  liberty 
and  protect,  the  sacred  rights  of  property  against  it.  Otto 
lived  in  fear  from  moment  to  moment,  and  all  his  protests 
were  useless.  Jean-Christophe  grew  worse  out  of  bravado. 

One  day,  when  Jean-Christophe,  with  Otto  at  his  heels,  was 
walking  perfectly  at  home  across  a  private  wood,  in  spite  of, 
or  because  of,  the  walls  fortified  with  broken  bottles  which 
they  had  had  to  clear,  they  found  themselves  suddenly  face  to 
face  with  a  gamekeeper,  who  let  fire  a  volley  of  oaths  at  them, 
and  after  keeping  them  for  some  time  under  a  threat  of  legal 
proceedings,  packed  them  oil'  in  the  most  ignominious  fashion. 


MORNING  Itil 

Otto  did  not  shine  under  this  ordeal.  He  thought  that  he  was 
already  in  jail,  and  wept,  stupidly  protesting  that  he  had  gone 
in  by  accident,  and  that  he  had  followed  Jean-Christophe  with- 
out knowing  whither  he  was  going.  When  he  saw  that  he 
was  safe,  instead  of  being  glad,  he  bitterly  reproached  Jean- 
Christophe.  He  complained  that  Jean-Christophe  had  brought 
him  into  trouble.  Jean-Christophe  quelled  him  with  a  look, 
and  called  him  u  Lily-liver !"  There  was  a  quick  passage  of 
words.  Otto  would  have  left  Jean-Christophe  if  he  had  known 
how  to  find  the  way  home.  He  was  forced  to  follow  him,  but 
they  affected  to  pretend  that  they  were  not  together. 

A  storm  was  brewing.  In  their  anger  they  had  not  seen 
it  coming.  The  baking  countryside  resounded  with  the  cries 
of  insects.  Suddenly  all  was  still.  They  only  grew  aware 
of  the  silence  after  a  few  minutes.  Their  ears  buzzed.  Tliey 
raised  their  eyes;  the  sky  was  black;  huge,  heavy,  livid  clouds 
overcast  it.  They  came  up  from  every  side  like  a  cavalry-charge. 
They  seemed  all  to  be  hastening  towards  an  invisible  point, 
drawn  by  a  gap  in  the  sky.  Otto,  in  terror,  dare  not  tell  his 
fears,  and  Jean-Christophe  took  a  malignant  pleasure  in  pre- 
tending not  to  notice  anything.  But  without  saying  a  word 
they  drew  nearer  together.  They  were  alone  in  the  wide  coun- 
try. Silence.  Xot  a  wind  stirred, — hardly  a  fevered  tremor 
that  made  the  little  leaves  of  the  trees  shiver  now  and  then. 
Suddenly  a  whirling  wind  raised  the  dust,  twisted  the  trees 
and  lashed  them  furiously.  And  the  silence  came  again,  more 
terrible  than  before.  Otto,  .  in  a  trembling  voice,  spoke  at 
last. 

"It  is  a  storm.    We  must  go  home." 

Jean-Christophe  said  : 

"  Let  us  go  home." 

But  it  was  too  late.  A  blinding,  savage  light  Hashed,  the 
heavens  roared,  the  vault  of  clouds  rumbled.  In  a  moment 
they  were  wrapped  about  by  the  hurricane,  maddened  by  the 
lightning,  deafened  by  the  thunder,  drenched  from  head  to 
foot.  They  were  in  deserted  country,  half  an  hour  from  the 
nearest  house.  In  the  lashing  rain,  in  the  dim  light,  came  the 
great  red  flashes  of  the  storm.  They  tried  to  run  but,  their 
wet  clothes  clinging,  they  could  hardly  walk.  Their  shoes 


162  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

slipped  on  their  feet,  the  water  trickled  down  their  bodies.  It 
was  difficult  to  breathe.  Otto's  teeth  were  chattering,  and  he  was 
mad  with  rage,  lie  said  biting  things  to  Jean-Christophe.  He 
wanted  to  stop;  he  declared  that  it  was  dangerous  to  walk; 
he  threatened  to  sit  down  on  the  road,  to  sleep  on  the  soil  in 
the  middle  of  the  plowed  fields.  Jean-Christophe  made  no 
reply.  He  went  on  walking,  blinded  by  the  wind,  the  rain, 
and  the  lightning;  deafened  by  the  noise;  a  little  uneasy,  but 
unwilling  to  admit  it. 

And  suddenly  it  was  all  over.  The  storm  had  passed,  as  it 
had  come.  But  they  were  both  in  a  pitiful  condition.  In  truth, 
Jean-Christophe  was,  as  usual,  so  disheveled  that  a  little  more 
disorder  made  hardly  any  difference  to  him.  But  Otto,  so  neat, 
so  careful  of  his  appearance,  cut  a  sorry  figure.  It  was  as 
though  he  had  just  taken  a  bath  in  his  clothes,  and  Jean- 
Christophe,  turning  and  seeing  him,  could  not  help  roar- 
ing with  laughter.  Otto  was  so  exhausted  that  ho  could  not 
even  be  angry.  Jean-Christophe  took  pity  and  talked  gaily 
to  him.  Otto  replied  with  a  look  of  fury.  Jean-Christophe 
made  him  stop  at  a  farm.  They  dried  themselves  before. 
a  great  fire,  and  drank  hot  wine.  Jean-Christophe  thought  the 
adventure  funny,  and  tried  to  laugh  at  it;  but  that  was  not 
at  all  to  Otto's  taste,  and  he  was  morose  and  silent  for  the  rest 
of  their  walk.  They  came  back  sulking  and  did  not  shake 
hands  when  they  parted. 

As  a  result  of  this  prank  they  did  not  see  each  other  for 
more  than  a  week.  They  were  severe  in  their  judgment  of 
each  other.  But  after  inflicting  punishment  on  themselves  by 
depriving  themselves  of  one  of  their  Sunday  walks,  they  got 
so  bored  that  their  rancor  died  away.  Jean-Christophe  made 
the  first  advances  as  usual.  Otto  condescended  to  meet  them, 
and  they  made  peace. 

In  spite  of  their  disagreement  it  was  impossible  for  them 
to  do  without  each  other.  They  had  many  faults;  they  were 
both  egoists.  But  their  egoism  was  naive;  it  knew  not  the 
self-seeking  of  maturity  which  makes  it  so  repulsive;  it  knew 
not  itself  even;  it  was  almost  lovable,  and  did  not  prevent  them 
from  sincerely  loving  each  other!  Young  Otto  used  to  weep 
on  his  pillow  as  he  told  himself  stories  of  romantic  devotion 


MORNING  1G3 

of  which  he  was  the  hero;  he  used  to  invent  pathetic  adventures, 
in  which  he  was  strong,  valiant,  intrepid,  and  protected  Jean- 
Christophe,  whom  he  used  to  imagine  that  lie  adored.  Jean- 
Christophe  never  saw  or  heard  anything  beautiful  or  strange 
without  thinking:  "If  only  Otto  were  here!"  He  carried  the 
image  of  his  friend  into  his  whole  life,  and  that  image  used 
to  be  transfigured,  and  become  so  gentle  that,  in  spite  of  all 
that  he  knew  about  Otto,  it  used  to  intoxicate  him.  Certain 
words  of  Otto's  which  he  used  to  remember  long  after  they 
were  spoken,  and  to  embellish  by  the  way,  used  to  make  him 
tremble  with  emotion.  They  imitated  each  other.  Otto  aped 
Jean-Christophe's  manners,  gestures,  and  writing.  Jean-Chris- 
tophe  was  sometimes  irritated  by  the  shadow  which  repeated 
every  word  that  he  said  and  dished  up  his  thoughts  as  though 
they  were  its  own.  But  he  did  not  see  that  he  himself  was 
imitating  Otto,  and  copying  his  way  of  dressing,  walking,  and 
pronouncing  certain  words.  They  were  under  a  fascination. 
They  were  infused  one  in  the  other;  their  hearts  were  over- 
flowing with  tenderness.  They  trickled  over  with  it  on  every 
side  like  a  fountain.  Each  imagined  that  his  friend  was  the 
cause  of  it.  They  did  not  know  that  it  was  the  waking  of  their 
adolescence. 

Jean-Christophe,  who  never  distrusted  any  one,  used  to  leave 
his  papers  lying  about.  But  an  instinctive  modesty  made  him 
keep  together  the  drafts  of  the  letters  which  he  scrawled  to 
Otto,  and  the  replies.  But  he  did  not  lock  them  up;  he  just 
placed  them  between  the  leaves  of  one  of  his  music-books,  where 
he  felt  certain  that  no  one  would  look  for  them.  He  reckoned 
without  his  brothers'  malice. 

He  had  seen  them  for  some  time  laughing  and  whispering 
and  looking  at  him ;  they  were  declaiming  to  each  other  frag- 
ments of  speech  whish  threw  them  into  wild  laughter.  Jean- 
Christophe  could  not  catch  the  words,  and,  following  his  usual 
tactics  with  them,  he  feigned  utter  indifference  to  everything 
they  might  do  or  say.  A  few  words  roused  his  attention;  he 
thought  he  recognized  them.  Soon  he  was  left  without  doubt 
that  they  had  read  his  letters.  But  when  he  challenged  Ernest 
and  Rodolphe,  who  were  calling  each  other  "  My  dear  soul/' 


164  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

with  pretended  earnestness,  he  could  get  nothing  from  them, 
The  little  wretches  protended  not  to  understand,  and  said  that 
they  had  the  right  to  call  each  other  whatever  they  liked.  Joan- 
Christophe,  who  had  found  all  the  letters  in  their  places,  did 
not  insist  farther. 

Shortly  afterwards  he  caught  Ernest  in  the  act  of  thieving; 
the  little  beast  was  rummaging  in  the  drawer  of  the  chest  in 
which  Louisa  kept  her  money.  Jean-Christophe  shook  him, 
and  took  advantage  of  the  opportunity  to  tell  him  evervthing 
that  he  had  stored  up  against  him.  He  enumerated,  in  terms 
of  scant  courtesy,  the  misdeeds  of  Ernest,  and  it  was  not  a 
short  catalogue.  Ernest  took  the  leciure  in  had  part;  he  replied 
impudently  that  Jean-Christophe  had  nothing  to  reproach  him 
with,  and  he  hinted  at  unmentionable  things  in  his  brother's 
friendship  with  Otto.  Jean-Christophe  did  not  understand; 
hut  when  he  grasped  that  Otto  was  being  dragged  into  the 
quarrel  he  demanded  an  explanation  of  Ernest.  The  boy  tit- 
tered; then,  when  he  saw  Jean-Christophe  white  with  anger, 
he  refused  to  say  any  more.  Jean-Christophe  saw  that  he 
would  obtain  nothing  in  that  way ;  lie  sat  down,  shrugged  his 
shoulders,  and  affected  a  profound  contempt  for  Ernest. 
Ernest,  piqued  by  this,  was  impudent  again;  he  set  himself 
to  hurt  his  brother,  and  set  forth  a  litany  of  things  each  more 
cruel  and  more  vile  than  the  last.  Jean-Christophe  kept  a 
tight  hand  on  himself.  When  at  last  he  did  understand,  he 
saw  red;  he  leaped  from  his  chair.  Ernest  had  no  time  to  cry 
out.  Jean-Christophe  had  hurled  himself  on  him,  and  rolled 
with  him  into  the  middle  of  the  room,  and  beat  his  head  against 
the  tiles.  On  the  frightful  cries  of  the  victim.  Louisa,  ^lel- 
chior,  everybody,  came  running.  They  rescued  Ernest-  in  a 
parlous  state.  Jean-Christophe  would  not  loose  his  prey;  they 
had  to  beat  and  beat  him.  They  called  him  a  savage  beast, 
and  he  looked  it.  His  eyes  were  bursting  from  his  head,  he 
was  grinding  his  teeth,  and  his  only  thought  was  to  hurl  him- 
self again  on  Ernest.  When  they  asked  him  what  had  happened, 
his  fury  increased,  and  he  cried  out  that  he  would  kill  him. 
Ernest  also  refused  to  tell. 

Jean-Christophe  could  not  eat  nor  sleep.  He  was  shaking 
with  fever,  and  wept  in  his  bed.  It  was  not  only  for  Otto 


MOBNING  165 

that  he  was  suffering.  A  revolution  was  taking  place  in  him. 
Ernest  had  no  idea  of  the  hurt  that  he  had  been  able  to 
do  his  brother.  Jean-Christophe  was  at  heart  of  a  puritanical 
intolerance,  which  could  not  admit  the  dark  ways  of  life,  and 
was  discovering  them  one  by  one  with  horror.  At  fifteen,  with 
his  free  life  and  strong  instincts,  he  remained  strangely  simple. 
His  natural  purity  and  ceaseless  toil  had  protected  him.  His 
brother's  words  had  opened  up  abyss  on  abyss  before  him.  Never 
would  he  have  conceived  such  infamies,  and  now  that  the  idea 
of  it  had  come  to  him,  all  his  joy  in  loving  and  being  loved 
was  spoiled.  Not  only  his  friendship  with  Otto,  but  friendship 
itself  was  poisoned. 

It  was  much  worse  when  certain  sarcastic  allusions  made 
him  think,  perhaps  wrongly,  that  he  was  the  object  of  the  un- 
wholesome curiosity  of  the  town,  and  especially,  when,  some 
time  afterwards,  Melchior  made  a  remark  about  his  walks  with 
Otto.  Probably  there  was  no  malice  in  Melchior,  but  Jean- 
Christophe,  on  the  watch,  read  hidden  meanings  into  every 
word,  and  almost  he  thought  himself  guilty.  At  the  same  time 
Otto  was  passing  through  a  similar  crisis. 

They  tried  still  to  see  each  other  in  secret.  But  it  was 
impossible  for  them  to  regain  the  carelessness  of  their  old 
relation.  Their  frankness  was  spoiled.  The  two  boys  who 
loved  each  other  with  a  tenderness  so  fearful  that  they  had 
never  dared  exchange  a  fraternal  kiss,  and  had  imagined  that 
there  could  be  no  greater  happiness  than  in  seeing  each  other, 
and  in  being  friends,  and  sharing  each  other's  dreams,  now 
felt  that  they  were  stained  and  spotted  by  the  suspicion  of  evil 
minds.  They  came  to  see  evil  even  in  the  most  innocent  acts: 
a  look,  a  hand-clasp— they  blushed,  they  had  evil  thoughts. 
Their  relation  became  intolerable. 

Without  saying  anything  they  saw  each  other  less  often. 
They  tried  writing  to  each  other,  but  they  set  a  watch  upon 
their  expressions.  Their  letters  became  cold  and  insipid.  They 
grew  disheartened.  Jean-Christophe  excused  himself  on  the 
ground  of  his  work.  Otto  on  the  ground  of  being  too  busy, 
and  their  correspondence  ceased.  Soon  afterwards  Otto  left 
for  the  University,  and  the  friendship  which  had  lightened  a 
few  months  of  their  lives  died  down  and  out. 


166  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

And  also,  a  new  love,  of  which  this  had  been  only  the  fore- 
runner, took  possession  of  Jean-Christophe's  heart,  and  made 
every  other  light  seem  pale  by  its  side. 


Ill 

MINNA 

FOUR  or  five  months  before  these  events  Frau  Joscpha  von 
Kerich,  widow  of  Councilor  Stephen  von  Kerich,  had  left 
Berlin,  where  her  husband's  duties  had  hitherto  detained  them, 
and  settled  down  with  her  daughter  in  the  little  Rhine  town, 
in  her  native  country.  She  had  an  old  house  with  a  large 
garden,  almost  a  park,  which  sloped  down  to  the  river,  not 
far  from  Jean-Christophe's  home.  From  his  attic  Jean-Chris- 
tophe  could  see  the  heavy  branches  of  the  trees  hanging  over 
the  walls,  and  the  high  peak  of  the  red  roof  with  its  mossy 
tiles.  A  little  sloping  allc}',  with  hardly  room  to  pass,  ran 
alongside  the  park  to  the  right;  from  there,  by  climbing  a  post, 
you  could  look  over  the  wall.  Jean-Christophe  did  not  fail 
to  make  use  of  it.  He  could  then  see  the  grassy  avenues,  the 
lawns  like  open  meadows,  the  trees  interlacing  and  growing 
wild,  and  the  white  front  of  the  house  with  its  shutters  obsti- 
nately closed.  Once  or  twice  a  year  a  gardener  made  the  rounds, 
and  aired  the  house.  But  soon  Nature  resumed  her  sway  over 
the  garden,  and  silence  reigned  over  all. 

That  silence  impressed  Jean-Christophe.  He  used  often 
stealthily  to  climb  up  to  his  watch-tower,  and  as  he  grew  taller, 
his  eyes,  then  his  nose,  then  his  mouth  reached  up  to  the  top  of 
the  wall ;  now  he  could  put  his  arms  over  it  if  he  stood  on 
tiptoe,  and,  in  spite  of  the  discomfort  of  that  position,  he  used 
to  stay  so,  with  his  chin  on  the  wall,  looking,  listening,  while 
the  evening  unfolded  over  the  lawns  its  soft  waves  of  gold, 
which  lit  up  with  bluish  rays  the  shade  of  the  pines.  There  he 
could  forget  himself  until  he  heard  footsteps  approaching  in 
the  street.  The  night  scattered  its  scents  over  the  garden:  lilac 
in  spring,  acacia  in  summer,  dead  leaves  in  the  autumn.  When 
Jean-Christophe  was  on  his  way  home  in  the  evening  from  the 


MORNING  1G7 

Palace,  however  weary  he  might  be,  he  used  to  stand  by  the 
door  to  drink  in  the  delicious  scent,  and  it  was  hard  for  him 
to  go  back  to  the  smells  of  his  room.  And  often  he  had  played 
— when  he  used  to  play — in  the  little  square  with  its  tufts  of 
grass  between  the  stones,  before  the  gateway  of  the  house  of 
the  Kerichs.  On  each  side  of  the  gate  grew  a  chestnut-tree 
a  hundred  years  old;  his  grandfather  used  to  come  and  sit 
beneath  them,  and  smoke  his  pipe,  and  the  children  used  to 
use  the  nuts  for  missiles  and  toys. 

One  morning,  as  he  went  up  the  alley,  he  climbed  up  the 
post  as  usual.  lie  was  thinking  of  other  things,  and  looked 
absently.  He  was  just  going  to  climb  down  when  he  felt  that 
there  was  something  unusual  about  it.  lie  looked  towards  the 
house.  The  windows  were  open;  the  sun  was  shining  into  them 
and,  although  no  one  was  to  be  seen,  the  old  place  seemed  to 
have  been  roused  from  its  fifteen  years'  sleep,  and  to  be  smiling 
in  its  awakening.  Jean-Christophe  went  home  uneasy  in  his 
mind. 

At  dinner  his  father  talked  of  what  was  the  topic  of  the 
neighborhood :  the  arrival  of  Fran  Kerk-h  and  her  daughter 
with  an  incredible  quantity  of  luggage.  The  chestnut  square 
was  filled  with  rascals  who  had  turned  up  to  help  unload  the 
carts.  Jean-Christophe  was  excited  by  the  news,  which,  in  his 
limited  life,  was  an  important  event,  and  he  returned  to  his 
work,  trying  to  imagine  the  inhabitants  of  the  enchanted  house 
from  his  father's  story,  as  usual  hyperbolical.  Then  he  became 
absorbed  in  his  work,  and  had  forgotten  the  whole  affair  when, 
just  as  he  was  about  to  go  home  in  the  evening,  he  remembered 
it  all.  and  he  was  impelled  by  curiosity  to  climb  his  watch- 
tower  to  spy  out  what  might  be  toward  within  the  walls.  He 
saw  nothing  but  the  quiet  avenue,  in  which  the  motionless  trees 
seemed  to  be  sleeping  in  the  last  rays  of  the  sun.  In  a  few 
moments  he  had  forgotten  why  he  was  looking,  and  abandoned 
himself  as  he  always  did  to  the  sweetness  of  the  silence.  That 
strange  place — standing  erect,  perilously  balanced  on  the  top 
of  a  post — was  meet  for  dreams.  Coming  from  the  ugly  alley, 
stuffy  and  dark,  the  sunny  gardens  were  of  a  magical  radiance. 
His  spirit  wandered  freely  through  these  regions  of  harmony, 
and  music  sang  in  him;  they  lulled  him,  and  he  forgot  time 


168  JEAX-CHRISTOPHE 

and  material  things,  and  was  only  concerned  to  miss  none  of 
the  whisperings  of  his  heart. 

So  lie  dreamed  open-eyed  and  open-mouthed,  and  he  could 
not  have  told  ho\v  long  lie  had  been  dreaming,  for  he  saw  noth- 
ing. Suddenly  his  heart  leaped.  In  front  of  him,  at  a  bend 
in  an  avenue,  were  two  women's  faces  looking  at  him.  One, 
a  young  lady  in  black,  with  line  irregular  features  and  fair  hair, 
tall,  elegant,  with  carelessness  and  indifference  in  the  poise  of 
her  head,  was  looking  at  him  with  kind,  laughing  eyes.  The 
other,  a  girl  of  fifteen,  also  in  deep  mourning,  looked  as  though 
she  were  going  to  burst  out  into  a  lit  of  wild  laughter;  she  was 
standing  a  little  behind  her  mother,  who,  without  looking  at 
her.  signed  to  her  to  be  quiet.  She  covered  her  lips  with  her 
hands,  as  if  she  were  hard  put  to  it  not  to  burst  out  laughing. 
She  was  a  little  creature  with  a  fresh  face,  white,  pink,  and 
round-checked;  she  had  a  plump  little  nose,  a  plump  little 
mouth,  a  plump  little  chin,  firm  eyebrows,  bright  eyes,  and  a 
mass  of  fair  hair  plaited  and  wound  round  her  head  in  a  crown 
to  show  her  rounded  neck  and  her  smooth  white  forehead — a 
Cranach  face. 

Jean-Christophe  was  turned  to  stone  by  this  apparition.  He 
could  not  go  away,  but  stayed,  glued  to  his  post,  with  his  mouth 
wide  open.  It  was  only  when  he  saw  the  young  lady  coining 
towards  him  with  her  kindly  mocking  smile  that  he  wrenched 
himself  away,  and  jumped— tumbled — down  into  the  alley,  drag- 
ging with  him  pieces  of  plaster  from  the  wall,  lie  heard  a  kind 
voice  calling  him,  "  Little  boy!  "  and  a  shout  of  childish  laugh- 
ter, clear  and  liquid  as  the  song  of  a  bird.  He  found  himself 
in  the  alley  on  hands  and  knees,  and,  after  a  moment's  bewil- 
derment, he  ran  away  as  hard  as  he  could  go,  as  though  he  was 
afraid  of  being  pursued.  He  was  ashamed,  and  his  shame  kept 
bursting  upon  him  again  when  he  was  alone  in  his  room  at 
home.  After  that  he  dared  not  go  down  the  alley,  fearing 
oddly  that  they  might  be  Iving  in  wait  for  him.  When  lie  had 
to  go  by  the  house,  he  kept  close  to  the  walls,  lowered  his  head, 
and  almost  ran  without  ever  looking  back.  At  the  same  time 
he  never  ceased  to  think  of  the  two  faces  that  he  had  seen; 
he  used  to  go  up  to  the  attic,  taking  off  his  shoes  so  as  not 
to  be  heard,  and  to  look  his  hardest  out  through  the  skylight 


MORNING  169 

in  the  direction  of  the  Kerichs'  house  and  park,  although  lie 
knew  perfectly  well  that  it  was  impossible  to  sec  anything  but 
the  tops  of  the  trees  and  the  topmost  chimneys. 

About  a  month  later,  at  one  of  the  weekly  concerts  of  the 
Hof  Musik  Verein,  he  was  playing  a  concerto  for  piano  and 
orchestra  of  his  own  composition.  He  had  reached  the  last 
movement  when  he  chanced  to  sec  in  the  box  facing  him  Fran 
and  Friiulein  Kerich  looking  at  him.  He  so  little  expected 
to  see  them  that  he  was  astounded,  and  almost  missed  out  his 
reply  to  the  orchestra.  He  went  on  playing  mechanically  to 
the  end  of  the  piece.  When  it  was  finished  he  saw,  although 
he  was  not  looking  in  their  direction,  that  Frau  and  Fraulein 
Kerich  were  applauding  a  little  exaggeratedly,  as  though  they 
wished  him  to  see  that  they  were  applauding.  He  hurried  away 
from  the  stage.  As  he  was  leaving  the  theater  he  saw  Frau 
Kerich  in  the  lobby,  separated  from  him  by  several  rows  of 
people,  and  she  seemed  to  be  waiting  for  him  to  pass.  It  was 
impossible  for  him  not  to  see  her,  but  he  pretended  not  to  do 
so,  and,  brushing  his  way  through,  he  left  hurriedly  by  the 
stage-door  of  the  theater.  Then  he  was  angry  with  himself, 
for  he  knew  quite  well  that  Frau  Kerich  meant  no  harm.  But 
he  knew  that  in  the  same  situation  he  would  do  the  same  again. 
He  was  in  terror  of  meeting  her  in  the  street.  Whenever  he 
saw  at  a  distance  a  figure  that  resembled  her,  he  used  to  turn 
aside  and  take  another  road. 

It  was  she  who  came  to  him.     She  sought  him  out  at  home. 

One  morning  when  he  came  back  to  dinner  Louisa  proudly 
told  him  that  a  lackey  in  breeches  and  livery  had  left  a  letter 
for  him,  and  she  gave  him  a  largo  black-edged  envelope,  on  the 
back  of  which  was  engraved  the  Kerich  arms.  Jean-Christophe 
opened  it,  and  trembled  as  he  read  these  words: 

"  Frau  Josepha  von  Kerich  requests  the  pleasure  of  II of 
Mvsicus  Jean-Christophe  Krafft's  company  at  tea  to-day  at  half- 
past  five." 

"I  shall  not  go,"  declared   Jean-Christophe. 

"  What !  "  cried  Louisa.     "  I  said  that  you  would  go." 


170  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

Jean-Christophe  made  a  scene,  and  reproached  his  mother 
with  meddling  in  affairs  that  were  no  concern  of  hers. 

"  The  servant  waited  for  a  reply.  I  said  that  you  were  free 
to-day.  You  have  nothing  to  do  then." 

In  vain  did  Jean-Christophe  lose  his  temper,  and  swear  that 
he  would  not  go;  he  could  not  get  out  of  it  now.  When  the 
appointed  time  came,  he  got  ready  fuming;  in  his  heart  of 
hearts  he  was  not  sorry  that  chance  had  so  done  violence  to 
his  whims. 

Frau  von  Kerich  had  had  no  difficulty  in  recognizing  in  the 
pianist  at  the  concert  the  little  savage  whose  shaggy  head  had 
appeared  over  her  garden  wall  on  the  day  of  her  arrival.  She 
had  made  inquiries  about  him  of  her  neighbors,  and  what  she 
learned  about  Jean-Christophe's  family  and  the  boy's  brave  and 
difficult  life  had  roused  interest  in  him,  and  a  desire  to  talk  to 
him. 

Jean-Christophe,  trussed  up  in  an  absurd  coat,  which  made 
him  look  like  a  country  parson,  arrived  at  the  house  quite  ill 
with  shyness.  He  tried  to  persuade  himself  that  Frau  and, 
Friiulein  Kerich  had  had  no  time  to  remark  his  features  on  the 
day  when  they  had  first  seen  him.  A  servant  led  him  down 
a  long  corridor,  thickly  carpeted,  so  that  his  footsteps  made  no 
sound,  to  a  room  with  a  glass-paneled  door  which  opened  on 
to  the  garden.  It  was  raining  a  little,  and  cold ;  a  good  fire 
was  burning  in  the  fireplace.  Near  the  window,  through  which 
he  had  a  peep  of  the  wet  trees  in  the  mist,  the  two  ladies  were 
sitting.  Frau  Kerich  was  working  and  her  daughter  was  read- 
ing a  book  when  Jean-Christophe  entered.  When  they  saw 
him  they  exchanged  a  sly  look. 

"  They  know  me  again,"  thought  Jean-Christophe,  abashed. 

He  bobbed  awkwardly,  and  went  on  bobbing. 

Frau  von  Kerich  smiled  cheerfully,  and  held  out  her 
hand. 

"  Good-day,  my  dear  neighbor,"  she  said.  "  I  am  glad  to 
see  you.  Since  I  hoard  you  at  the  concert  1  have  been  wanting 
to  tell  you  how  much  pleasure  you  gave  me.  And  as  the  only 
way  of  telling  you  was  to  invite  you  here,  I  hope  you  will  forgive 
me  for  having  done  so." 

In  the  kindly,  conventional  words  of  welcome  there  was  so 


MOBNTNG  171 

much  cordiality,  in  spite  of  a  hidden  sting  of  irony,  that  Jean- 
Christophe  grew  more  at  his  ease. 

"  They  do  not  know  me  again,"  he  thought,  comforted. 

Frau  von  Kerich  presented  her  daughter,  who  had  closed  her 
book  and  was  looking  interestedly  at  Jean-Christophe. 

"  My  daughter  Minna,"  she  said.  "  She  wanted  so  much  to 
see  you." 

"  But,  mamma,"  said  Minna,  "  it  is  not  the  first  time  that 
we  have  seen  each  other." 

And  she  laughed  aloud. 

"  They  do  know  me  again,"  thought  Jean-Christophe,  crest- 
fallen. 

"  True,"  said  Frau  von  Kerich,  laughing  too,  "  you  paid 
us  a  visit  the  day  we  came." 

At  these  words  the  girl  laughed  again,  and  Jean-Christophe 
looked  so  pitiful  that  when  Minna  looked  at  him  she  laughed 
more  than  ever.  She  could  not  control  herself,  and  she  laughed 
until  she  cried.  Frau  von  Kerich  tried  to  stop  her,  but  she, 
too,  could  not  help  laughing,  and  Jean-Christophe,  in  spite  of 
his  constraint,  fell  victim  to  the  contagiousness  of  it.  Their 
merriment  was  irresistible;  it  was  impossible  to  take  offense 
at  it.  But  Jean-Christophe  lost  countenance  altogether  when 
Minna  caught  her  breath  again,  and  asked  him  whatever  he 
could  be  doing  on  the  wall.  She  was  tickled  by  his  uneasi- 
ness. He  murmured,  altogether  at  a  loss.  Frau  von  Kerich 
came  to  his  aid,  and  turned  the  conversation  by  pouring  out 
tea. 

She  questioned  him  amiably  about  his  life.  But  he  did  not 
gain  confidence.  He  could  not  sit  down ;  he  could  not  hold 
his  cup,  which  threatened  to  upset;  and  whenever  they  offered 
him  water,  milk,  sugar  or  cakes,  he  thought  that  he  had  to 
get  up  hurriedly  and  bow  his  thanks,  stiff,  trussed  up  in  his 
frock-coat,  collar,  and  tie,  like  a  tortoise  in  its  shell,  not  daring 
and  not  being  able  to  turn  his  head  to  right  or  left,  and  over- 
whelmed by  Frau  von  Kerich's  innumerable  questions,  and  the 
warmth  of  her  manner,  froxen  by  Minna's  looks,  which  he  felt 
were  taking  in  his  features,  his  hands,  his  movements,  his 
clothes.  They  made  him  even  more  uncomfortable  by  trying 
to  put  him  at  his  ease — Frau  von  Kerich  by  her  How  of  words, 


172  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

Minna  by  the  coquettish  eyes  which  instinctively  she  made  at 
him  to  amuse  herself. 

Finally  they  gave  up  trying  to  get  anything  more  from  him 
than  bows  and  monosyllables,  and  Frau  von  Kerich,  who  had 
the  whole  burden  of  the  conversation,  asked  him,  when  she  was 
worn  out,  to  play  the  piano.  Much  more  shy  of  them  than  of 
a  concert  audience,  he  played  an  adagio  of  Mozart.  l»ut  his 
very  shyness,  the  uneasiness  which  was  beginning  to  fill  his 
heart  from  the  company  of  the  two  women,  the  ingenuous 
emotion  with  which  his  bosom  swelled,  which  made  him  happy 
and  unhappy,  were  in  tune  with  the  tenderness  and  youthful 
modesty  of  the  music,  and  gave  it  the  charm  of  spring.  Frau 
von  Kerich  was  moved  by  it;  she  said  so  with  the  exaggerated 
words  of  praise  customary  among  men  and  women  of  the  world; 
she  was  none  the  less  sincere  for  that,  and  the  very  excess  of 
the  flattery  was  sweet  coming  from  such  charming  lips. 
Naughty  Minna  said  nothing,  and  looked  astonished  at  the  boy 
who  was  so  stupid  when  he  talked,  but  was  so  eloquent  with  his 
fingers.  Jcan-Christophe  felt  their  sympathy,  and  grew  bold 
under  it.  lie  went  on  playing;  then,  half  turning  towards 
Minna,  with  an  awkward  smile  and  without  raising  his  eyes,  he 
said  timidly: 

''  This  is  what  I  was  doing  on  1he  wall/"' 

He  played  a  little  piece  in  which  he  had,  in  fact,  developed 
the  musical  ideas  which  had  come  to  him  in  his  favorite  spot 
as  he  looked  into  the  garden,  not.  be  it  said,  on  the  evening 
when  he  had  seen  Minna  and  Fran  von  Kerich — for  some 
obscure  reason,  known  only  to  his  heart,  he  was  trying  to  per- 
suade himself  that  it  was  so— but  long  before,  and  in  the  calm 
rhythm  of  the  andanle  con  moto,  there  were  to  be  found  the 
serene  impression  of  the  singing  of  birds,  miitterings  of  beasts, 
and  the  majestic  slumber  of  the  great  trees  in  the  peace  of  the 
sunset. 

The  two  hearers  listened  delightedly.  When  lie  had  finished 
Frau  von  Kerich  rose,  took  his  hands  with  her  usual  vivacity, 
and  thanked  him  etl'usivelv.  Mimia  clapped  her  hands,  and 
cried  that  it  was  "  admirable."  and  that  to  make  him  compose 
other  works  as  ''sublime"  as  that,  she  would  have  a  ladder 
placed  against  the  wall,  so  that  he  might  work  there  at  his 


MORNIXO  173 

ease.  Frau  von  Kerich  told  Jean-Christophe  not  to  listen  to 
silly  Minna;  she  begged  him  to  come  as  ol'U'ii  as  lie  liked  to 
her  garden,  since  he  loved  it,  and  she  added  that  he-  need  never 
bother  to  call  on  them  it'  he  found  it  tiresome. 

"  You  need  never  bother  to  come  and  see  us,"  added  .Minna. 
"Only  if  you  do  not  come,  beware!" 

She  wagged  her  linger  in  menace. 

Minna  was  possessed  by  no  imperious  desire  that  Jean-Chris- 
tophe should  come  to  see  her,  or  should  even  follow  the  rules 
of  politeness  with  regard  to  herself,  but  it  pleased  her  to  pro- 
duce a  little  effect  which  instinctively  she  felt  to  be  charming. 

Jean-Christophe  blushed  delightedly.  Frau  von  Kerich  won 
him  completely  by  the  tact  with  which  she  spoke  of  his  mother 
and  grandfather,  whom  she  had  known.  The'  warmth  and  kind- 
ness of  the  two  ladies  touched  his  heart;  he  exaggerated  their 
easy  urbanity,  their  worldly  graeiousness,  in  his  desire  to  think 
it  heartfelt  and  deep,  lie  began  to  tell  them,  with  his  naive 
trustfulness,  of  his  plans  and  his  wretchedness,  lie  did  not 
notice  that  more  than  an  hour  had  passed,  and  he  jumped  with 
surprise  when  a  servant  came  and  announced  dinner.  But 
his  confusion  turned  to  happiness  when  Frau  von  Kerich  told 
him  to  stay  and  dine  with  them,  like  the  good  friends  that  they 
were  going  to  be,  and  were  already.  A  place  was  laid  for 
him  between  the  mother  and  daughter,  and  at  table  his  talents 
did  not  show  to  such  advantage  as  at  the  piano.  That  part 
of  his  education  had  been  much  neglected;  it  was  his  impression 
that  eating  and  drinking  were  the  essential  things  at  table, 
and  not  the  manner  of  them.  And  so  tidy  Minna  looked  at 
him,  pouting  and  a  little  horrified. 

They  thought  that  he  would  go  immediately  after  supper. 
But  he  followed  them  into  the  little  room,  and  sat  with  them, 
and  had  no  idea  of  going.  Minna  stilled  her  yawns,  and  made 
signs  to  her  mother,  lie  did  not  notice  them,  because  lie  was 
dumb  with  his  happiness,  and  thought  thev  wen1  likr  himself — 
because  Minna,  when  she  looked  at  him.  made  eves  at  him  from 
habit — and  finally,  once  he  was  seated,  he  did  not  <|uite  know 
how  to  get  up  and  lake  his  leave.  He  would  have  stayed  all 
night  hail  not  Frau  von  Kerich  sent  him  away  herself,  without 
ceremony,  but  kindly. 


JEAX-CHRISTOPHE 

He  went,  carrying  in  his  heart  the  soft  light  of  the  brown 
eyes  of  Fran  von  Kerich  and  the  blue  eyes  of  Minna;  on  his 
hands  he  felt  the  sweet  contact  of  soft  fingers,  soft  as  ilowers, 
and  a  subtle  perfume,  which  he  had  never  before  breathed, 
enveloped  him.  bewildered  him,  brought  him  almost  to  swoon- 
ing. 

He  went  again  two  days  later,  as  was  arranged,  to  give 
Minna  a  music-lesson.  Thereafter.,  under  this  arrangement,  lie 
went  regularly  twice  a  week  in  the  morning,  and  very  often  he 
went  again  in  the  evening  to  play  and  talk. 

Frau  von  Kerich  was  glad  to  see  him.  She  was  a  clever  and 
a  kind  woman.  She  was  thirty-five  when  she  lost  her  husband, 
and  although  young  in  body  and  at  heart,  she  was  not  sorry 
to  withdraw  from  the  world  in  which  she  had  gone  far  since 
her  marriage.  Perhaps  she  left  it  the  more  easily  because  she 
had  found  it  very  amusing,  and  thought  wisely  that  she  could 
not  both  eat  her  cake  and  have  it.  She  was  devoted  to  the 
memory  of  Herr  von  Kerich,  not  that  she  had  felt  anything 
like  love  for  him  when  they  married;  but  good-fellowship  was 
enough  for  her;  she  was  of  an  easy  temper  and  an  affectionate 
disposition. 

She  had  given  herself  up  to  her  daughter's  education ;  but 
the  same  moderation  which  she  had  had  in  her  love,  held  in 
check  the  impulsive  and  morbid  quality  which  is  sometimes  in 
motherhood,  when  the  child  is  the  only  creature  upon  whom 
the  woman  can  expend  her  jealous  need  of  loving  and  being 
loved.  She  loved  Minna  much,  but  was  clear  in  her  judgment 
of  her,  and  did  not  conceal  any  of  her  imperfections  any  more 
than  she  tried  to  deceive  herself  about  herself.  Witty  and 
clever,  she  had  a  keen  eye  for  discovering  at  a  glance  the  weak- 
ness, and  ridiculous  side,  of  any  person;  she  took  great  pleasure 
in  it,  without  ever  being  the  least  malicious,  for  she  was  as 
indulgent  as  she  was  scoffing,  and  while  she  laughed  at  people 
she  loved  to  be  of  use  to  them. 

Young  Jean-Christophe  gave  food  both  to  her  kindness  and 
to  her  critical  mind.  During  the  first  days  of  her  sojourn  in 
the  little  town,  when  her  mourning  kept  her  out  of  society, 
Jean-Christophe  was  a  distraction  for  her — primarily  by  his 


MORNING  175 

talent.  She  loved  music,  although  she  was  no  musician ;  she 
found  in  it  a  physical  and  moral  well-being  in  which  her 
thoughts  could  idly  sink  into  a  pleasant  melancholy.  Sitting 
by  the  fire — while  Jean-Christophe  played — a  book  in  her  hands, 
and  smiling  vaguely,  she  took  a  silent  delight  in  the  mechani- 
cal movements  of  his  fingers,  and  the  purposeless  wanderings 
of  her  reverie,  hovering  among  the  sad,  sweet  images  of  the 
past. 

But  more  even  than  the  music,  the  musician  interested  her. 
She  was  clever  enough  to  be  conscious  of  Jean-Christophe's 
rare  gifts,  although  she  was  not  capable  of  perceiving  his  really 
original  quality.  It  gave  her  a  curious  pleasure  to  watch  the 
waking  of  those  mysterious  fires  which  she  saw  kindling  in 
him.  She  had  quickly  appreciated  his  moral  qualities,  his 
uprightness,  his  courage,  the  sort  of  Stoicism  in  him,  so  touch- 
ing in  a  child.  But  for  all  that  she  did  not  view  him  the  less 
with  the  usual  perspicacity  of  her  sharp,  mocking  eyes.  His 
awkwardness,  his  ugliness,  his  little  ridiculous  qualities  amused 
her;  she  did  not  take  him  altogether  seriously;  she  did  not 
take  many  things  seriously.  Jean-Christophe's  antic  outbursts, 
his  violence,  his  fantastic  humor,  made  her  think  sometimes 
that  he  was  a  little  unbalanced;  she  saw  in  him  one  of  the 
Kraffts,  honest  men  and  good  musicians,  but  alwavs  a  little 
wrong  in  the  head.  Her  light  irony  escaped  Jean-Christophe; 
he  was  conscious  only  of  Frau  von  Kerich's  kindness.  He 
was  so  unused  to  any  one  being  kind  to  him!  Although  his 
duties  at  the  Palace  brought  him  into  daily  contact  with  the 
world,  poor  Jean-Christophe  had  remained  a  little  savage,  un- 
tutored and  uneducated.  The  selfishness  of  the  Court  was  only 
concerned  in  turning  him  to  its  profit  and  not  in  helping  him  in 
any  way.  He  went  to  the  Palace,  sat  at  the  piano,  played,  and 
went  away  again,  and  nobody  ever  took  the  trouble  to  talk 
to  him,  except  absently  to  pay  him  some  banal  compliment. 
Since  his  grandfather's  death,  no  one.  either  at  home  or  out- 
side, had  ever  thought  of  helping  him  to  learn  the  Conduct  of 
life,  or  to  be  a  man.  Tie  suffered  cruellv  from  his  ignorance 
and  the  roughness  of  his  manners.  He  went  through  an  agony 
and  bloody  sweat  to  shape  himself  alone,  but  hr  did  not  succeed. 
Books,  conversation,  example — all  were  lacking,  lie  would  fain 


17G  JEAX-CHRISTOPHE 

have  confessed  his  distress  to  a  friend,  but  could  not  bring 
himself  to  do  so.  Even  with  Otto  he  had  not  dared,  because 
at  the  iirst  words  he  had  uttered.  Otto  had  assumed,  a  tone 
of  disdainful  superiority  which  had  burned  into  him  like  hot 
iron. 

And  now  with  Fran  von  Kerich  it  all  became  easy.  Of  her 
own  accord,  without  his  having  to  ask  anything — it  cost  Jean- 
Christophe's  pride  so  much! — she  showed  him  gently  what  he 
should  not  do,  told  him  what  he  ought  to  do,  advised  him  how 
to  dress,  eat,  walk,  talk,  and  never  passed  over  any  fault  of 
manners,  taste,  or  language;  and  he  could  not  be  hurt  by  it, 
so  light  and  careful  was  her  touch  in  the  handling  of  the  boy's 
easily  injured  vanity.  She  took  in  hand  also  his  literary  educa- 
tion without  seeming  to  be  concerned  with  it;  she  never  showed 
surprise  at  his  strange  ignorance,  but  never  let  slip  an  oppor- 
tunity of  correcting  his  mistakes  simply,  easily,  as  if  it  were 
natural  for  him  to  have  been  in  error;  and,  instead  of  alarming 
him  with  pedantic  lessons,  she  conceived  the  idea  of  employing 
their  evening  meetings  by  making  Minna  or  J can-Christ ophe, 
read  passages  of  history,  or  of  the  poets,  German  and  foreign. 
She  treated  him  as  a  son  of  the  house,  with  a  few  line  shades 
of  patronizing  familiarity  which  he  never  saw.  She  was  even 
concerned  with  his  clothes,  gave  him  new  ones,  knitted  him 
a  woolen  comforter,  presented  him  with  little  toilet  things,  and 
all  so  gently  that  he  never  was  put  about  by  her  care  or  her 
presents.  In  short,  she  gave  him  all  the  little  attentions  and 
the  quasi-maternal  care  which  come  to  everv  good  woman  in- 
stinctively for  a  child  who  is  intrusted  to  her.  or  trusts  himself 
to  her,  without  her  having  any  deep  feeling  for  it.  But  -lean- 
Christophe  thought  that  all  the  tenderness  was  given  to  him 
personally,  and  he  was  filled  with  gratitude;  he  would  break 
out  into  little  awkward,  passionate  speeches,  which  seemed  a 
little  ridiculous  to  Fran  von  Kerich.  though  they  did  not  fail  to 
give  her  pleasure. 

With  Minna  his  relation  was  verv  different.  When  .Tean- 
(liristophe  met  her  again  at  her  first  lesson,  he  was  still  in- 
toxicated by  his  memories  of  the  preceding  evening  and  of 
the  girl's  soft  looks,  and  he  was  greatly  surprised  to  find  her 
an  altogether  different  person  from  the  girl  he  had  seen  only 


MORXIXG  177 

a  few  hours  before.  She  hardly  looked  at  him,  and  did  not 
listen  to  what  he  said,  and  when  she  raised  her  eyes  to  him,  he 
saw  in  them  so  icy  a  coldness  that  he  was  chilled  by  it.  lie 
tortured  himself  for  a  long  time  to  discover  wherein  lay  his 
offense.  He  had  given  none,  and  Minna's  feelings  were  neither 
more  nor  less  favorable  than  on  the  preceding  day;  just  as  she 
had  been  then,  Minna  was  completely  indifferent  to  him.  If 
on  the  first  occasion  she  had  smiled  upon  him  in  welcome,  it 
was  from  a  girl's  instinctive  coquetry,  who  delights  to  try  the 
power  of  her  eyes  on  the  lirst  comer,  be  it  only  a  trimmed  poodle 
who  turns  up  to  fill  her  idle  hours.  But  since  the  preceding 
day  the  too-easy  conquest  had  already  lost  interest  for  her.  .She 
had  subjected  Jean-Christophe  to  a  severe  scrutiny  and  she 
thought  him  an  ugly  boy,  poor,  ill-bred,  who  played  the  piano 
well,  though  he  had  ugly  hands,  held  his  fork  at  table  abomi- 
nably, and  ate  his  fish  with  a  knife.  Then  he  seemed  to  her 
very  uninteresting.  She  wanted  to  have  music-lessons  from 
him;  she  wanted,  even,  to  amuse  herself  with  him,  because  for 
the  moment  she  had  no  other  companion,  and  because  in  spite 
of  her  pretensions  of  being  no  longer  a  child,  she  had  still 
in  gusts  a  crazy  longing  to  play,  a  need  of  expending  her 
superfluous  gaiety,  which  was,  in  her  as  in  her  mother,  still 
further  roused  by  the  constraint  imposed  by  their  mourning. 
But  she  took  no  more  account  of  Jean-Christophe  than  of  a 
domestic  animal,  and  if  it  still  happened  occasionally  during 
the  days  of  her  greatest  coldness  that  she  made  eyes  at  him, 
it  was  purely  out  of  forgetfuluess,  and  because  she  was  thinking 
of  something  else,  or  simply  so  as  not  to  get  out  of  practice. 
And  when  she  looked  at  him  like  that,  Jean-Christophe's  heart 
used  to  leap.  It  is  doubtful  if  she  saw  it ;  she  was  telling  herself 
stories.  For  she  was  at  the  age  when  we  delight  the  senses 
with  sweet  fluttering  dreams.  She  was  forever  absorbed  in 
thoughts  of  love,  filled  with  a  curiosity  which  was  only  innocent 
from  ignorance.  And  she  only  thought  of  love,  as  a  well-taught 
young  lady  should,  in  terms  of  marriage.  Her  ideal  was  far 
from  having  taken  definite  shape.  Sometimes  she  dreamed 
of  marrying  a  lieutenant,  sometimes  of  marrying  a  poet,  prop- 
erly sublime,  a  la  Schiller.  One  project  devoured  another 
and  the  last  was  always  welcomed  with  the  same  gravity  and 


178  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

just  the  same  amount  of  conviction.  For  the  rest,  all  of  them 
were  quite  ready  to  give  way  before  a  profitable  reality,  for 
it  is  wonderful  to  see  how  easily  romantic  girls  forget  their 
dreams,  when  something  less  ideal,  but  more  certain,  appears 
before  them. 

As  it  was,  sentimental  Minna  was,  in  spite  of  all,  calm  and 
cold.  In  spite  of  her  aristocratic  name,  and  the  pride  with 
which  the  ennobling  particle  filled  her,  she  had  the  soul  of  a 
little  German  housewife  in  the  exquisite  days  of  adolescence. 

Xaturally  Jcan-Christophe  did  not  in  the  least  understand 
the  complicated  mechanism — more  complicated  in  appearance 
than  in  reality — of  the  feminine  heart.  He  was  often  baffled 
by  the  ways  of  his  friends,  but  he  was  so  happy  in  loving  them 
that  he  credited  them  with  all  that  disturbed  and  made  him 
sad  with  thorn,  so  as  to  persuade  himself  that  he  was  as  much 
loved  by  them  as  he  loved  them  himself.  A  word  or  an  affec- 
tionate look  plunged  him  in  delight.  Sometimes  he  was  so 
bowled  over  by  it  that  he  would  burst  into  tears. 

Sitting  by  the  table  in  the  quiet  little  room,  with  Fran  von 
Kerich  a  few  yards  away  sowing  by  the  light  of  the  lamp — 
Minna  reading  on  the  other  side  of  the  table,  and  no  one 
talking,  lie  looking  through  the  half-open  garden-door  at  the 
gravel  of  the  avenue  glistening  under  the  moon,  a  soft 
murmur  coming  from  the  tops  of  the  trees — -his  heart  would 
be  so  full  of  happiness  that  suddenly,  for  no  reason,  ho  would 
leap  from  his  chair,  throw  himself  at  Frau  von  Kerich's  feet, 
seize  her  hand,  needle  or  no  needle,  cover  it  Avith  kisses,  press 
it  to  his  lips,  his  cheeks,  his  eyes,  and  sob.  Minna  would  raise 
her  eyes,  lightly  shrug  her  shoulders,  and  make  a  face.  Frau 
von  Kerich  would  smile  down  at  the  big  boy  groveling  at  her 
feet,  and  pat  his  head  with  her  free  hand,  and  say  to  him  in 
her  pretty  voice,  affectionately  and  ironically: 

"Well,  well,  old  fellow!     What  is  it?" 

Oh,  the  sweetness  of  that  voice,  that  peace,  f1\at  silence,  that 
soft  air  in  which  were  no  shouts,  no  roughness,  no  violence, 
that  oasis  in  the  harsh  desert  of  life,  and — heroic  light  gilding 
with  its  rays  people  and  things — the  light  of  the  enchanted 
world  conjured  up  by  the  reading  of  the  divine  poets !  Goethe, 


MORNING  179 

Schiller,  Shakespeare,  springs  of  strength,  of  sorrow,  and  of 
love !  .  .  . 

Minna,  with  her  head  down  over  the  book,  and  her  face 
faintly  colored  by  her  animated  delivery,  would  read  in  her 
fresh  voice,  with  its  slight  lisp,  and  try  to  sound  important 
when  she  spoke  in  the  characters  of  warriors  and  kings.  .Some- 
times Frau  von  Kerich  herself  would  take  the  book;  then  she 
would  lend  to  tragic  histories  the  spiritual  and  tender  gracious- 
ness  of  her  own  nature,  but  most  often  she  would  listen,  lying 
back  in  her  chair,  her  never-ending  needlework  in  her  lap; 
she  would  smile  at  her  own  thoughts,  for  always  she  would 
come  back  to  them  through  every  book. 

Jean-Christophe  also  had  tried  to  read,  but  he  had  had  to 
give  it  up;  he  stammered,  stumbled  over  the  words,  skipped 
the  punctuation,  seemed  to  understand  nothing,  and  would  be 
so  moved  that  he  would  have  to  stop  in  the  middle  of  the  pathetic 
passages,  feeling  tears  coming.  Then  in  a  tantrum  he  would 
throw  the  book  down  on  the  table,  and  his  two  friends  would 
burst  out  laughing.  .  .  .  How  he  loved  them !  He  carried  the 
image  of  them  everywhere  with  him,  and  they  were  mingled 
with  the  persons  in  Shakespeare  and  Goethe.  He  could  hardly 
distinguish  between  them.  Some  fragrant  word  of  the  poets 
which  called  up  from  the  depths  of  his  being  passionate  emo- 
tions could  not  in  him  be  severed  from  the  beloved  lips  that 
had  made  him  hear  it  for  the  first  time.  Even  twenty  years 
later  he  could  never  read  Eginont  or  Romeo,  or  see  them  played, 
without  there  leaping  up  in  him  at  certain  lines  the  memory 
of  those  quiet  evenings,  those  dreams  of  happiness,  and  the 
beloved  faces  of  Frau  von  Kerich  and  Minna. 

He  would  spend  hours  looking  at  them  in  the  evening  when 
they  were  reading;  in  the  night  when  he  was  dreaming  in  his 
bed,  awake,  with  his  eyes  closed:  during  the  day,  when  he  was 
dreaming  at  his  place  in  the  orchestra,  playing  mechanically 
with  his  eyes  half  closed.  He  had  the  most  innocent  tenderness 
for  them,  and,  knowing  nothing  of  love,  he  thought  he  was  in 
love.  But  he  did  not  quite  know  whether  it  was  with  the  mother 
or  the  daughter.  He  went  into  the  matter  gravely,  and  did 
not  know  which  to  choose.  And  yet,  as  it  seemed  to  him  that 
he  must  at  all  costs  make  his  choice,  he  inclined  towards  Frau 


180  JEAIST-CHRISTOPHE 

von  Kerich.     And  lie  did  in  fact  discover,  as  soon  as  he  had 

made  up  his  mind  to  it,  that  it  was  she  that  lie  loved.  He 
loved  her  quick  eyes,  the  absent  smile  upon  her  half-open  lips, 
her  pretty  forehead,  so  young  in  seeming,  and  the  parting  to 
one  side  in  her  line,  soft  hair,  her  rather  husky  voice,  with  its 
little  cough,  her  motherly  hands,  the  elegance  of  her  move- 
ments, and  her  mysterious  soul.  He  would  thrill  with  happi- 
ness when,  sitting  by  his  side,  she  would  kindly  explain  to 
him  the  meaning  of  some  passage  in  a  book  which  he  did  not 
understand;  she  would  lay  her  hand  on  Jean-Christophc's  shoul- 
der; he  would  feel  the  warmth  of  her  fingers,  her  breath  on 
his  cheek,  the  sweet  perfume  of  her  body;  he  would  listen  in 
ecstasy,  lose  all  thought  of  the  hook,  and  understand  nothing 
at  all.  She  would  see  that  and  ask  him  to  repeat  what  she 
had  said;  then  he  would  say  nothing,  and  she  would  laughingly 
be  angry,  and  tap  his  nose  with  her  book,  telling  him  that 
he  would  always  be  a  little  donkey.  To  that  he  would  reply 
that  he  did  not  care  so  long  as  he  was  'her  little  donkey,  and 
she  did  not  drive  him  out  of  her  house.  She  would  pretend  to 
make  objections;  then  she  would  say  that  although  he  was  an 
ugly  little  donkey,  and  very  stupid,  she  would  agree  to  keep 
him — and  perhaps  even  to  love  him — although  he  was  good  for 
nothing,  it'  at  the  least  he  would  be  just  </ood.  Then  they 
would  both  laugh,  and  he  would  go  swimming  in  his  joy. 

When  he  discovered  that  he  loved  Fran  von  Kerich,  Jean- 
Christophe  broke  away  from  Minna.  He  was  beginning  to  be 
irritated  by  her  coldness  and  disdain,  and  as,  by  dint  of  seeing 
her  often,  he  had  been  emboldened  little  by  little  to  resume 
his  freedom  of  manner  with  her.  he  did  not  conceal  his  exaspera- 
tion from  her.  She  loved  to  sting  him.  and  he  would  reply 
sharply.  They  were  always  saying  unkind  things  to  each  other, 
and  Frau  von  Kerich  only  laughed  at  them.  Jean-Christophe, 
who  never  got  the  better  in  such  passages  of  words,  used  some- 
times to  issue  from  them  so  infuriated  that  he  thought  he  de- 
tested Minna;  and  he  persuaded  himself  that  he  only  went  to 
her  house  again  because  of  Frau  von  Kerich. 

He  went  on  giving  her  music  lessons.  Twice  a  week,  from 
nine  to  ten  in  the  morning,  he  superintended  the  girl's  scales 


MORNING  181 

and  exercises.  The  room  in  which  they  did  this  was  Minna's 
studio — an  odd  workroom,  which,  with  an  amusing  fidelity, 
reflected  the  singular  disorder  of  her  little  feminine  mind. 

On  the  table  were  little  figures  of  musical  cats — a  whole 
orchestra — one  playing  a  violin,  another  the  violoncello — a  little 
pocket-mirror,  toilet  things  and  writing  things,  tidily  arranged. 
On  the  shelves  were  tiny  busts  of  musicians — Beethoven  frown- 
ing, Wagner  with  his  velvet  cap,  and  the  Apollo  Belvedere. 
On  the  mantelpiece,  by  a  frog  smoking  a  red  pipe,  a  paper 
fan  on  which  was  painted  the  Bayreuth  Theater.  On  the  two 
bookshelves  were  a  few  books — Liibke,  Momni.sen,  Schiller, 
"  Sans  Famille,"  Jules  Verne,  Montaigne.  On  the  walls  large 
photographs  of  the  Sistine  Madonna,  and  pictures  by  llerkomer, 
edged  with  blue  and  green  ribbons.  There  was  also  a  view  of 
a  Swiss  hotel  in  a  frame  of  silver  thistles;  and  above  all,  every- 
where in  profusion,  in  every  corner  of  the  room,  photographs 
of  officers,  tenors,  conductors,  girl-friends,  all  with  inscriptions, 
almost  all  with  verse — or  at  least  what  is  accepted  as  verse  in 
Germany.  In  the  center  of  the  room,  on  a  marble  pillar,  was 
enthroned  a  bust  of  Brahms,  with  a  beard  ;  and.  above  the  piano, 
little  plush  monkeys  and  cotillion  trophies  hung  by  threads. 

Minna  would  arrive  late,  her  eves  still  puil'v  with  sleep, 
sulky;  she  would  hardly  reach  out  her  hand  to  Jean-Christophe, 
coldly  bid  him  good-day,  and,  without  a  word,  gravely  and  with 
dignity  sit  down  at  the  piano.  When  she  was  alone,  it  pleased 
her  to  play  interminable  scales,  for  that  allowed  her  agreeably 
to  prolong  her  half-somnolent  condition  and  the  dreams  which 
she  was  spinning  for  herself.  But  Jean-Christophe  would  com- 
pel her  to  Jix  her  attention  on  difficult  exercise.-,  and  so  some- 
times she  would  avenge  herself  by  playing  them  as  badly  as 
she  could.  She  was  a  fair  musician,  but  she  did  not  like  music 
— like  many  German  women.  But,  like  them,  she  thought  she 
ought  to  like  it,  and  she  took  her  lessons  conscientiously  enough. 
except  for  certain  moments  of  diabolical  malice  indulged  in  to 
enrage  her  master.  She  could  enrage  him  much  mere  by  tin1 
icy  inditl'erenee  with  which  she  set  herself  to  her  task.  But 
the  worst  was  when  she'  took  it  into  her  head  that  it  was  her 
duty  to  throw  her  soul  into  an  expressive  passage:  then  she 
would  become  sentimental  and  feel  nothing. 


182  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

Young  Jean-Christophe,  sitting  by  her  side,  was  not  very 
polite.  He  never  paid  her  compliments — far  from  it.  She 
resented  that,  and  never  let  any  remark  pass  without  answering 
it.  She  would  argue  about  everything  that  he  said,  and  when 
she  made  a  mistake  she  would  insist  that  she  was  playing  what 
was  written.  He  would  get  cross,  and  they  would  go  on  ex- 
changing ungracious  words  and  impertinences.  With  her  eyes 
on  the  keys,  she  never  ceased  to  watch  Jean-Christophe  and 
enjoy  his  fury.  As  a  relief  from  boredom  she  would  invent 
stupid  little  tricks,  with  no  other  object  than  to  interrupt  the 
lesson  and  to  annoy  Jean-Christophe.  She  Avould  pretend  to 
choke,  so  as  to  make  herself  interesting ;  she  would  have  a 
fit  of  coughing,  or  she  would  have  something  very  important 
to  say  to  the  maid.  Jean-Christophe  knew  that  she  was  play- 
acting; and  Minna  knew  that  Jean-Christophe  knew  that  she 
was  play-acting;  and  it  amused  her,  for  Jean-Christophe  could 
not  tell  her  what  he  was  thinking. 

One  day,  when  she  was  indulging  in  this  amusement  and 
was  coughing  languidly,  hiding  her  mouth  in  her  handkerchief, 
as  if  she  were  on  the  point  of  choking,  but  in  reality  watching 
Jean-Christophe's  exasperation  out  of  the  corner  of  her  eye, 
she  conceived  the  ingenious  idea  of  letting  the  handkerchief 
fall,  so  as  to  make  Jean-Christophe  pick  it  up,  which  he  did 
with  the  worst  grace  in  the  world.  She  rewarded  him  with 
a  "  Thank  you !  "  in  her  grand  manner,  which  nearly  made  him 
explode. 

She  thought  the  game  too  good  not  to  be  repeated.  Xext  day 
she  did  it  again.  Jean-Christophe  did  not  budge;  he  was  boil- 
ing with  rage.  She  waited  a  moment,  and  then  said  in  an 
injured  tone : 

"Will  you  please  pick  up  my  handkerchief?" 

Jean-Christophc  could  not  contain  himself. 

"  I  am  not  your  servant !  "  he  cried  roughly.  "  Pick  it  up 
yourself !  " 

Minna  choked  with  rage.  She  got  up  suddenly  from  her  stool, 
which  fell  over. 

"  Oh,  this  is  too  much !  "  she  said,  and  angrily  thumped 
the  piano;  and  she  left  the  room  in  a  fury. 

Jean-Christophe  waited.     She  did  not  come  back.     He  was 


MORXIXfl  183 

ashamed  of  what  he  had  done;  he  felt  that  he  had  Ix-haved  like 
a  little  cad.  And  he  was  at  the  end  of  his  tctlv:  :  she  made 
fun  of  him  too  impudently!  He  was  afraid  lest  Minna  should 
complain  to  her  mother,  and  he  should  be  forever  banished  from 
Frau  von  Kerich's  thoughts.  He  knew  not  what  to  do;  for  if 
he  was  sorry  for  his  brutality,  no  power  on  earth  would  have 
made  him  ask  pardon. 

He  came  again  on  the  chance  the  next  day.  although  he 
thought  that  Minna  would  refuse  to  take  her  lesson.  But 
Minna,  who  was  too  proud  to  complain  to  anybody — Minna, 
whose  conscience  was  not  shielded  against  reproach — appeared 
again,  after  making  him  wait  five  minutes  more  than  usual; 
and  she  sat  down  at  the  piano,  siiiV,  upright,  without  turning 
her  head  or  saying  a  word,  as  though  Jean-Christophe  no  longer 
existed  for  her.  But  she  did  not  fail  to  take  her  lesson,  and 
all  the  subsequent  lessons,  because  she  knew  very  well  that  .Jean- 
Christophe  was  a  line  musician,  and  that  she  ought  to  learn 
to  play  the  piano  properly  if  she  wished  to  IK — what  she  wished 
to  be — a  well-bred  young  lady  of  finished  education. 

But  how  bored  she  was!     How  they  bored  each  other! 

One  misty  morning  in  March,  when  little  Hakes  of  snow 
were  flying,  like  feathers,  in  the  gray  air,  they  were  in  the 
studio.  It  was  hardly  daylight.  Minna  was  arguing,  as  usual. 
about  a  false  note  that  she  had  struck,  and  pretending  that  it 
"  was  written  so."  Although  he  knew  perfectly  well  that  she 
was  lying,  Jean-Christophe  bent  over  the  book  to  look  at  tin- 
passage  in  question  closely.  Her  hand  was  on  the  rack,  and 
she  did  not  move  it.  His  lips  were  near  her  hand.  He  tried 
to  read  and  could  not;  he  was  looking  at  something  else — a 
thing  soft,  transparent,  like  the  petals  of  a  flower.  Suddenly— 
he  did  not  know  what  he  was  thinking  of — he  pressed  his  lips 
as  hard  as  he  could  on  the  little  hand. 

They  were  both  dumfounded  by  it.  He  flung  backwards; 
she  withdrew  her  hand — both  blushing.  They  said  n<>  word; 
they  did  not  look  at  each  other.  After  a  moment  <>f  confused 
silence  she  began  to  play  again;  she  was  very  uneasy:  her 
bosom  rose  and  fell  as  though  she  were  under  some  weight: 
she  struck  wrong  note  after  wrong  note,  lie  did  not  notice  it: 


184  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

he  was  more  uneasy  than  she.  His  temples  throbbed;  he  heard 
nothing;  he  knew  not  what  she  was  playing;  and,  to  break  the 
silence,  he  made  a  few  random  remarks  in  a  choking  voice. 
He  thought  that  he  was  forever  lost  in  Minna's  opinion.  He 
was  confounded  by  what  he  had  done,  thought  it  stupid  and 
rude.  The  lesson-hour  over,  he  left  Minna  without  looking  at 
her,  and  even  forgot  to  say  good-bye.  She  did  not  mind.  She 
had  no  thought  now  of  deeming  Jean-Christophe  ill-mannered; 
and  if  she  made  so  many  mistakes  in  playing,  it  was  because 
all  the  time  she  was  watching  him  out  of  the  corner  of  her 
eye  with  astonishment  and  curiosity,  and — for  the  first  time — 
sympathy. 

When  she  was  left  alone,  instead  of  going  to  look  for  her 
mother  as  usual,  she  shut  herself  up  in  her  room  and  examined 
this  extraordinary  event.  She  sat  with  her  face  in  her  hands 
in  front  of  the  mirror.  Her  eyes  seemed  to  her  soft  and  gleam- 
ing. She  bit  gently  at  her  lip  in  the  effort  of  thinking.  And 
as  she  looked  complacently  at  her  pretty  face,  she  visualized 
the  scene,  and  blushed  and  smiled.  At  dinner  she  was  animated 
and  merry.  She  refused  to  go  out  at  once,  and  stayed  in  the 
drawing-room  for  part  of  the  afternoon;  she  had  some  work 
in  her  hand,  and  did  not  make  ten  stitches  without  a  mistake, 
but  what  did  that  matter !  In  a  corner  of  the  room,  with  her 
back  turned  to  her  mother,  she  smiled ;  or,  under  a  sudden 
impulse  to  let  herself  go,  she  pranced  about  the  room  and 
sang  at  the  top  of  her  voice.  Frau  von  Kerich  started  and 
called  her  mad.  Minna  flung  her  arms  round  her  neck,  shak- 
ing with  laughter,  and  hugged  and  kissed  her. 

In  the  evening,  when  she  went  to  her  room,  it  was  a  long 
time  before  she  went  to  bed.  She  went  on  looking  at  herself 
in  the  mirror,  trying  to  remember,  and  having  thought  all 
through  the  day  of  the  same  thing — thinking  of  nothing.  She 
undressed  slowly;  she  stopped  every  moment,  sitting  on  the 
bed,  trying  to  remember  what  Jean-Christophe  was  like.  It 
was  a  Jean-Christophe  of  fautasy  who  appeared,  and  now  he 
did  not  seem  nearly  so  uncouth  to  her.  She  went  to  bed  and 
put  out  the  light.  Ten  minutes  later  the  scene  of  the  morning 
rushed  back  into  her  mind,  and  she  burst  out  laughing.  Her 
mother  got  up  softly  and  opened  the  door,  thinking  that,  against 


MORNING  185 

orders,  she  was  reading  in  bed.     She  found  Minna  lying  quietly 
in  her  bed,  with  her  eyes  wide  open  in  the  dim  candlelight. 
"  What  is  it?  "  she  asked.    "  What  is  amusing  you?  " 
"  Nothing,"  said  Minna  gravely.     "  1  was  thinking." 
"  You  are  very  lucky  to  find  your  own  company  so  amusing. 
But  go  to  sleep." 

"  Yes,  mamma,"  replied  Minna  meekly.  Inside  herself  she 
was  grumbling:  "Go  away!  Do  go  away!"  until  the  door 
was  closed,  and  she  could  go  on  enjoying  her  dreams.  She 
fell  into  a  sweet  drowsiness.  When  she  was  nearly  asleep,  she 
leaped  for  joy: 

"  He  loves  me.  .  .  .  What  happiness !  How  good  of  him  to 
love  me !  .  .  .  How  I  love  him !  " 

She  kissed  her  pillow  and  went  fast  asleep. 

When  next  they  were  together  Jean-Christophe  was  surprised 
at  Minna's  amiability.  She  gave  him  "  Good-day,"  and  asked 
him  how  he  was  in  a  very  soft  voice;  she  sat  at  the  piano, 
looking  wise  and  modest;  she  was  an  angel  of  docility.  There 
were  none  of  her  naughty  schoolgirl's  tricks,  but  she  listened 
religiously  to  Jean-Christophe's  remarks,  acknowledged  that 
they  were  right,  gave  little  timid  cries  herself  when  she  made  a 
mistake  and  set  herself  to  be  more  accurate.  Jean-Christophe 
could  not  understand  it.  In  a  very  short  time  she  made 
astounding  progress.  Not  only  did  she  play  better,  but  with 
musical  feeling.  Little  as  he  was  given  to  flattery,  he  had  to 
pay  her  a  compliment.  She  blushed  with  pleasure,  and  thanked 
him  for  it  with  a  look  tearful  with  gratitude.  She  took  pains 
with  her  toilet  for  him;  she  wore  ribbons  of  an  exquisite  shade; 
she  gave  Jean-Christophe  little  smiles  and  soft  glances,  which 
he  disliked,  for  they  irritated  him,  and  moved  him  to  the 
depths  of  his  soul.  And  now  it  was  she  who  made  conversation, 
but  there  was  nothing  childish  in  what  she  said ;  she  talked 
gravely,  and  quoted  the  poets  in  a  pedantic  and  pretentious 
way.  He  hardly  ever  replied;  he  was  ill  at  ease.  This  new 
Minna  that  he  did  not  know  astonished  and  disquieted  him. 

Always  she  watched  him.  She  was  waiting.  .  .  .  For  what? 
.  .  .  Did  she  know  herself?  .  .  .  She  was  waiting  for  him  to 
do  it  again.  He  took  good  care  not  to,  for  he  was  convinced 


186  JEAX-CHRISTOPHE 

tliat  lie  had  behaved  like  a  clod;  lie  seemed  never  to  give  a 
thought  to  it.  She  grew  restless,  and  one  day  when  he  was 
sitting  quietly  at  a  respectful  distance  from  her  dangerous  little 
paws,  she  was  sei/cd  with  impatience:  with  a  movement  so  quick 
that  she  had  no  time  to  think  of  it,  she  herself  thrust  her  little 
hand  against  his  lips.  He  was  staggered  hy  it,  then  furious 
and  ashamed.  But  none  the  less  he  kissed  it  very  passionately. 
Her  nai've  effrontery  enraged  him;  he  was  on  the  point  of 
leaving  her  there  and  then. 

But  he  could  not.  He  was  entrapped.  Whirling  thoughts 
rushed  in  his  mind  ;  he  could  make  nothing  of  them.  Like  mists 
ascending  from  a  valley  they  rose  from  the  depths  of  his  heart. 
He  wandered  hither  and  thither  at  random  through  this  .mist 
of  love,  and  whatever  he  did,  he  did  hut  turn  round  and  round 
an  obscure  fixed  idea,  a  Desire  unknown,  terrible  and  fascinat- 
ing as  a  flame  to  an  insect.  It  was  the  sudden  eruption  of  the 
blind  forces  of  Nature. 

They  passed  through  a  period  of  waiting.  They  watched 
each  other,  desired  cadi  other,  were  fearful  of  each  other. 
They  were  uneasy.  But  they  did  not  for  that  desist  from  their 
little  hostilities  and  sulkinesses;  only  there1  were  no  more  famili- 
arities between  them ;  they  were  silent.  Each  was  busy  con- 
structing their  love  in  silence. 

Love  has  curious  retroactive  effects.  As  soon  as  Jean- 
Christophe  discovered  that  he  loved  Minna,  he  discovered  at  the 
same  time  that  he  had  always  loved  her.  .For  three  months 
they  had  been  seeing  each  other  almost  everv  day  without  ever 
suspecting  the  existence  of  their  love.  But  from  the  day  when 
he  did  actuallv  Jove  her,  he  was  absolutelv  convinced  that  he 
had  loved  her  from  all  eternity. 

.It  was  a  good  thing  for  him  to  have  discovered  at  last  irlioin. 
he  loved.  He  hud  loved  for  so  long  without  knowing  whom! 
.It  was  a  sort  of  relief  to  him,  like  a  sick  man.  who.  suffering 
from  a  general  illness,  vague  and  enervating,  sees  it  become,' 
definite  in  sharp  pain  in  some  portion  of  his  body.  Nothing 
is  more  wearing  than  love  without  a  definite  object  :  it  eats 
away  and  saps  the  strength  like  a  fever.  A  known  passion 
leads  the  mind  to  excess;  that  is  exhausting,  but  at  least  one 


MORXIXG  IS? 

knows  why.  It  is  an  excess;  it  is  not  a  wasting  away.  Any- 
thing rather  than  emptiness. 

Although  Minna  had  given  Jcan-Christophe  good  reason  to 
believe  that  she  was  not  indifferent  to  him.  he  did  not  fail 
to  torture  himself  with  the  idea  that  she  despised  him.  They 
had  never  had  any  very  clear  idea  of  each  other,  hut  this  idea 
had  never  been  more  confused  and  false  than  it  was  now:  it 
consisted  of  a  series  of  strange  fantasies  which  could  never  be 
made  to  agree,  for  they  passed  from  one  extreme  to  the  other, 
endowing  each  other  in  turn  with  faults  and  charms  which  they 
did  not  possess— charms  when  they  were  parted,  faults  when 
they  were  together.  In  either  case  they  were  wide  of  the 
mark. 

They  did  not  know  themselves  what  they  desired.  For  Jean- 
Christophe  his  love  took  shape  as  that  thirst  for  tenderness,  im- 
perious,'absolute,  demanding  reciprocation,  which  had  burned  in 
him  since  childhood,  which  he  demanded  from  others,  and  wished 
to  impose  on  them  by  will  or  force.  Sometimes  this  despotic 
desire  of  full  sacrifice  of  himself  and  others- — especially  others, 
perhaps— was  mingled  with  gusts  of  a  brutal  and  obscure  desire, 
which  set  him  whirling,  and  he  did  not  understand  it.  Minna, 
curious  above  all  things,  and  delighted  to  have  a  romance,  tried 
to  extract  as  much  pleasure  as  possible  from  it  for  her  vanity 
and  sentimentality;  she  tricked  herself  whole-heartedly  as  to 
what  she  was  feeling.  A  great  part  of  their  love  was  purely 
literary.  They  fed  on  the  books  they  had  read,  and  wen1  forever 
ascribing  to  themselves  feelings  which  they  did  not  possess. 

But  the  moment  was  to  come  when  all  these  little  lies  and 
small  egoisms  were  to  vanish  awav  before  the  divine  light  of 

love.  A  dav,  an  hour,  a  few  seconds  of  eternity \nd  it 

was  so  unexpected  !  .  .  . 

One  evening  they  were  alone  and  talking.  The  room  was 
growing  dark.  Their  conversation  took  a  serious  turn.  They 
talked  of  the  infinite,  of  Life,  and  Death.  It  made  a  larger 
frame  for  their  little  passion.  Minna  complained  of  her  loneli- 
ness, which  led  naturally  to  .lean-C'hristophe's  answer  that  she 
was  not  so  lonely  as  she  thought. 

"  .No,"   she   said,   shaking   her  head.      "  That    is   onlv   words. 


188  JEAX-CHRISTOPHE 

Every  one  lives  for  himself ;  no  one  is  interested  in  you ;  nobody 
loves  you.'' 

Silence. 

"  And  I  ?  "  said  Jean-Christophe  suddenly,  pale  with  emotion. 

Impulsive  Minna  jumped  to  her  feet,  and  took  his  hands. 

The    door    opened.      They    Hung    apart.      Fran    von    Kerich- 
entered.     Jean-Christophe  buried  himself  in  a  book,  which  he 
held  upside   down.      Minna   bent  over   her   work,   and   pricked 
her  finger  with  her  needle. 

They  were  not  alone  together  for  the  rest  of  the  evening, 
and  they  were  afraid  of  being  left.  When  Frau  von  Kerich  got 
up  to  look  for  something  in  the  next  room,  Minna,  not  usually 
obliging,  ran  to  fetch  it  for  her,  and  Jean-Christophe  took 
advantage  of  her  absence  to  take  his  leave  without  saying  good- 
night to  her. 

Xext  day  they  met  again,  impatient  to  resume  their  inter- 
rupted conversation.  They  did  not  succeed.  Yet  circumstances 
were  favorable  to  them.  They  went  a  walk  with  Frau  von 
Kerich,  and  had  plent}-  of  opportunity  for  talking  as  much  as 
they  liked.  But  Jean-Christophe  could  not  speak,  and  he  was 
so  unhappy  that  he  stayed  as  far  away  as  possible  from  Minna. 
And  she  pretended  not  to  notice  his  discourtesy;  but  she  was 
piqued  by  it,  and  showed  it.  When  Jean-Christophe  did  at 
last  contrive  to  utter  a  few  words,  she  listened  icily;  he  had 
hardly  the  courage  to  finish  his  sentence.  They  were  coming 
to  the  end  of  the  walk.  Time  was  flying.  And  he  was  wretched 
at  not  having  been  able  to  make  use  of  it. 

A  week  passed.  They  thought  they  had  mistaken  their 
feeling  for  each  other.  They  were  not  sure  but  that  they  had 
dreamed  the  scene  of  that  evening.  Minna  was  resentful  against 
Jean-Christophe.  Jean-Christophe  was  afraid  of  meeting  her 
alone.  They  were  colder  to  each  other  than  ever. 

A  day  came  when  it  had  rained  all  morning  and  part  of  the 
afternoon.  They  had  stayed  in  the  house  without  speaking, 
reading,  yawning,  looking  out  of  the  window;  they  were  bored 
and  cross.  About  four  o'clock  the  sky  cleared.  The)-  ran  into 
the  garden.  They  leaned  their  elbows  on  the  terrace  wall,  and 
looked  down  at  the  lawns  sloping  to  the  river.  The  earth  was 
steaming;  a  soft  mist  was  ascending  to  the  sun;  little  rain- 


MORNING  189 

drops  glittered  on  the  grass;  the  smell  of  the  damp  earth  and 
the  perfume  of  the  flowers  intermingled;  around  them  buzzed 
a  golden  swarm  of  bees.  They  were  side  by  side,  not  looking 
at  each  other;  they  could  not  bring  themselves  to  break  the 
silence.  A  bee  came  up  and  clung  awkwardly  to  a  clump  of 
wistaria  heavy  with  rain,  and  sent  a  shower  of  water  down  on 
them.  They  both  laughed,  and  at  once  they  felt  that  they 
were  no  longer  cross  with  each  other,  and  were  friends  again. 
But  still  they  did  not  look  at  each  other.  Suddenly,  without 
turning  her  head,  she  took  his  hand,  and  said: 

"  Come ! " 

She  led  him  quickly  to  the  little  labyrinth  with  its  box- 
bordered  paths,  which  was  in  the  middle  of  the  grove.  They 
climbed  up  the  slope,  slipping  on  the  soaking  ground,  and 
the  wet  trees  shook  out  their  branches  over  them.  Near  the 
top  she  stopped  to  breathe. 

"  Wait  .  .  .  wait  .  .  ."  she  said  in  a  low  voice,  trying  to 
take  breath. 

He  looked  at  her.  She  was  looking  away;  she  was  smiling, 
breathing  hard,  with  her  lips  parted;  her  hand  was  trembling 
in  Jean-Christophe's.  They  felt  the  blood  throbbing  in  their 
linked  hands  and  their  trembling  ringers.  Around  them  all 
was  silent.  The  pale  shoots  of  the  trees  were  quivering  in  the 
sun;  a  gentle  rain  dropped  from  the  leaves  with  silvery  sounds, 
and  in  the  sky  were  the  shrill  cries  of  swallows. 

She  turned  her  head  towards  him;  it  was  a  lightning  flash. 
She  flung  her  arms  about  his  neck;  he  flung  himself  into  her 
arms. 

"  Minna  !     Minna !     My  darling !  .  .  ." 

"  I  love  you,  Jean  Christophe !  I  love  you !  " 

They  sat  on  a  wet  wooden  seat.  They  were  filled  with  love, 
sweet,  profound,  absurd.  Everything  else  had  vanished.  No 
more  egoism,  no  more  vanity,  no  more  reservation.  Love,  love 
— that  is  what  their  laughing,  tearful  eyes  were  saving.  The 
cold  coquette  of  a  girl,  the  proud  boy,  were  devoured  with  the 
need  of  self-sacrifice,  of  giving,  of  suffering,  of  dying  for  each 
other.  They  did  not  know  each  other ;  they  were  not  the  same ; 
everything  was  changed;  their  hearts,  their  faces,  their  eyes, 
gave  out  a  radiance  of  the  most  touching  kindness  and  tender- 


190  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

ness.  Moments  of  purity,  of  self-denial,  of  absolute  giving  of 
themselves,  which  through  life  will  never  return! 

After  a  desperate  murmuring  of  words  and  passionate  prom- 
ises to  belong  to  each  other  forever,  after  kisses  and  incoherent 
words  of  delight,  they  saw  that  it  was  late,  and  they  ran  back 
hand  in  hand,  almost  falling  in  the  narrow  paths,  bumping 
into  trees,  fueling  nothing,  blind  and  drunk  with  the  joy 
of  it. 

When  he  left  her  he  did  not  go  home;  he  could  not  have  gone 
to  sleep,  lie  left  the  town,  and  walked  over  the.  fields;  he 
walked  blindly  through  the  night.  The  air  was  fresh,  the  coun- 
try dark  and  deserted.  A  screech-owl  hooted  shrilly.  Jean- 
Christophe  went  on  like  a  sleep-walker.  The  little  lights  of 
the  town  quivered  on  the  plain,  and  the  stars  in  the  dark  sky. 
lie  sat  on  a  wall  by  the  road  and  suddenly  burst  into  tears. 
He  did  not  kno\v  why.  He  was  too  happy,  and  the  excess  of 
his  joy  was  compounded  of  sadness  and  delight;  there  was  in 
it  thankfulness  for  his  happiness,  pity  for  those  who  were  not 
happy,  a  melancholy  and  sweet  feeling  of  the  frailty  of  things, 
the  mad  joy  of  living.  He  wept  for  delight,  and  slept  in  the 
midst  of  his  tears.  When  he  awoke  dawn  was  peeping.  White 
mists  floated  over  the  river,  and  veiled  the  town,  where  Minna, 
worn  out,  was  sleeping,  while  in  her  heart  was  the  light  of  her 
smile  of  happiness. 

They  contrived  to  meet  again  in  the  garden  next  morning 
and  told  their  love  once  more,  but  now  the  divine  unconscious- 
ness of  it  all  was  gone.  She  was  a  little  playing  the  part 
of  the  girl  in  love,  and  he,  though  more  sincere,  was  also 
playing  a  part.  They  talked  of  what  their  life  should  he.  He 
regretted  his  poverty  and  humble  estate.  She  aJl'ected  to  be 
generous,  and  enjoyed  her  generosity.  She  said  that  she  cared 
nothing  for  money.  That  was  true,  for  she  knew  nothing 
about  it,  having  never  known  the  lack  of  it.  He  promised  that 
he  would  become  a  great  artist;  that  she  thought  fine  and  amus- 
ing, like  a  novel.  She  thought  it  her  duty  to  behave  really 
like  a  woman  in  love.  She  read  poetry;  she  was  sentimental. 
He  was  touched  by  the  infection.  He  took  pains  with  his  dress; 
he  was  absurd;  he  set  a  guard  upon  his  speech;  he  was  preten- 


MORNING  191 

tious.  Frau  von  Kericli  watched  him  and  laughed,  and  asked 
herself  what  could  have  made  him  so  stupid. 

But  they  had  moments  of  marvelous  poetry,  and  these  would 
suddenly  hurst  upon  them  out  of  dull  days,  like  sunshine  through 
a  mist.  A  look,  a  gesture,  a  meaningless  word,  and  they  were 
bathed  in  happiness;  they  had  their  good-byes  in  the  evening 
on  the  dimly-lighted  stairs,  and  their  eyes  would  seek  each 
other,  divine  each  other  through  the  half  darkness,  and  the 
thrill  of  their  hands  as  they  touched,  the  trembling  in  their 
voices,  all  those  little  nothings  that  fed  their  memory  at  night, 
as  they  slept  so  lightly  that  the  chiming  of  each  hour  would 
awake  them,  and  their  hearts  would  sing  UI  am  loved."  like 
the  murmuring  of  a  stream. 

They  discovered  the  charm  of  tilings.  Spring  smiled  witli 
a  marvelous  sweetness.  The  heavens  were  brilliant,  the  air  was 
soft,  as  they  had  never  been  before.  All  the  town — the  red 
roofs,  the  old  walls,  the  cobbled  streets — showed  with  a  kindly 
charm  that  moved  Jean-Christophe.  At  night,  when  everybody 
was  asleep,  Minna  would  get  up  from  her  bed,  and  stand  by 
the  window,  drowsy  and  feverish.  And  in  the  afternoon,  when 
he  was  not  there,  she  would  sit  in  a  swing,  and  dream,  with 
a  book  on  her  knees,  her  eyes  half  closed,  sleepy  and  lazily 
happy,  mind  and  body  hovering  in  the  spring  air.  She  would 
spend  hours  at  the  piano,  with  a  patience  exasperating  to  others, 
going  over  and  over  again  scales  and  passages  which  made  her 
turn  pale  and  cold  with  emotion.  She  would  weep  when  she 
heard  Schumann's  music.  She  felt  full  of  pity  and  kindness 
for  all  creatures,  and  so  did  he.  They  would  give  money 
stealthily  to  poor  people  whom  they  met  in  the  street,  and  would 
then  exchange  glances  of  compassion;  they  were  happy  in  their 
kindness. 

To  toll  the  truth,  they  were  kind  only  by  fits  and  starts. 
Minna  suddenly  discovered  how  sad  was  the  humble  life  of 
devotion  of  old  Frida.  who  had  been  a  servant  in  the  house 
since  her  mother's  childhood,  and  at  once  she  ran  and  hugged 
her.  to  the  great  astonishment  of  the  o;ood  old  creature,  who 
was  busy  mending  the  linen  in  the  kitchen.  Hut  that  did  not 
keep  her  from  speaking  harshly  to  her  a  few  hours  later,  when 
Frida  did  not  come  at  once  on  the  sound  of  the  bell.  And 


192  JEAN-CHBISTOPHE 

Jean-Christophe,  who  was  consumed  with  love  for  all  humanity, 
and  would  turn  aside  so  as  not  to  crush  an  insect,  was  entirely 
indifferent  to  his  own  family.  By  a  strange  reaction  he  was 
colder  and  more  curt  with  them  the  more  affectionate  he  was 
to  all  other  creatures;  he  hardly  gave  thought  to  them; 
he  spoke  abruptly  to  them,  and  found  no  interest  in 
seeing  them.  Both  in  Jean-Christophe  and  Minna  their  kind- 
ness was  only  a  surfeit  of  tenderness  which  overflowed  at  inter- 
vals to  the  benefit  of  the  first  comer.  Except  for  these  over- 
flowings they  were  more  egoistic  than  ever,  for  their  minds  were 
filled  only  with  the  one  thought,  and  everything  was  brought 
back  to  that. 

How  much  of  Jean-Christophe's  life  was  filled  with  the  girl's 
face !  What  emotion  was  in  him  when  he  saw  her  white  frock 
in  the  distance,  when  he  was  looking  for  her  in  the  garden; 
when  at  the  theater,  sitting  a  few  yards  away  from  their  empty 
places,  he  heard  the  door  of  their  box  open,  and  the  mocking 
voice  that  he  knew  so  well;  when  in  some  outside  conversation 
the  dear  name  of  Kerich  cropped  up !  He  would  go  pale  and 
blush;  for  a  moment  or  two  he  would  sec  and  hear  nothing. 
And  then  there  would  be  a  rush  of  blood  over  all  his  body, 
the  assault  of  unknown  forces. 

The  little  German  girl,  na'ive  and  sensual,  had  odd  little 
tricks.  She  would  place  her  ring  on  a  little  pile  of  flour,  and 
he  would  have  to  get  it  again  and  again  with  his  teeth  without 
whitening  his  nose.  Or  she  would  pass  a  thread  through  a 
biscuit,  and  put  one  end  of  it  in  her  mouth  and  one  in  his, 
and  then  they  had  to  nibble  the  thread  to  see  who  could  get 
to  the  biscuit  first.  Their  faces  would  come  together;  they 
would  feel  each  other's  breathing;  their  lips  would  touch,  and 
they  would  laugh  forcedly,  while  their  hands  would  turn  to 
ice.  Jean-Christophe  would  feel  a  desire  to  bite,  to  hurt;  he 
would  fling  back,  and  she  would  go  on  laughing  forcedly.  They 
would  turn  away,  pretend  indifference,  and  steal  glances  at 
each  other. 

These  disturbing  games  had  a  disquieting  attraction  for  them; 
they  wanted  to  play  them,  and  yet  avoided  them.  Jean-Chris- 
tophe was  fearful  of  them,  and  preferred  even  the  constraint 
of  the  meetings  when  Fran  von  Kerich  or  some  one  else  was 


MORNING  193 

present.  No  outside  presence  could  break  in  upon  the  converse 
of  their  loving  hearts;  constraint  only  made  their  love  sweeter 
and  more  intense.  Everything  gained  infinitely  in  value;  a 
word,  a  movement  of  the  lips,  a  glance  were  enough  to  make 
the  rich  new  treasure  of  their  inner  life  shine  through  the  dull 
veil  of  ordinary  existence.  They  alone  could  see  it,  or  so  they 
thought,  and  smiled,  happy  in  their  little  mysteries.  Their 
words  were  no  more  than  those  of  a  drawing-room  conversation 
about  trivial  matters;  to  them  they  were  an  unending  song 
of  love.  They  read  the  most  fleeting  changes  in  their  faces 
and  voices  as  in  an  open  book ;  they  could  have  read  as  well 
with  their  eyes  closed,  for  they  had  only  to  listen  to  their 
hearts  to  hear  in  them  the  echo  of  the  heart  of  the  beloved. 
They  were  full  of  confidence  in  life,  in  happiness,  in  themselves. 
Their  hopes  were  boundless.  They  loved,  they  were  loved, 
happy,  without  a  shadow,  without  a  doubt,  without  a  fear  of 
the  future.  Wonderful  serenity  of  those  days  of  spring !  Not 
a  cloud  in  the  sky.  A  faith  so  fresh  that  it  seems  that  nothing 
can  ever  tarnish  it.  A  joy  so  abounding  that  nothing  can  ever 
exhaust  it.  Are  they  living?  Are  they  dreaming?  Doubtless 
they  are  dreaming.  There  is  nothing  in  common  between  life 
and  their  dream — nothing,  except  in  that  moment  of  magic : 
they  are  but  a  dream  themselves;  their  being  has  melted  away 
at  the  touch  of  love. 

It  was  not  long  before  Frau  von  Kerich  perceived  their  little 
intrigue,  which  they  thought  very  subtly  managed,  though  it  was 
very  clumsy.  Minna  had  suspected  it  from  the  moment  when 
her  mother  had  entered  suddenly  one  day  when  she  was  talking 
to  Jean-Christophe,  and  standing  as  near  to  him  as  she  could, 
and  on  the  click  of  the  door  they  had  darted  apart  as  quii-kly 
as  possible,  covered  with  confusion.  Frau  von  Kerich  had  pre- 
tended to  see  nothing.  Minna  was  almost  sorry.  She  would 
have  liked  a  tussle  with  her  mother ;  it  would  have  been  more 
romantic. 

Her  mother  took  care  to  give  her  no  opportunity  for  it;  she 
was  too  clever  to  be  anxious,  or  to  make  any  remark  about  it. 
But  to  Minna  she  talked  ironically  about  Jean-Christophe,  and 
made  merciless  fun  of  his  foibles ;  she  demolished  him  in  a  few 


194  ,1 FA  N-CH  HI  STO1M1F 

words.  She  did  not  do  it  deliberately;  she  acted  upon  instinct 
with  the  treachery  natural  to  a  woman  who  is  defending  her 
own.  It  was  useless  1'or  Minna  to  resist,  and  sulk,  and  be 
impertinent,  and  go  on  denying  the  truth  of  her  remarks;  there 
was  only  too  much  justification  J'or  them,  and  Fran  von  iverieh 
had  a  cruel  skill  in  flicking  the  raw  spot.  The  largeness  of 
Jean-C'hristophe's  boots,  the  ugliness  of  his  clothes,  his  ill- 
brushed  hat,  his  provincial  accent,  his  ridiculous  way  of  bowing, 
the  vulgarity  of  his  loud-voiced  ness,  nothing  was  forgotten  which 
might  sting  Minna's  vanity.  Such  remarks  were  always  simple 
and  made  by  the  way;  they  never  took  the  form  of  a  set  speech, 
and  when  Minna,  irritated,  got  upon  her  high  horse  to  reply, 
Fran  von  Kerich  would  innocently'  be  otf  on  another  subject. 
But  the  blow  struck  home,  and  Minna  was  sore  under  it. 

She  began  to  look  at  Jean-Christophe  with  a  less  indulgent 
eye.  lie  was  vaguely  conscious  of  it,  and  uneasily  asked  her: 

"Why  do  you  look  at  me  like  that?" 

And  she  answered : 

"Oh,  nothing!" 

But  a  moment  after,  when  he  was  merry,  she  would  harshly 
reproach  him  for  laughing  so  loudly.  He  was  abashed;  he 
never  would  have  thought  that  lie  would  have  to  take  care  not 
to  laugh  too  loudly  witli  her:  all  his  gaiety  was  spoiled.  Or 
when  he  was  talking  absolutely  at  his  ease,  she  would  absently 
interrupt  him  to  make  some  unpleasant  remark  about  his  clothes, 
or  she  would  take  exception  to  his  common  expressions  with 
pedantic  aggressiveness.  Then  he  would  lose  all  desire  to  talk, 
and  sometimes  would  be  cross.  Then  he  would  persuade  him- 
self that  these  ways  which  so  irritated  him  were  a  proof  of 
Minna's  interest  in  him.  and  she  would  persuade  herself  also 
that  it  was  so.  He  would  trv  humbly  to  do  better.  But  she 
was  never  much  pleased  with  him.  for  he  hardly  ever  succeeded. 

But  he  had  no  time — nor  had  Minna — to  perceive  the  change 
that  was  taking  place  in  her.  Faster  came,  and  Minna  had 
to  go  with  her  mother  to  stay  with  some  relations  near  Weimar. 

During  the  last  week  before  the  separation  they  returned 
to  the  intimacy  of  the  first  days.  Fxccpt  for  little  outbursts 
of  impatience  Minna  was  more  affectionate  than  ever.  On  the 
eve  of  her  departure  they  went  for  a  long  walk  in  the  park; 


MORXIXG  195 

she  led  Jean-Christophe  mysteriously  to  the  arbor,  and  put 
about  his  neck  a  little  scented  bag,  in  which  she  had  placed 
a  lock  of  her  hair;  they  renewed  their  eternal  vows,  and  swore 
to  write  to  each  other  every  day:  and  they  chose  a  star  out 
of  the  sky,  and  arranged  to  look  at  it  every  evening  at  the 
same  time. 

The  fatal  day  arrived.  Ten  times  during  the  night  lie  had 
asked  himself,  "Where  will  she  be  to-morrow  ?  *'  and  now  he 
thought,  "  Tt  is  to-day.  This  morning  she  is  still  here:  to-night 
she  will  be  here  no  longer."  Pie  went  to  her  house  before  eight 
o'clock.  She  was  not  up;  he  set  out  to  walk  in  the  park; 
Tie  could  not;  he  returned.  The  passages  were  full  of  boxes 
and  parcels;  he  sat  down  in  a  corner  of  the  room  listening  for 
the  creaking  of  doors  and  floors,  and  recognizing  the  footsteps 
on  the  floor  above  him.  Fran  von  Kerich  passed,  smiled  as 
she  saw  him  and,  without  stopping,  threw  him  a  mocking  good- 
day.  Minna  came  at  last:  she  was  pale,  her  eyelids  were  swollen ; 
she  had  not  slept  any  more  than  he  during  the  night.  She 
gave  orders  busily  to  the  servants;  she  held  out  Tier  hand  to 
Jean-Christophe,  and  went  on  talking  to  old  Frida.  She  was 
ready  to  go.  Fran  von  Kerich  came  back.  They  argued  about 
a  hat-box.  Minna  seemed  to  pay  no  attention  to  Jean-Chris- 
tophe, who  was  standing,  forgotten  and  unhappy,  by  the  piano. 
She  went  out  with  her  mother,  then  came  back:  from  the  door 
she  called  out  to  Fran  von  Kerich.  She  closed  the  door.  Thev 
were  alone.  She  ran  to  him,  took  his  hand,  and  dragged  him 
into  the  little  room  next  door;  its  shutters  were  closed.  Then 
she  put  her  face  up  to  Jean-Christophe's  and  kissed  him  wildly. 
With  tears  in  her  eyes  she  said: 

"You  promise— you  promise  that  von  will  love  me  alwavs?" 

Thev  sobbed  quietly,  and  made  convulsive  efforts  to  choke 
their  sobs  down  so  as  not  to  be  heard.  Thev  broke  apart  as 
they  heard  footsteps  approaching.  Minna  dried  her  eves,  and 
resumed  her  bnsv  air  with  the  servants,  but  her  void1  trembled. 

Tie  succeeded  in  snatching  her  handkerchief,  which  she  had 
let  fall — her  little  dirty  handkerchief,  crumpled  and  wet  with 
her  tears. 

He  went  to  the  station  with  his  friends  in  their  carriage1. 
Sitting  opposite  each  other  Jean-Christophe  and  Minna  hardly 


196  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

dared  look  at  eacli  other  for  fear  of  bursting  into  tears.  Their 
hands  sought  each  other,  and  clasped  until  they  hurt.  Frau 
von  Kerich  watched  them  with  quizzical  good-humor,  and. 
seemed  not  to  see  anything.  The  time  arrived.  Jqan-Chris- 
tophe  was  standing  by  the  door  of  the  train  when  it  began  to 
move,  and  he  ran  alongside  the  carriage,  not  looking  where 
he  was  going,  jostling  against  porters,  his  eyes  fixed  on  Minna's 
eyes,  until  the  train  was  gone.  He  went  on  running  until  it 
was  lost  from  sight.  Then  he  stopped,  out  of  breath,  and 
found  himself  on  the  station  platform  among  people  of  no 
importance.  He  went  home,  and,  fortunately,  his  family  were 
all  out,  and  all  through  the  morning  he  wept. 

For  the  first  time  he  knew  the  frightful  sorrow  of  parting, 
an  intolerable  torture  for  all  loving  hearts.  The  world  is 
empty;  life  is  empty;  all  is  empty.  The  heart  is  choked;  it 
is  impossible  to  breathe;  there  is  mortal  agony;  it  is  difficult, 
impossible,  to  live— especially  when  all  around  you  there  are 
the  traces  of  the  departed  loved  one,  when  everything  about 
you  is  forever  calling  up  her  image,  when  you  remain  in  the 
surroundings  in  which  you  lived  together,  she  and  you,  when 
it  is  a  torment  to  try  to  live  again  in  the  same  places  the 
happiness  that  is  gone.  Then  it  is  as  though  an  abyss  were 
opened  at  your  feet;  you  lean  over  it;  you  turn  giddy;  you 
almost  fall.  You  fall.  You  think  you  are  face  to  face  with 
Death.  And  so  you  are;  parting  is  one  of  his  faces.  You 
watch  the  beloved  of  your  heart  pass  away;  life  is  effaced;  only 
a  black  hole  is  left — nothingness. 

Jean-Christophe  went  and  visited  all  the  beloved  spots,  so 
as  to  suffer  more.  Frau  von  Kerich  had  left  him  the  key  of 
the  garden,  so  that  he  could  go  there  while  they  were  away. 
He  went  there  that  very  day,  and  was  like  to  choke  with  sorrow. 
It  seemed  to  him  as  he  entered  that  he  might  find  there  a  little 
of  her  who  was  gone;  he  found  only  too  much  of  her;  her 
image  hovered  over  all  the  lawns;  he  expected  to  see  her  appear 
at  all  the  corners  of  the  paths;  he  knew  well  that  she  would 
not  appear,  but  he  tormented  himself  with  pretending  that  she 
might,  and  he  went  over  the  tracks  of  his  memories  of  love — 
the  path  to  the  labyrinth,  the  terrace  carpeted  with  wistaria, 


MORNING  197 

the  seat  in  the  arbor,  and  he  inflicted  torture  on  himself  by 
saying :  "  A  week  ago  .  .  .  three  days  ago  .  .  .  yesterday,  it 
was  so.  Yesterday  she  was  here  .  .  .  this  very  morning.  .  .  ." 
He  racked  his  heart  with  these  thoughts  until  he  had  to  stop, 
choking,  and  like  to  die.  In  his  sorrow  was  mingled  anger  with 
himself  for  having  wasted  all  that  time,  and  not  having  made 
use  of  it.  So  many  minutes,  so  many  hours,  when  he  had 
enjoyed  the  infinite  happiness  of  seeing  her,  breathing  her,  and 
feeding  upon  her.  And  he  had  not  appreciated  it !  He  had 
let  the  time  go  by  without  having  tasted  to  the  full  every  tiny 
moment !  And  now !  .  .  .  Now  it  was  too  late.  .  .  .  Irrepara- 
ble !  Irreparable ! 

He  went  home.  His  family  seemed  odious  to  him.  He  could 
not  bear  their  faces,  their  gestures,  their  fatuous  conversation, 
the  same  as  that  of  the  preceding  day,  the  same  as  that  of  all 
the  preceding  days — always  the  same.  They  went  on  living 
their  usual  life,  as  though  no  such  misfortune  had  come  to 
pass  in  their  midst.  And  the  town  had  no  more  idea  of  it 
than  they.  The  people  were  all  going  about  their  affairs,  laugh- 
ing, noisy,  busy;  the  crickets  were  chirping;  the  sky  was  bright. 
He  hated  them  all;  he  felt  himself  crushed  by  this  universal 
egoism.  But  he  himself  was  more  egoistic  than  the  whole 
universe.  Nothing  was  worth  while  to  him.  He  had  no  kind- 
ness. He  loved  nobody. 

He  passed  several  lamentable  days.  His  work  absorbed  him 
again  automatically :  but  he  had  no  heart  for  living. 

One  evening  when  he  was  at  supper  with  his  family,  silent 
and  depressed,  the  postman  knocked  at  the  door  and  left  a 
letter  for  him.  His  heart  knew  the  sender  of  it  before  he  had 
seen  the  handwriting.  Four  pairs  of  eyes,  fixed  on  him  with 
undisguised  curiosity,  waited  for  him  to  read  it,  clutching  at 
the  hope  that  this  interruption  might  take  them  out  of  their 
usual  boredom.  He  placed  the  letter  by  his  plate,  and  would 
not  open  it,  pretending  carelessly  that  he  knew  what  it  was 
about.  But  his  brothers,  annoyed,  would  not  believe  it,  and 
went  on  prying  at  it;  and  so  he  was  in  tortures  until  the  meal 
was  ended.  Then  he  was  free  to  lock  himself  up  in  his  room. 
His  heart  was  beating  so  that  he  almost  tore  the  letter  as  he 
opened  it.  He  trembled  to  think  what  might  be  in  it;  but 


198  •  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

as  soon  as  ho  had  glanced  over  the  first  words  he  was  filled  with 

joy- 

A  few  very  affectionate -words.  Minna  was  writing  to  him 
by  stealth.  She  called  him  "  Dear  Chris  tic  in,"  and  told  him 
that  she  had  wept  much,  had  looked  at  the  star  every  evening, 
that  she  had  been  to  Frankfort,  which  was  a  splendid  town, 
where  there  were  wonderful  shops,  but  that  she  had  never  both- 
ered about  am  thing  because  she  was  thinking  of  him.  She 
reminded  him  that  he  had  sworn  to  be  faith  fid  to  her,  and  not 
to  see  anybody  while  she  was  away,  so  that  he  might  think  only 
of  her.  She  wanted  him  to  work  all  the  time  while  she  was 
gone,  so  as  to  make  himself  famous,  and  her  too.  She  ended 
by  asking  him  if  he  remembered  the  little  room  where  they 
had  said  good-bye  on  the  morning  when  she  had  left  him:  she 
assured  him  that  she  would  be  there  still  in  thought,  and  that 
she  would  still  say  good-bye  to  him  in  the  same  Avay.  She 
signed  herself,  "  Eternally  yours !  Eternally !  .  .  ."  and  she 
had  added  a  postscript  bidding  him  buy  a  straw  hat  instead  of 
his  ugly  felt — all  the  distinguished  people  there  were  wearing 
them — a  coarse  straw  hat,  with  a  broad  bine  ribbon. 

Jcan-Christophe  read  the  letter  four  times  before  he  could 
quite  take  it  all  in.  He  was  so  overwhelmed  that  he  could  not 
even  be  happy;  and  suddenly  he  felt  so  tired  that  he  lay  down 
and  read  and  re-read  the  letter  and  kissed  it  again  and  again. 
lie  put  it  under  his  pillow,  and  his  hand  was  forever  making 
sure  that  it  was  there.  An  ineffable  sense  of  well-being  per- 
meated his  whole  soul.  He  slept  all  through  the  night. 

His  life  became  more  tolerable.  He  had  ever  sweet,  soaring 
thoughts  of  Minna.  He  set  about  answering  her;  but  he  could 
not  write  freely  to  her;  he  had  to  hide  his  feelings:  that  was 
painful  and  difficult  for  him.  He  continued  clumsily  to  conceal 
his  love  beneath  formulas  of  ceremonious  politeness,  which  he 
always  used  in  an  absurd  fashion. 

When  he  had  sent  it  he  awaited  Minna's  reply,  and  only 
lived  in  expectation  of  it.  To  win  patience  he  tried  to  go  for 
walks  and  to  read.  But  his  thoughts  were  only  of  Minna: 
he  went  on  crazily  repeating  her  name  over  and  over  again; 
he  was  so  abject  in  his  love  and  worship  of  her  name  that  he 
carried  everywhere  with  him  a  volume  of  Lessing,  because  the 


MOBXIXG  199 

name  of  Minna  occurred  in  it,  and  every  day  when  lie  left 
the  theater  he  went  a  long  distance  out  of  his  way  so  as  to 
pass  a  mercery  shop,  on  whose  signboard  the  five  adored  letters 
were  written. 

He  reproached  himself  for  wasting  time  when  she  had  bid 
him  so  urgently  to  work,  so  as  to  make  her  famous.  The  naive 
vanity  of  her  request  touched  him,  as  a  mark  of  her  confidence 
in  him.  lie  resolved,  by  way  of  fulfilling  it,  to  write  a  work 
which  should  be  not  only  dedicated,  but  consecrated,  to  her. 
He  could  not  have  written  any  other  at  that  time.  Hardly 
had  the  scheme  occurred  to  him  than  musical  ideas  rushed  in 
upon  him.  It  was  like  a  flood  of  water  accumulated  in  a 
reservoir  for  several  months,  until  it  should  suddenly  rush  down, 
breaking  all  its  dams.  He  did  not  leave  his  room  for  a  week. 
Louisa  left  his  dinner  at  the  door;  for  he  did  not  allow  even 
her  to  enter. 

He  wrote  a  quintette  for  clarionet  and  strings.  The  first 
movement  was  a  poem  of  youthful  hope  and  desire;  the  last 
a  lover's  joke,  in  which  Jean-Christophe's  wild  humor  peeped 
out.  But  the  whole  work  was  written  for  the  sake  of  the  second 
movement,  the  larglictlo,  in  which  Jean-Christophe  had  depicted 
an  ardent  and  ingenuous  little  soul,  which  was,  or  was  meant 
to  be,  a  portrait  of  Minna.  Xo  one  would  have  recognized  it, 
least  of  all  herself;  but  the  great  thing  was  that  it  was  perfectly 
recognizable  to  himself;  and  he  had  a  thrill  of  pleasure  in  the 
illusion  of  feeling  that  he  had  caught  the  essence  of  his  beloved. 
Xo  work  had  ever  been  so  easily  or  happily  written;  if  was  an 
outlet  for  the  excess  of  love  which  the  parting  had  stored  up 
in  him:  and  at  the  same  time  his  care  for  the  work  of  art.  the 
effort  necessary  to  dominate  and  concentrate  his  passion  into 
a  beautiful  and  clear  form,  gave  him  a  healthiness  of  mind,  a 
balance  in  his  faculties,  which  gave  him  a  sort  of  physical 
delight — a  sovereign  enjoyment  known  to  everv  creative  artist. 
While  he  is  creating  he  escapes  altogether  from  the  slavery  of 
desire  and  sorrow:  he  becomes  then  master  in  hi>  turn:  and 
all  that  gave  him  joy  or  suffering  seems  then  to  him  to  be 
only  the  fine  play  of  his  will.  Such  moments  are  too  short; 
for  when  they  are  done  he  finds  about  him,  more  heavy  than 
ever,  the  chains  of  reality. 


200  JEAN-CHKISTOPHE 

While  Jean-Christophe  was  busy  with  his  work  he  hardly  had 
time  to  think  of  his  parting  from  Minna;  he  was  living  with 
her.  Minna  was  no  longer  in  Minna ;  she  was  in  himself.  But 
when  he  had  finished  he  found  that  he  was  alone,  more  alone 
than  before,  more  weary,  exhausted  by  the  effort ;  he  remembered 
that  it  was  a  fortnight  since  he  had  written  to  Minna  and  that 
she  had  not  replied. 

He  wrote  to  her  again,  and  this  time  lie  could  not  bring 
himself  altogether  to  exercise  the  constraint  which  he  had  im- 
posed on  himself  for  the  first  letter.  He  reproached  Minna 
jocularly — for  be  did  not  believe  it  himself — with  having  for- 
gotten him.  He  scolded  her  for  her  laziness  and  teased  her 
affectionately.  He  spoke  of  his  work  with  much  mystery,  so 
as  to  rouse  her  curiosity,  and  because  he  wished  to  keep  it 
as  a  surprise  for  her  when  she  returned.  He  described  minutely 
the  hat  that  he  had  bought;  and  he  told  how,  to  carry  out 
the  little  despot's  orders — for  he  had  taken  all  her  commands 
literally — he  did  not  go  out  at  all,  and  said  that  he  was  ill 
as  an  excuse  for  refusing  invitations.  He  did  not  add  that  he 
was  even  on  bad  terms  with  the  Grand  Duke,  because,  in  excess 
of  zeal,  he  had  refused  to  go  to  a  party  at  the  Palace  to  which 
he  had  been  invited.  The  whole  letter  was  full  of  a  careless 
joy,  and  conveyed  those  little  secrets  so  dear  to  lovers.  He 
imagined  that  Minna  alone  had  the  key  to  them,  and  thought 
himself  very  clever,  because  he  had  carefully  replaced  every 
word  of  love  with  words  of  friendship. 

After  he  had  written  he  felt  comforted  for  a  moment;  first, 
because  the  letter  had  given  him  the  illusion  of  conversation 
with  his  absent  fair,  but  chiefly  because  he  had  no  doubt  but 
that  Minna  would  reply  to  it  at  once.  He  was  very  patient 
for  the  three  days  which  he  had  allowed  for  the  post  to  take 
his  letter  to  Minna  and  bring  back  her  answer;  but  when  the 
fourth  clay  had  passed  he  began  once  more  to  find  life  difficult. 
He  had  no  energy  or  interest  in  things,  except  during  the  hour 
before  the  post's  arrival.  Then  he  was  trembling  with  im- 
patience. He  became  superstitious,  and  looked  for  the  smallest 
sign— the  crackling  of  the  lire,  a  chance  word — to  give  him  an 
assurance  that  the  letter  would  come.  Once  that  hour  was 
passed  he  would  collapse  again.  Xo  more  work,  no  more  walks; 


MORXIXG  201 

the  only  object  of  his  existence  was  to  wait  for  the  next  post, 
and  all  his  energy  was  expended  in  finding  strength  to  wait 
for  so  long.  But  when  evening  came,  and  all  hope  was  gone 
for  the  day,  then  he  was  crushed;  it  seemed  to  him  that  he 
could  never  live  until  the  morrow,  and  he  would  stay  for  hours, 
sitting  at  his  table,  without  speaking  or  thinking,  without  even 
the  power  to  go  to  bed,  until  some  remnant  of  his  will  would 
take  him  off  to  it;  and  he  would  sleep  heavily,  haunted  by 
stupid  dreams,  which  made  him  think  that  the  night  would 
never  end. 

This  continual  expectation  became  at  length  a  physical  tor- 
ture, an  actual  illness.  Jean-Christophe  went  so  far  as  to 
suspect  his  father,  his  brother,  even  the  postman,  of  having 
taken  the  letter  and  hidden  it  from  him.  He  was  racked  with 
uneasiness.  He  never  doubted  Minna's  fidelity  for  an  instant, 
If  she  did  not  write,  it  must  be  because  she  was  ill,  dying, 
perhaps  dead.  Then  he  rushed  to  his  pen  and  wrote  a  third 
letter,  a  few  heartrending  lines,  in  which  he  had  no  more 
thought  of  guarding  his  feelings  than  of  taking  care  with  his 
spelling.  The  time  for  the  post  to  go  was  drawing  near;  he 
had  crossed  out  and  smudged  the  sheet  as  he  turned  it  over, 
dirtied  the  envelope  as  he  closed  it.  Xo  matter !  He  could 
not  wait  until  the  next  post.  He  ran  and  hurled  his  letter 
into  the  box  and  waited  in  mortal  agony.  On  the  next  night 
but  one  he  had  a  clear  vision  of  Minna,  ill,  calling  to  him  ; 
he  got  up,  and  was  on  the  point  of  setting  out  on  foot  to  go 
to  her.  But  where?  Where  should  he  find  her? 

On  the  fourth  morning  Minna's  letter  came  at  last- — hardly 
a  half-sheet — cold  and  stiff.  Minna  said  that  she  did  not 
understand  what  could  have  filled  him  with  such  stupid  fears. 
that  she  was  quite  well,  that  she  had  no  time  to  write,  and 
begged  him  not  to  get  so  excited  in  future,  and  not  to  write 
any  more. 

Jean-Christophe  was  stunned.  He  never  doubted  Minna's 
sincerity.  He  blamed  himself:  he  thought  that  Minna  was 
justly  annoyed  by  the  impudent  and  absurd  letters  that  he  had 
written.  He  thought  himself  an  idiot,  and  beat  at  his  head 
with  his  fist.  But  it  was  all  in  vain;  he  was  forced  to  feel 
that  Minna  did  not  love  him  as  much  as  he  loved  her. 


202  JEAX-CHRISTOPHE 

The  days  that  followed  ware  so  mournful  that  it  is  impossible 
to  describe  them.  Nothingness  cannot  be  described.  Deprived 
of  the  only  boon  that  made  living  worth  while  for  him— his 
letters  to  Minna — Jean-Christophe  now  only  lived  mechanically, 
and  the  only  thing  which  interested  him  at  all  was  when  in 
the  evening,  as  he  was  going  to  bed,  he  ticked  olf  on  the  calendar, 
like  a  schoolboy,  one  of  the  interminable  days  which  lay  between 
himself  and  Minna's  return.  The  day  of  the  return  was  past. 
They  ought  to  have  been  at  home  a  week.  Feverish  excitement 
had  succeeded  Jean-Christophc's  prostration.  Minna  had  prom- 
ised when  she  left  to  advise  him  of  the  day  and  hour  of  their 
arrival,  lie  waited  from  moment  to  moment  to  go  and  meet 
them ;  and  he  tied  himself  up  in  a  web  of  guesses  as  to  the; 
reasons  for  their  delay. 

One  evening  one  of  their  neighbor?,  a  friend  of  his  grand- 
father, Fischer,  the  furniture  dealer,  came  in  to  smoke  and 
chat  with  Melchior  after  dinner  as  he  often  did.  Jean-Chris- 
tophe, in  torment,  was  going  up  to  his  room  after  waiting  for 
the  postman  to  pass  when  a  word  made  him  tremble.  Fischer 
said  that  next  day  he  had  to  go  early  in  the  morning  to  the 
Kerichs'  to  hang  up  the  curtains.  Jean-Christophe  stopped 
dead,  and  asked : 

"  Have  they  returned  ?  " 

"  You  wag!  You  know  that  as  well  as  I  do,"  said  old  Fischer 
roguishly.  ''Fine  weather!  They  came  back  the  day  before 
yesterday." 

Jcnn-Christophe  heard  no  more;  he  left  the  room,  and 
got  ready  to  go  out.  His  mother,  who  for  some  time 
had  secretly  been  watching  him  without  his  knowing  it,  fol- 
lowed him  into  the  lobby,  and  asked  him  timidly  where  he 
was  going.  He  made  no  answer,  and  went  out.  lie  was 
hurt. 

lie  ran  to  the  Kerichs'  house.  It  was  nine  o'clock  in  the 
evening.  They  were  both  in  the  draw  ing- room  and  did  not 
appear  to  be  surprised  to  see  him.  They  said  "  Good-evening" 
(|ii.ietly.  Minna  was  busy  writing,  and  held  out  her  hnnd  over 
the  table  and  went  on  with  her  letter,  vaguely  asking  him  for 
his  news.  She  asked  him  to  forgive  her  discourtesy,  and  pre- 
tended to  be  listening  to  what  he  said,  but  she  interrupted  him 


MORNING  2<>:5 

to  ask  something  of  her  mother.  lie  had  prepared  touching 
words  concerning  all  that  lie  had  suffered  during  her  absence; 
he  could  hardly  summon  a  few  words;  no  one  was  interested 
in  them,  and  he  had  not  the  heart  to  go  on— it  all  rang  so 
false. 

When  Minna  had  finished  her  letter  she  took  up  some  work, 
and,  sitting  a  little  away  from  him,  began  to  toll  him  about 
her  travels.  She  talked  about  the  pleasant  weeks  she  had  spent 
— riding  on  horseback,  country-house  life,  interesting  society; 
she  got  excited  gradually,  and  made  allusions  to  events  and 
people  whom  Jean-Christophe  did  not  know,  and  the  memory 
of  them  made  her  mother  and  herself  laugh.  Jean-Christophe 
felt  that  he  was  a  stranger  during  the  storv ;  he  did  not  know 
how  to  take  it.  and  laughed  awkwardly.  lie  never  took  his 
eyes  from  Minna's  face,  beseeching  her  to  look  at  him,  implor- 
ing her  to  throw  him  a  glance  for  alms.  But  when  she  did 
look  at  him — which  was  not  often,  fur  she  addressed  herself 
more  to  her  mother  than  to  him — her  eyes,  like  her  voice,  were 
cold  and  indifferent.  Was  she  so  constrained  because  of  her 
mother,  or  was  it  that  he  did  not  understand?  lie  wished 
to  speak  to  her  alone,  but  Frau  von  Kerich  never  left  them 
for  a  moment,  lie  tried  to  bring  the  conversation  round  to 
some  subject  interesting  to  himself:  he  spoke  of  his  work  and 
his  plans;  he  was  dimly  conscious  that  Minna  was  evading  him, 
and  instinctively  he  tried  to  interest  her  in  himself.  Indeed, 
she  seemed  to  listen  attentively  enough;  she  broke  in  upon  his 
narrative  with  various  interjections,  which  were  never  very  apt, 
but  always  seemed  to  be  full  of  interest.  But  just  as  he  was 
beginning  to  hope  once  more,  carried  off  his  feet  by  one  of 
her  charming  smiles,  lie  saw  Minna  put  her  little  hand  to  her 
lips  and  yawn.  He  broke  oil'  short.  She  saw  thai,  and  asked 
his  pardon  amiably,  saying  that  she  was  tired.  He  got  up. 
thinking  that  they  would  persuade  him  to  stav.  but  they  said 
nothing.  He  spun  out  his  "  (iood-bve."  and  waited  for  a  word 
to  ask  him  to  come  again  next  dav;  then1  was  no  suggestion 
of  it.  Me  had  to  go.  Minna  did  not  take  him  to  the  door. 
She  held  out  her  hand  to  him — an  indifferent  hand  that  drooped 
limply  in  his — and  he  took  his  leave  of  them  in  the  middle 
of  the  room. 


204:  JEAX-CIIKISTOPHE 

He  went  home  with  terror  in  his  heart.  Of  the  Minna  of  two 
months  before,  of  his  beloved  Minna,  nothing  was  left.  What 
had  happened?  What  had  become  of  her?  For  a  poor  boy 
who  has  never  yet  experienced  the  continual  change,  the  com- 
plete disappearance,  and  the  absolute  renovation  of  living  souls, 
of  which  the  majority  are  not  so  much  souls  as  collections  of 
souls  in  succession  changing  and  dying  away  continually,  the 
simple  truth  was  too  cruel  for  him  to  be  able  to  believe  it. 
He  rejected  the  idea  of  it  in  terror,  and  tried  to  persuade  him- 
self that  he  had  not  been  able  to  see  properly,  and  that  Minna 
was  just  the  same.  He  decided  to  go  again  to  the  house  next 
morning,  and  to  talk  to  her  at  all  costs. 

He  did  not  sleep.  Through  the  night  he  counted  one  after 
another  the  chimes  of  the  clock.  From  one  o'clock  on  he  was 
rambling  round  the  Kerichs'  house;  he  entered  it  as  soon  as 
he  could.  He  did  not  see  Minna,  but  Frau  von  Kerich.  Always 
busy  and  an  early  riser,  she  was  watering  the  pots  of  flowers 
on  the  veranda.  She  gave  a  mocking  cry  when  she  saw  Jean 
Christophe. 

"  Ah !  "  she  said.  "  It  is  you !  .  .  .  I  am  glad  you  have 
come.  I  have  something  to  talk  to  you  about.  Wait  a  mo- 
ment. .  .  ." 

She  went  in  for  a  moment  to  put  down  her  watering  can 
and  to  dry  her  hands,  and  came  back  with  a  little  smile  as  she 
saw  Jean-Christophe's  discomfiture;  he  was  conscious  of  the 
approach  of  disaster. 

"  Come  into  the  garden,"  she  said ;  "  we  shall  be  quieter." 

In  the  garden  that  was  full  still  of  his  love  he  followed  Frau 
von  Kerich.  She  did  not  hasten  to  speak,  and  enjoyed  the 
boy's  uneasiness. 

"  Let  us  sit  here,"  she  said  at  last.  They  were  sitting  on. 
the  seat  in  the  place  where  Minna  had  held  up  her  lips  to  him 
on  the  eve  of  her  departure. 

"  I  think  you  know  what  is  the  matter,"  said  Frau  von 
Kerich,  looking  serious  so  as  to  complete  his  confusion.  "  I 
should  never  have  thought  it  of  you,  Jean-Christophe.  I  thought 
you  a  serious  boy.  1  bad  every  confidence  in  you.  1  should 
never  have  thought  that  you  would  abuse  it  to  try  and  turn 
my  daughter's  head.  She  was  in  your  keeping.  You  ought 


MORNING  205 

to  have  shown  respect  for  her,  respect  for  me,  respect  for  your- 
self." 

There  was  a  light  irony  in  her  accents.  Frau  von  Kerich 
attached  not  the  least  importance  to  this  childish  love  affair; 
but  Jean-Christophe  was  not  conscious  of  it,  and  her  reproaches, 
which  he  took,  as  he  took  everything,  tragically,  went  to  his 
heart. 

"  But,  Madam  .  .  .  but,  Madam  .  .  ."  he  stammered,  with 
tears  in  his  eyes,  "  I  have  never  abused  your  confidence.  .  .  . 
Please  do  not  think  that.  ...  I  am  not  a  bad  man,  that  I 
swear !  .  .  .  I  love  Friiulein  Minna.  I  love  her  with  all  my 
soul,  and  I  wish  to  marry  her." 

Frau  von  Kerich  smiled. 

"  No,  my  poor  boy,"  she  said,  with  that  kindly  smile  in  which 
•was  so  much  disdain,  as  at  last  he  was  to  understand,  "  no, 
it  is  impossible;  it  is  just  a  childish  folly." 

"  Why  ?     Why  ?  "  he  asked. 

He  took  her  hands,  not  believing  that  she  could  be  speaking 
seriously,  and  almost  reassured  by  the  new  softness  in  her  voice. 
She  smiled  still,  and  said : 

"  Because  .  .  ." 

He  insisted.  With  ironical  deliberation — she  did  not  take 
him  altogether  seriously — she  told  him  that  he  had  no  fortune, 
that  Minna  had  different  tastes.  He  protested  that  that  made 
no  difference;  that  he  would  be  rich,  famous;  that  he  would 
win  honors,  money,  all  that  Minna  could  desire.  Frau  von 
Kerich  looked  skeptical;  she  was  amused  by  his  self-confidence. 
and  only  shook  her  head  by  way  of  saying  no.  But  he  stuck 
to  it. 

"  No,  Jean-Christophe,"  she  said  firmly,  "  no.  It  is  not 
worth  arguing.  It  is  impossible.  It  is  not  only  a  question  of 
money.  So  many  things !  The  position  .  .  ." 

She  had  no  need  to  finish.  That  was  a  needle  that  pierced 
to  his  very  marrow.  His  eyes  were  opened.  He  saw  the  irony 
of  the  friendly  smile,  he  saw  the  coldness  of  the  kindly  look, 
he  understood  suddenly  what  it  was  that  separated  him  from 
this  woman  whom  he  loved  as  a  son,  this  woman  who  seemed 
to  treat  him  like  a  mother;  he  was  conscious  of  all  that  was 
patronizing  and  disdainful  in  her  all'ection.  He  got  up.  He 


206  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

was  pale.  Frau  von  Kerich  went  on  talking  to  him  in 
her  caressing  voice,  but  it  was  the  end;  he  hoard  no  more 
the  music  of  the  words;  he  perceived  under  every  word  the 
falseness  of  that  elegant  soul.  He  could  not  answer  a 
word.  He  went.  Everything  about  him  was  going  round  and 
round. 

AVhen  he  regained  his  room  he  flung  himself  on  his  bed, 
and  gave  way  to  a  fit  of  auger  and  injured  pride,  just  as  he 
used  to  do  when  he  was  a  little  boy.  He  bit  his  pillow;  he 
crammed  his  handkerchief  into  his  mouth,  so  that  no  one  should 
hear  him  crying.  He  hated  Frau  von  Kerieh.  He  hated  Minna. 
He  despised  them  mightily.  Jt  seemed  to  him  that  he  had 
been  insulted,  and  he  trembled  with  shame  and  rage.  He  had 
to  reply,  to  take  immediate  action.  If  he  could  not  avenge 
himself  he  would  die. 

He  got  up,  and  wrote  an  idiotically  violent  letter : 

"  MADAM,— 

"  I  do  not  know  if,  as  you  say,  you  have  been  deceived  in  me. 
But  1  do  know  that  I  have  been  cruelly  deceived  in  you.  I 
thought  that  you  wore  my  friends.  You  said  so.  You  pre- 
tended to  be  so,  and  1  loved  you  more  than  .my  life.  I  see  now 
that  it  was  all  a  lie,  that  your  affection  for  me  was  only  a 
sham;  you  made  use  of  me.  1  amused  you,  provided  you  with 
entertainment,  made  music  for  you.  I  was  your  servant.  Your 
servant:  that  1  am  not!  1  am  no  man's  servant! 

"'  You  have  made  me  feel  cruelly  that  1  had  no  right  to  love 
your  daughter.  Xothing  in  the  world  can  prevent  my  heart 
from  loving  where  it  loves,  and  it'  1  am  not  your  equal  in  rank, 
I  am  as  noble  as  you.  It  is  the  heart  that  ennobles  a  man. 
If  1  am  not  a  Count.  1  have  perhaps  more  honor  than  many 
Counts.  Lackcv  or  Count,  when  a  man  insults  me,  I  despise 
him.  1  despise  as  much  any  one  who  pretends  to  be  noble,  and 
is  not  noble  of  soul. 

"  Farewell  !  You  have  mistaken  me.  You  have  deceived  me. 
I  detest  you! 

"  He  who,  in  spite  of  you,  loves,  and  will  love  till  death, 
Fraulein  Minna,  became  skc  w  liix,  and  nothing  can  take  her 
from  him."' 


MORNING  s>u: 

Hardly  had  he  thrown  his  letter  into  the  box  than  he-  was 
filled  with  terror  at  what  he  had  done.  He  tried  not  to  think 
of  it,  but  certain  phrases  cropped  up  in  his  incniorv  :  he  was 
in  a  cold  sweat  as  he  thought  of  Fran  von  lvcru-h  reading  those 
enormities.  At  first  he  was  upheld  by  his  verv  dr.-jiuir.  but 
next  day  lie  saw  that  his  letter  could  only  bring  about  a  final 
separation  from  Minna,  and  that  seemed  to  him  the  din-si  of 
misfortunes.  He  still  hoped  that  Frau  von  Kerich.  who  knew 
his  violent  fits,  would  not  take  it  seriously,  that  she  would  onlv 
reprimand  him  severely,  and— who  knows;'— that  she  would 
be  touched  perhaps  by  the  sincerity  of  his  passion.  One  word, 
and  he  would  have  thrown  himself  at  her  feet.  He  waited  for 
five  days.  Then  came  a  letter.  She  said : 

"  DEAR  SIR, — 

"  Since,  as  you  say,  there  has  been  a  misunderstanding  be- 
tween us,  it  would  be  wise  not  any  further  to  prolong  it.  I 
should  be  very  sorry  to  force  upon  you  a  relationship  which 
has  become  painful  to  you.  You  will  think  it  natural,  there- 
fore, that  we  should  break  it  off.  1  hope  that  you  will  in  time 
to  come  have  no  lack  of  other  friends  who  will  be  able  to 
appreciate  you  as  you  wish  to  be  appreciated.  1  have  no  doubt 
as  to  your  future,  and  from  a  distance  shall,  with  sympathy, 
follow  your  progress  in  your  musical  career.  Kind  regards. 

"  JOSKIMIA  VON   KKHICII." 

The  most  bitter  reproaches  would  have  been  less  cruel.  ,Iean- 
Christophe  saw  that  he  was  lost.  It  is  possible  to  reply  to  an 
unjust  accusation.  But  what  is  to  be  done  against  the  negative- 
ness  of  such  polite  indifference?  He  raged  against  it.  lie 
thought  that  he  would  never  see  Minna  again,  and  he  rould 
not  bear  it.  He  felt  how  little  all  the  pride  in  tin-  \\orld  weighs 
against  a  little  love.  He  forgo!  his  dignity:  he  became  cow- 
ardly; he  wrote  more  letters,  in  which  he  implored  I'l'igivem-ss. 
They  were  no  less  stupid  than  the  letter  in  \\hich  he  had  railed 
against  her.  Thev  evoked  no  response.  And  everything  was  said. 

He  nearly  died  of  it.  He  thought  o|.'  killing  himself.  He 
thought  of  murder.  At  least,  he  imagined  that  he  thought  of 


208  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

it.  Tic  was  possessed  by  incendiary  and  murderous  desires. 
People  have  little  idea  of  the  paroxysm  of  love  or  hate  which 
sometimes  devours  the  hearts  of  children.  It  was  the  most 
terrible  crisis  of  his  childhood.  It  ended  his  childhood.  It 
stiffened  his  will.  But  it  came  near  to  breaking  it  forever. 

He  found  life  impossible.  He  would  sit  for  hours  with  his 
elbows  on  the  window-sill  looking  down  into  the  courtyard, 
and  dreaming,  as  he  used  to  when  he  was  a  little  boy,  of  some 
means  of  escaping  from  the  torture  of  life  when  it  became  too 
great.  The  remedy  was  there,  under  his  eyes.  'Immediate  .  .  . 
immediate?  How  could  one  know?  .  .  .  Perhaps  after  hours 
— centuries — horrible  sufferings !  .  .  .  But  so  utter  was  his 
childish  despair  that  he  let  himself  be  carried  away  by  the 
giddy  round  of  such  thoughts. 

Louisa  saw  that  he  was  suffering.  She  could  not  gauge 
exactly  what  was  happening  to  him,  but  her  instinct  gave  her 
a  dim  warning  of  danger.  She  tried  to  approach  her  son,  to 
discover  his  sorrow,  so  as  to  console  him.  But  the  poor  woman 
had  lost  the  habit  of  talking  intimately  to  Jeari-Christophe.  For 
many  years  he  had  kept  his  thoughts  to  himself,  and  she  had 
been  too  much  taken  up  by  the  material  cares  of  life  to  find  time 
to  discover  them  or  divine  them.  Now  that  she  would  so  gladly 
have  come  to  his  aid  she  knew  not  what  to  do.  She  hovered 
about  him  like  a  soul  in  torment;  she  would  gladly  have  found 
words  to  bring  him  comfort,  and  she  dared  not  speak  for  fear 
of  irritating  him.  And  in  spite  of  all  her  care  she  did  irritate 
him  by  her  every  gesture  and  by  her  very  presence,  for  she 
was  not  very  adroit,  and  he  was  not  very  indulgent.  And  yet 
he  loved  her;  they  loved  each  other.  But  so  little  is  needed 
to  part  two  creatures  who  are  dear  to  each  other,  and  love  each 
other  with  all  their  hearts!  A  too  violent  expression,  an  awk- 
ward gesture,  a  harmless  twitching  of  an  eye  or  a  nose,  a 
trick  of  eating,  walking,  or  laughing,  a  physical  constraint 
which  is  beyond  analysis.  .  .  .  You  say  that  these  things  are 
nothing,  and  yet  they  are  all  the  world.  Often  they  are  enough 
to  keep  a  mother  and  a  son,  a  brother  and  a  brother,  a  friend 
and  a  friend,  who  live  in  proximity  to  each  other,  forever 
strangers  to  each  other. 

Jean-Christophe  did  not  find  in  his  mother's  grief  a  sufficient 


MORNING  209 

prop  in  the  crisis  through  which  he  was  passing.  Besides, 
what  is  the  affection  of  others  to  the  egoism  of  passion  pre- 
occupied with  itself? 

One  night  when  his  family  were  sleeping,  and  he  was  sitting 
hy  his  desk,  not  thinking  or  moving,  he  was  engulfed  in  his 
perilous  ideas,  when  a  sound  of  footsteps  resounded  down  the 
little  silent  street,  and  a  knock  on  the  door  brought  him  from 
his  stupor.  There  was  a  murmuring  of  thick  voices.  He 
remembered  that  his  father  had  not  come  in,  and  he  thought 
angrily  that  they  were  bringing  him  back  drunk,  as  they  had 
done  a  week  or  two  before,  when  they  had  found  him  lying  in 
the  street.  For  Melchior  had  abandoned  all  restraint,  and  was 
more  and  more  the  victim  of  his  vice,  though  his  athletic  health 
seemed  not  in  the  least  to  suffer  from  an  excess  and  a  reckless- 
ness which  would  have  killed  any  other  man.  lie  ate  enough 
for  four,  drank  until  lie  dropped,  passed  whole  nights  out  of 
doors  in  icy  rain,  was  knocked  down  and  stunned  in  brawls, 
and  would  get  up  again  next  day,  with  his  rowdy  gaiety,  wanting 
everybody  about  him  to  be  gay  too. 

Louisa,  hurrying  up,  rushed  to  open  the  door.  Jean-Chris- 
tophe,  who  had  not  budged,  stopped  his  ears  so  as  not  to  hear 
Melchior's  vicious  voice  and  the  tittering  comments  of  the 
neighbors.  .  .  . 

.  .  .  Suddenly  a  strange  terror  seized  him;  for  no  reason 
he  began  to  tremble,  with  his  face  hidden  in  his  hands.  And 
on  the  instant  a  piercing  cry  made  him  raise  his  head.  He 
rushed  to  the  door.  .  .  . 

In  the  midst  of  a  group  of  men  talking  in  low  voices,  in 
the  dark  passage,  lit  only  by  the  flickering  light  of  a  lantern, 
lying,  just  as  his  grandfather  had  done,  on  a  stretcher,  was 
a  body  dripping  with  water,  motionless.  Louisa  was  clinging 
to  it  and  sobbing.  They  had  just  found  Melchior  drowned  in 
the  mill-race. 

Jean-Christophe  gave  a  cry.  Everything  else  vanished  :  all 
his  other  sorrows  were  swept  aside.  He  threw  himself  on  his 
father's  body  by  Louisa's  side,  and  they  wept  together. 

"Seated  by  the  bedside,  watching  Melchior's  last  sleep,  on 
whose  face  was  now  a  severe  and  solemn  expression,  he  felt 
the  dark  peace  of  death  enter  into  his  soul.  His  childish  passion 


210  .TEA  N'-C  HRISTOPHE 

was  gone  from  him  like  a  fit  of  fever;  the  icy  breath  of  the 
grave  had  taken  it  all  away.  Minna,  his  pride,  his  love,  and 
himself.  .  .  .  Alas!  What  misery!  How  small  everything 
showed  by  the  side  of  this  reality,  the  only  reality — death! 
Was  it  worth  while  to  suffer  so  nnu-h,  to  desire  so  much,  to 
he  so  much  put  about  to  come  in  the  end  to  that  !  .  .  . 

lie  watched  his  father's  sleep,  and  he  was  filled  with  an 
infinite  pity.  He  remembered  the  smallest  of  his  acts  of  kind- 
ness and  tenderness.  For  witiv  all  his  faults  Melehior  was  not 
bad;  there  was  much  good  in  him.  He  loved  his  family.  He 
was  honest.  He  had  a  little  of  the  uncompromising  probity  of 
the  Krafl'ts,  which,  in  all  questions  of  morality  and  honor, 
suffered  no  discussion,  and  never  would  admit  the  least  of  those 
small  moral  impurities  which  so  many  people  in  society  regard 
not  altogether  as  faults.  He  was  brave,  and  whenever  there 
was  any  danger  faced  it  with  a  sort  of  enjoyment.  If  he  was 
extravagant  himself,  he  was  so  for  others  too;  he  could  not  bear 
anybody  to  be  sad,  and  very  gladly  gave  away  all  that  belonged 
to  him — and  did  not  belong  to  him — lo  the  poor  devils  he  met 
by  the  wayside.  All  his  qualities  appeared  to  Jcan-Christophe 
now,  and  he  invented  somn  of  them,  or  exaggerated  them.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  he  had  misunderstood  his  father.  He  re- 
proached himself  with  not  having  loved  him  enough.  He  saw 
him  as  broken  by  Life;  he  thought  he  heard  that  unhappy  soul, 
drifting,  too  weak  to  struggle,  crying  out  for  the  life  so  use- 
lessly lost.  He  heard  that  lamentable  entreaty  that  had  so  cut 
him  to  the  heart  one  day: 

"Jean-Christophe!     Do  not  despise  me!"' 

And  he  was  overwhelmed  by  remorse.  He  threw  himself  on 
the  bed,  and  kissed  the  dead  face  and  wept.  And  as  he  had 
done  that  day,  he  said  again: 

"Dear  father,  1  do  not  despise  you.  I  love  you.  Forgive 
me!" 

P)iit  that  piteous  entreaty  was  not  appeased,  and  went  on: 

"Do  not  despise  me!  Do  not  despise  me!"  And  suddenly 
Jean-Christophe  saw  himself  lying  in  the  place  of  ihe  dead 
man:  he  heard  the  terrible  words  coming  from  his  own  lips; 
he  felt  weighing  on  his  heart  ihe  despair  of  a  useless  life, 
irreparably  lost.  And  he  thought  in  terror:  "Ah!  everything, 


MOiLNIXG  all 

all  tlit.1  suffering,  all  the  misery  in  the  world,  rather  than  come 
to  that!  .  .  ."  How  near  lie  had  been  to  it!  Had  he  not  all 
but  yielded  to  the  temptation  to  snap  oil'  his  life  himself, 
cowardly  to  escape  his  sorrow?  As  if  all  the  sorrows,  all 
betrayals,  were  not  childish  Ariel's  beside  the  torture  and  the 
crime  of  self-betrayal,  denial  of  faith,  of  self-contempt  in  death! 

He  saw  that  life  was  a  battle  without  armistice,  without 
mercy,  in  which  he  who  wishes  to  be  a  man  worthy  of  tin-  name 
of  a  man  must  forever  light  against  whole  armies  of  invisible 
enemies;  against  the  murderous  forces  of  Nature,  uneasv  desires, 
dark  thoughts,  treacherously  leading  him  to  degradation  and 
destruction.  He  saw  that  he  had  been  on  the  point  of  falling 
into  the  trap.  He  saw  that  happiness  and  love  were  only  the 
friends  of  a  moment  to  lead  the  heart  to  disarm  and  abdicate. 
And  the  little  puritan  of  fifteen  heard  the  voice  of  his  (lod: 

'•'  (io,  go.  and  never  rest." 

"But  whither,  Lord,  shall  T  go?  Whatsoever  I  do.  whither- 
soever I  go.  is  not  the  end  always  the  same?  Is  not  the  end 
of  all  things  in  that?  " 

"Go  on  to  Death,  you  who  must  die!  Go  and  sulTer,  you 
who  must  suffer!  You  do  not  live  to  be  happy.  You  live  to 
fulfil  my  Law.  Suffer;  die.  But  be  what  you  must  be — a  Man.'' 


YOUTH 


Christofori  facicm  die  quacuiique  tueris, 
Ilia  nempe  die  non  morte  mala  morieris. 


THE    HOUSE    OF    EULER 

THE  house  was  plunged  in  silence.  Since  Melchior's  death 
everything  seemed  dead.  Xow  that  his  loud  voice  was  stilled, 
from  morning  to  night  nothing  was  heard  but  the  wearisome 
murmuring  of  the  river. 

Christophe  hurled  himself  into  his  work.  He  took  a 
fiercely  angry  pleasure  in  self-castigation  for  having  wished  to 
be  happy.  To  expressions  of  sympathy  and  kind  words  he  made 
no  reply,  but  was  proud  and  stiff.  Without  a  word  he  went  about 
his  daily  task,  and  gave  his  lessons  with  icy  politeness.  His 
pupils  who  knew  of  his  misfortune  were  shocked  by  his  in- 
sensibility. But  those  who  were  older  and  had  some  ex- 
perience of  sorrow  knew  that  this  apparent  coldness  might, 
in  a  child,  be  used  only  to  conceal  suffering :  and  they  pitied 
him.  He  was  not  grateful  for  their  sympathy.  Even  music 
could  bring  him  no  comfort.  He  played  without  pleasure,  and 
as  a  duty.  It  was  as  though  he  found  a  cruel  joy  in  no  longer 
taking  pleasure  in  anything,  or  in  persuading  himself  that  he 
did  not:  in  depriving  himself  of  every  reason  for  living,  and 
yet  going  on. 

His  two  brothers,  terrified  by  the  silence  of  the  house  of  death, 
ran  away  from  it  as  quickly  as  possible.  Eodolphe  went  into 
the  office  of  his  uncle  Theodore,  and  lived  with  him,  and  Ernest, 
after  trying  two  or  three  trades,  found  work  on  one  of  the 
Rhine  steamers  plying  between  Mainz  and  Cologne,  and  he 
used  to  come  back  only  when  he  wanted  money.  Chris- 
tophe  was  left  alone  with  his  mother  in  the  house,  which  was 
too  large  for  them;  and  the  meagerness  of  their  resources, 
and  the  payment  of  certain  debts  which  had  been  discovered 
after  his  father's  death,  forced  them,  whatever  pain  it  might 
cost,  to  seek  another  more  lowly  and  less  expensive  dwelling. 

They  found  a  little  flat, — two  or  three  rooms  on  the  second 

215 


21G  JEAN-CHKISTOPHE 

floor  of  a  house  in  the  Market  Street,  It  was  a  noisy  district 
in  the  middle  of  the  town,  far  from  the  river,  far  from  the  trees, 
far  from  the  country  and  all  the  familiar  places.  ,  But  they 
had  to  consult  reason,  not  sentiment,  and  C'hristophe  found 
in  it  a  fine  opportunity  for  gratifying  his  bitter  creed  of  self- 
niortification.  Besides,  the  owner  of  the  house,  old  registrar 
Euler.  was  a  friend  of  his  grandfather,  and  knew  the  family: 
that  was  enough  for  Louisa,  who  was  lost  in  her  empty  house, 
and  was  irresistibly  drawn  towards  those  who  had  known  the 
creatures  whom  she  had  loved. 

They  got  ready  to  leave.  They  took  long  draughts  of  the 
bitter  melancholy  of  the  last  days  passed  by  the  sad.  beloved 
fireside  that  was  to  be  left  forever.  They  dared  hardly  tell  their 
sorrow:  they  were  ashamed  of  it,  or  afraid.  Each  thought  that 
they  ought  not  to  show  their  weakness  to  the  other.  At  table, 
sitting  alone  in  a  dark  room  with  half-closed  shutters,  they 
dared  not  raise  their  voices:  they  ate  hurriedly  and  did  not  look 
at  each  other  for  fear  of  not  being  able  to  conceal  their  trouble. 
They  parted  as  soon  as  they  had  finished.  C'hristophe  went 
back  to  his  work;  but  as  soon  as  he  was  free  for  a  moment, 
he  would  come  back,  go  stealthily  home,  and  creep  on  tiptoe 
to  his  room  or  to  the  attic.  Then  he  would  shut  the  door, 
sit  down  in  a  corner  on  an  old  trunk  or  on  the  window-ledge, 
or  stay  there  without  thinking,  letting  the  indefinable  buz/ing 
and  humming  of  the  old  house,  which  trembled  with  the  lightest 
tread,  thrill  through  him.  ITis  heart  would  tremble  with  it. 
He  would  listen  anxiously  for  the  faintest  breath  in  or  out  of 
doors,  for  the  creaking  of  floors,  for  all  the  imperceptible 
familiar  noises:  he  knew  them  all.  lie  would  lose  conscious- 
ness, his  thoughts  would  be  tilled  with  the  images  of  the  past, 
and  he  would  issue  from  his  stupor  only  at  the  sound  of  St. 
Martin's  clock,  reminding  him  that  it  was  time  to  go. 

Tn  the  room  below  him  he  could  hear  Louisa's  footsteps  pass- 
ing softly  to  and  fro,  then  for  hours  she  could  not  be  heard; 
she  made  no  noise,  rhristophc  would  listen  intently,  lie 
would  go  down,  a  little  uneasv,  as  one  is  for  a  long  time  after 
a  great  misfortune.  lie  would  push  the  door  ajar:  Louisa  would 
turn  her  back  on  him  ;  she  would  be  sitting  in  front  of  a  cup- 
board in. the  midst  of  a  heap  of  things — -rags,  old  belongings, 


YOUTH  217 

odd  garments,  treasures,  which  she  had  brought  out  intending 
to  sort  them.  But  she  had  no  strength  for  it;  everything 
reminded  her  of  something;  she  would  turn  and  turn  it  in  her 
hands  and  begin  to  dream;  it  would  drop  from  her  hands;  she 
would  stay  for  hours  together  with  her  anus  hanging  down, 
lying  back  exhausted  in  a  chair,  given  up  to  a  stupor  of  sorrow. 
Poor  Louisa  was  now  spending  most  of  her  life  in  the  past— 
that  sad  past,  which  had  been  very  niggardly  of  joy  for  her; 
but  she  was  so  used  to  suffering  that  she  was  still  grateful 
for  the  least  tenderness  shown  to  her,  and  the  pale  lights  which 
had  shone  here  and  there  in  the  drab  days  of  her  life,  were 
still  enough  to  make  them  bright.  All  the  evil  that  Melehior 
had  done  her  was  forgotten ;  she  remembered  only  the  good. 
Her  marriage  had  been  the  great  romance  of  her  life.  If 
Melehior  had  been  drawn  into  it  by  a  caprice,  of  which  ho  had 
quickly  repented,  she  had  given  herself  with  her  whole  heart ; 
she  thought  that  she  was  loved  as  much  as  she  had  loved ;  and 
to  Melehior  she  was  ever  most  tenderly  grateful.  She  did  not 
try  to  understand  what  he  had  become  in  the  sequel.  Incapable 
of  seeing  reality  as  it  is,  she  only  knew  how  to  bear  it  as  it 
is,  humbly  and  honestly,  as  a  woman  who  has  no  need  of  under- 
standing life  in  order  to  be  able  to  live.  What  she  could  not 
explain,  she  left,  to  Cod  for  explanation.  In  her  singular  piety, 
she  put  upon  God  the  responsibility  for  all  the  injustice  that 
she  had  suffered  at  the  hands  of  Melehior  and  the  others,  and 
only  visited  them  with  the  good  that  they  had  given  her.  And  so 
her  life  of  misery  had  left  her  with  no  bitter  memory.  She 
only  felt  worn  out — weak  as  she  was — by  those  years  of  priva- 
tion and  fatigue.  And  now  that  Melehior  was  no  longer  there, 
now  that  two  of  her  sons  were  gone  from  their  home,  and  the 
third  seemed  to  be  able  to  do  without  her,  she  had  lost  all  hear! 
for  action;  she  was  tired,  sleepy;  her  will  was  stupefied.  She 
was  going  through  one  of  those  crises  of  neurasthenia  which 
often  come  upon  active  and  industrious  people  in  the  decline 
of  life,  when  some  unforeseen  event  deprives  them  <>!'  every 
reason  for  living.  She  had  not  the  heart,  even  to  finish  the 
stocking  she  was  knitting,  to  tidy  the  drawer  in  which  she  was 
looking,  to  get  up  to  shut  the  window;  she  would  sit  there, 
without  a  thought,  without  strength — save  for  recollection. 


218  JEAX-CHBISTOPHE 

She  was  conscious  of  her  collapse,  and  was  ashamed  of  it  or 
blushed  for  it;  she  tried  to  hide  it  from  her  son;  and 
Christophe,  wrapped  up  in  the  egoism  of  his  own  grief,  never 
noticed  it.  Xo  doubt  he  was  often  secretly  impatient  with  his 
mother's  slowness  in  speaking,  and  acting,  and  doing  the  small- 
est thing;  but  different  though  her  ways  were  from  her  usual 
activity,  he  never  gave  a  thought  to  the  matter  until  then. 

Suddenly  on  that  day  it  came  home  to  him  for  the  first  time 
when  he  surprised  her  in  the  midst  of  her  rags,  turned  out 
on  the  floor,  heaped  up  at  her  feet,  in  her  arms,  and  in  her 
lap.  Her  neck  was  drawn  out,  her  head  was  bowed,  her  face 
was  stiff  and  rigid.  When  she  heard  him  come  in  she  started ; 
her  white  cheeks  were  suffused  with  red;  with  an  instinctive 
movement  she  tried  to  hide  the  things  she  was  holding,  and 
muttered  with  an  awkwrard  smile : 

"  You  see,  I  was  sorting  .  .  ." 

The  sight  of  the  poor  soul  stranded  among  the  relics  of  the 
past  cut  to  his  heart,  and  he  was  filled  with  pity.  But  he  spoke 
with  a  bitter  asperity  and  seemed  to  scold,  to  drag  her  from 
her  apathy : 

"  Come,  come,  mother;  you  must  not  stay  there,  in  the  middle 
of  all  that  dust,  with  the  room  all  shut  up!  It  is  not  good 
for  you.  You  must  pull  yourself  together,  and  have  done  with 
all  this." 

"  Yes,"  said  she  meekly. 

She  tried  to  get  up  to  put  the  things  back  in  the  drawer. 
But  she  sat  down  again  at  once  and  listlessly  let  them  fall  from 
her  hands. 

"  Oh !  I  can't  ...  I  can't,"  she  moaned.  "  I  shall  never 
finish !  " 

He  was  frightened.  He  leaned  over  her.  He  caressed  her 
forehead  with  his  hands. 

"Come,  mother,  what  is  it?"  he  said.  "Shall  I  help  you? 
Are  you  ill?  " 

She  did  not  answer.  She  gave  a  sort  of  stifled  sob.  He 
took  her  hands,  and  knelt  down  by  her  side,  the  better  to  see 
her  in  the  dusky  room. 

"  Mother  !  "  he  said  anxiously. 

Louisa  laid  her  head  on  his  shoulder  and  burst  into  tears. 


YOUTH  219 

"  My  boy,  my  boy,"  she  cried,  holding  close  to  him.  "  My 
boy!  .  .  .  You  will  not  leave  me?  Promise  me  that  you  will 
not  leave  me  ?  " 

His  heart  was  torn  with  pity. 

"  No,  mother,  no.  I  will  not  leave  you.  What  made  you 
think  of  such  a  thing  ?  " 

"  I  am  so  unhappy  !    They  have  all  left  me,  all.  .  .  ." 

She  pointed  to  the  things  all  about  her,  and  he  did  not  know 
whether  she  was  speaking  of  them  or  of  her  sons  and  the 
dead. 

"You  will  stay  with  me?  You  will  not  leave  me?  .  .  . 
What  should  I  do,  if  you  went  too  ?  " 

"I  will  not  go,  I  tell  you;  we  will  stay  together.  Don't  cry. 
I  promise." 

She  went  on  weeping.  She  could  not  stop  herself.  He  dried 
her  eyes  with  his  handkerchief. 

"What  is  it,  mother  clear?    Are  you  in  pain?" 

"I  don't  know;  I  don't  know  what  it  is."  She  tried  to  calm 
herself  and  to  smile. 

"  I  do  try  to  be  sensible.  I  do.  But  just  nothing  at  all 
makes  me  cry.  .  .  .  You  see,  I'm  doing  it  again.  .  .  .  Forgive 
me.  I  am  so  stupid.  I  am  old.  I  have  no  strength  left.  I 
have  no  taste  for  anything  any  more.  I  am  no  good  for  any- 
thing. I  wish  I  were  buried  witli  all  the  rest.  .  .  ." 

He  held  her  to  him,  close,  like  a  child. 

"Don't  worry,  mother;  be  calm;  don't  think  about  it.  .  .  ." 

Gradually  she  grew  quiet. 

"  Tt  is  foolish.  I  am  ashamed.  .  .  .  But  what  is  it?  What 
is  it?" 

She  who  had  always  worked  so  hard  could  not  understand 
why  her  strength  had  suddenly  snapped,  and  she  was  humili- 
ated to  the  very  depths  of  her  being.  He  pretended  not  to  see  it. 

"  A  little  weariness,  mother,"  he  said,  trying  to  speak  care- 
lessly. "It  is  nothing;  you  will  see;  it  is  nothing." 

But  he  too  was  anxious.  From  his  childhood  he  had  been 
accustomed  to  see  her  brave,  resigned,  in  silence  withstanding 
every  test.  And  he  was  astonished  to  see  her  suddenly  broken : 
he  was  afraid. 

He  helped  her  to  sort  the  things  scattered  on  the  floor.    Every 


220  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

now  and  then  she  would  linger  over  something,  but  ho  would 
gently  take  it  from  ber  bands,  and  she  suffered  bim. 

From  that  time  on  be  took  pains  to  lie  more,  with  her.  As 
soon  as  be  bad  finished  bis  work,  instead  of  shutting  biniself 
up  in  bis  room,  as  be  loved  to  do,  he  would  return  to  her.  lie 
fell  her  loneliness  and  that  she  was  not  strong  enough  to  he 
left  alone:  there  was  danger  in  leaving  her  alone. 

lie  \vould  sit  by  her  side  in  the  evening  near  the  open  window 
looking  on  to  the  road.  The  view  would  slowly  disappear. 
The  people  were  returning  home.  Little  lights  appeared  in 
the  houses  far  oil'.  They  bad  seen  it  all  a  thousand  times. 
But  soon  they  would  see  it  no  more.  They  would  talk  dis- 
joiutedly.  They  would  point  out  to  each  other  the  smallest  ol' 
the  familiar  incidents  and  expectations  of  the  evening,  alwavs 
with  fresh  interest.  They  would  have  long  intimate  silences, 
or  Louisa,  for  no  apparent  reason,  would  tell  some  remi- 
niscence, some  disconnected  story  that  passed  through  her 
mind.  Her  tongue  was  loosed  a  little  now  that  she  felt 
that  she  was  with  one  who  loved  her.  She  tried  bard  to 
talk.  It  was  difficult  for  her,  for  she  bad  grown  used 
to  living  apart  from  her  family;  sbe  looked  upon  her  sons  and 
her  husband  as  too  clever  to  talk  to  her,  and  she  had  never 
dared  to  join  in  their  conversation.  Christopbe's  tender 
care  was  a  new  thing  to  her  and  infinitely  sweet,  though 
it  made  her  afraid.  She  deliberated  over  her  words;  she  found 
it  difficult  to  express  herself;  her  sentences  were  left  unfinishd 
and  obscure.  Sometimes  she  was  ashamed  of  what  she  was 
saying:  she  would  look  at  her  son,  and  stop  in  the  middle  of 
her  narrative.  T>ut  he  would  press  her  hand,  and  sbe  would 
be  reassured.  lie  was  filled  with  love  and  pity  for  the  childish, 
motherly  creature,  to  whom  he  bad  turned  when  be  was  a  child, 
and  now  she  turned  to  him  for  support.  And  he  took  a  melan- 
choly pleasure  in  her  prattle,  that  bad  no  interest  for  anybody 
but  himself,  in  her  trivial  memories  of  a  life  tbat  bad  always 
been  joyless  and  mediocre,  though  it  seemed  to  Louisa  to  be  of 
infinite  worth.  Sometimes  he  would  try  to  interrupt  her;  he 
was  afraid  that  her  memories  would  make  her  sadder  than  ever, 
and  he  would  urge  her  to  sleep.  She  would  understand  what 
he  was  at,  and  would  say  with  gratitude  in  her  eyes: 


YOUTH  221 

"  K"o.  I  assure  you,  it  does  one  good ;  let  us  stay  a  little 
longer." 

They  would  stay  until  the  night  was  far  gone  and  the  neigh- 
bors were  abed.  Then  they  would  say  good-night,  she  a  little 
comforted  by  being  rid  of  some  of  her  trouble,  he  with  a  heavy 
heart  under  this  new  burden  added  to  that  which  already  he 
had  to  bear. 

The  day  came  for  their  departure.  On  the  night  before 
they  stayed  longer  than  usual  in  the  unlighted  room.  They 
did  not  speak.  Every  now  and  then  Louisa  moaned :  "  Fear 
God!  Fear  God!"  Christophe  tried  to  keep  her  attention 
fixed  on  the  thousand  details  of  the  morrow's  removal.  She 
would  not  go  to  bed  until  he  gently  compelled  her.  But  he 
went  up  to  his  room  and  did  not  go  to  bed  for  a  long  time. 
When  leaning  out  of  the  window  he  tried  to  gaze  through  the 
darkness  to  see  for  the  last  time  the  moving  shadows  of  the 
river  beneath  the  house.  He  heard  the  wind  in  the  tall  trees 
in  Minna's  garden.  The  sk}r  was  black.  There  was  no  one 
in  the  street.  A  cold  rain  was  just  falling.  The  weathercocks 
creaked.  In  a  house  near  by  a  child  was  crying.  The  night 
weighed  with  all  overwhelming  heaviness  upon  the  earth  and 
upon  his  soul.  The  dull  chiming  of  the  hours,  the  cracked  note 
of  the  halves  and  quarters,  dropped  one  after  another  into  the 
grim  silence,  broken  only  by  the  sound  of  the  rain  on  the 
roofs  and  the  cobbles. 

When  Christophe  at  last  made  up  his  mind  to  go  to  bed, 
chilled  in  body  and  soul,  he  heard  the  window  below  him 
shut.  And,  as  he  lay,  he  thought  sadly  that  it  is  cruel  for 
the  poor  to  dwell  on  the  past,  for  they  have  no  right  to  have 
a  past,  like  the  rich:  they  have  no  home,  no  corner  of  the 
earth  wherein  to  house  their  memories:  their  joys,  their  sor- 
rows, all  their  days,  are  scattered  in  the  wind. 

Next  day  in  beating  rain  they  moved  their  scanty  furniture 
to  their  new  dwelling.  Fischer,  the  old  furniture  dealer,  lent 
them  a  cart  and  a  pony;  he  came  and  helped  them  himself. 
But  they  could  not  take  everything,  for  the  rooms  to  which 
they  were  going  were  much  smaller  than  the  old.  Chris- 
tophe had  to  make  his  mother  leave  the  oldest  and  most  useless 
of  their  belongings.  It  was  not  altogether  easy;  the  least  thing 


222  JEAX-CHRISTOPHE 

had  its  worth  for  her :  a  shaky  table,  a  broken  chair,  she  wished 
to  leave  nothing  behind.  Fischer,  fortified  by  the  authority  of 
his  old  friendship  with  Jean  Michel,  had  to  join  Chris- 
tophe  in  complaining,  and,  good-fellow  that  he  was  and 
understanding  her  grief,  had  even  to  promise  to  'keep 
some  of  her  precious  rubbish  for  her  against  the  day  when 
she  should  want  it  again.  Then  she  agreed  to  tear  her- 
self away. 

The  two  brothers  had  been  told  of  the  removal,  but  Ernest 
came  on  the  night  before  to  say  that  he  could  not  be  there, 
and  Eodolphe  appeared  for  a  moment  about  noon ;  lie  watched 
them  load  the  furniture,  gave  some  advice,  and  went  away 
again  looking  mightily  busy. 

The  procession  set  out  through  the  muddy  streets.  Chris- 
tophe  led  the  horse,  which  slipped  on  the  greasy  cobbles. 
Louisa  walked  by  her  son's  side,  and  tried  to  shelter  him  from 
the  rain.  And  so  they  had  a  melancholy  homecoming  in  the 
damp  rooms,  that  were  made  darker  than  ever  by  the  dull  light 
coming  from  the  lowering  sky.  They  could  not  have  fought 
against  the  depression  that  was  upon  them  had  it  not  been 
for  the  attentions  of  their  landlord  and  his  family.  But,  when 
the  cart  had  driven  away,  as  night  fell,  leaving  the  furniture 
heaped  up  in  the  room ;  and  Christophe  and  Louisa  were 
sitting,  worn  out,  one  on  a  box,  the  other  on  a  sack;  they 
heard  a  little  dry  cough  on  the  staircase;  there  was  a  knock 
at  the  door.  Old  Euler  came  in.  He  begged  pardon  elaborately 
for  disturbing  his  guests,  and  said  that  by  way  of  celebrating 
their  first  evening  he  hoped  that  they  woiild  be  kind  enough 
to  sup  with  himself  and  his  family.  Louisa,  stunned  by  her 
sorrow,  wished  to  refuse.  Christophe  was  not  much  more 
tempted  than  she  by  this  friendly  gathering,  but  the  old  man 
insisted  and  Christophe,  thinking  that  it  would  be  better  for 
his  mother  not  to  spend  their  first  evening  in  their  new  home 
alone  with  her  thoughts,  made  her  accept. 

They  went  down  to  the  floor  below,  where  they  found  the 
whole  family  collected  :  the  old  man,  his  daughter,  his  son-in- 
law.  Yogcl,  and  his  grandchildren,  a  boy  and  a  girl,  both  a 
little  younger  than  Christophe.  They  clustered  around  their 
guests,  bade  them  welcome.,  asked  if  they  were  tired,  if  they 


YOUTH  223 

were  pleased  with  their  rooms,  if  they  needed  anything;  putting 
so  many  questions  that  Christophe  in  bewilderment  could  make 
nothing  of  them,  for  everybody  spoke  at  once.  The  soup  was 
placed  on  the  table;  they  sat  down.  But  the  noise  went  on. 
Amalia,  Euler's  daughter,  had  set  herself  at  once  to  acquaint 
Louisa  with  local  details:  with  the  topography  of  the  district, 
the  habits  and  advantages  of  the  house,  the  time  when  the 
milkman  called,  the  time  when  she  got  up,  the  various  trades- 
people and  the  prices  that  she  paid.  She  did  not  stop  until 
she  had  explained  everything.  Louisa,  half-asleep,  tried  hard 
to  take  an  interest  in  the  information,  but  the  remarks  which 
she  ventured  showed  that  she  had  understood  not  a  word,  and 
provoked  Amalia  to  indignant  exclamations  and  repetition  of 
every  detail.  Old  Euler,  a  clerk,  tried  to  explain  to  Chris- 
tophe the  difficulties  of  a  musical  career.  Christophe's  other 
neighbor,  Rosa,  Amalia's  daughter,  never  stopped  talking  from 
the  moment  when  they  sat  down, — so  volubly  that  she  had 
no  time  to  breathe;  she  lost  her  breath  in  the  middle  of  a 
sentence,  but  at  once  she  was  off  again.  Vogel  was  gloomy  and 
complained  of  the  food,  and  there  were  embittered  arguments 
on  the  subject.  Amalia,  Euler,  the  girl,  left  off  talking  to 
take  part  in  the  discussion;  and  there  were  endless  controversies 
as  to  whether  there  was  too  much  salt  in  the  stew  or  not  enough ; 
they  called  each  other  to  witness,  and,  naturally,  no  two  opinions 
were  the  same.  Each  despised  his  neighbor's  taste,  and  thought 
only  his  own  healthy  and  reasonable.  They  might  have  gone 
on  arguing  until  the  Last  Judgment. 

But,  in  the  end,  they  all  joined  in  crying  out  upon  the  bad 
weather.  They  all  commiserated  Louisa  and  Christophe  upon 
their  troubles,  and  in  terms  which  moved  him  greatly  they 
praised  him  for  his  courageous  conduct.  They  took  groat  pleas- 
ure in  recalling  not  only  the  misfortunes  of  their  guests,  but 
also  their  own,  and  those  of  their  friends  and  all  their  acquaint- 
ance, and  they  all  agreed  that  the  good  are  always  unhappy, 
and  that  there  is  joy  only  for  the  selfish  and  dishonest.  They 
decided  that  life  is  sad,  that  it  is  quite  useless,  and  that  they 
were  all  better  dead,  were  it  not  the  indubitable  will  of  God 
that  they  should  go  on  living  so  as  to  sutl'er  As  these  ideas 
came  very  near  to  Christophe's  actual  pessimism,  he  thought 


224  JEAX-CHK1STOPHE 

the  better  of  his  landlord,  and  closed  his  eyes  to  their  little 
oddities. 

When  he  went  upstairs  again  with  his  mother  to  the  dis- 
ordered rooms,  they  were  weary  and  sad,  but  they  felt  a  little 
less  lonely;  and  while  Christophe  lay  awake  through  the  night, 
for  he  could  not  sleep  because  of  his  weariness  and  the  noise 
of  the  neighborhood,  and  listened  to  the  heavy  carts  shaking 
the  walls,  and  the  breathing  of  the  family  sleeping  below,  he 
tried  to  persuade  himself  that  he  would  be,  if  not  happy,  at 
least  less  unhappy  here,  with  these  good  people — a  little  tire- 
some, if  the  truth  be  told— who  suffered  from  like  misfortunes, 
who  seemed  to  understand  him,  and  whom,  he  thought,  he  under- 
stood. 

But  when  at  last  he  did  fall  asleep,  he  was  roused  unpleasantly 
at  dawn  by  the  voices  of  his  neighbors  arguing,  and  the  creak- 
ing of  a  pump  worked  furiously  by  some  one  who  was  in  a 
hurry  to  swill  the  yard  and  the  stairs. 

Justus  Euler  was  a  little  bent  old  man,  with  uneasy,  gloomy 
eyes,  a  red  face,  all  lines  and  pimples,  gap-toothed,  with 
an  unkempt  beard,  with  which  he  was  forever  fidgeting 
with  his  hands.  Very  honest,  quite  able,  profoundly  moral, 
he  had  been  on  quite  good  terms  with  Christophe's  grand- 
father. He  was  said  to  be  like  him.  And,  in  truth,  he 
was  of  the  same  generation  and  brought  up  with  the  same 
principles;  but  he  lacked  Jean  Michel's  strong  physique, 
that  is,  while  he  was  of  the  same  opinion  on  many  points, 
.fundamentally  he  was  hardly  at  all  like  him,  for  it  is 
temperament  far  more  than  ideas  that  makes  a  man,  and  what- 
ever the  divisions,  fictitious  or  real,  marked  between  men  by 
intellect,  the  great  divisions  between  men  and  men  are  into 
those  who  are  healthy  and  those  who  are  not.  Old  Euler 
was  not  a  healthy  man.  He  talked  morality,  like  Jean  Michel, 
but  his  morals  were  not  the  same  as  Jean  Michel's;  he  had 
not  his  sound  stomach,  his  lungs,  or  his  jovial  strength.  Every- 
thing in  Euler  and  his  family  \vas  built  on  a  more  parsimonious 
and  niggardly  plan.  He  had  been  an  ollicial  for  forty  years, 
was  now  retired,  and  suiTered  from  that  melancholy  that  comes 
from  inactivity  and  weighs  so  heavily  upon  old  men,  who  have 


YOUTH  225 

not  made  provision  in  their  inner  life  for  their  last  yoarb. 
All  his  habits,  natural  and  acquired,  all  the  habits  of  his  trade 
had  given  him  a  meticulous  and  peevish  quality,  which  was 
reproduced  to  a  certain  extent  in  each  of  his  children. 

His  son-in-law,  Yogel,  a  clerk  at  the  Chancery  Court,  was 
fifty  years  old.  Tall,  strong,  almost  bald,  with  gold  spectacles, 
fairly  good-looking,  he  considered  himself  ill,  and  no  doubt 
was  so,  although  obviously  he  did  not  have  the  diseases  which 
he  thought  he  had,  but  only  a  mind  soured  by  the  stupidity 
of  his  calling  and  a  body  ruined  to  a  certain  extent  by  bis 
sedentary  life.  Very  industrious,  not  without  merit,  even  cul- 
tured up  to  a  point,  he  was  a  victim  of  our  ridiculous  modern 
life,  or  like  so  many  clerks,  locked  up  in  their  oltices,  he  bad 
succumbed  to  the  demon  of  hypochondria.  One  of  those  un- 
fortunates whom  Goethe  called  "  fin  traurigar,  ungriechischer 
Hypochondrist  " — "  a  gloomy  and  un-Greek  hypochondriac," — 
and  pitied,  though  be  took  good  care  to  avoid  them. 

Amalia  was  neither  the  one  nor  the  other.  Strong,  loud. 
and  active,  she  wasted  no  sympathy  on  her  husband's  jeremiads; 
she  used  to  shake  him  roughly.  But  no  human  strength  can 
bear  up  against  living  together,  and  when  in  a  household  one 
or  other  is  neurasthenic,  the  chances  are  that  in  time  they 
will  both  he  so.  In  vain  did  Amalia  cry  out  upon  Vogel, 
in  vain  did  she  go  on  protesting  either  from  habit  or  because 
it  was  necessary:  next  moment  she  herself  —as  lamenting  her 
condition  more  loudly  even  than  he,  and,  passing  imperceptibly 
from  scolding  to  lamentation,  she  did  him  no  good:  she  in- 
creased his  ills  tenfold  by  loudly  singing  chorus  to  his  follies. 
In  the  end  not  only  did  she  crush  the  unhappy  Yogel. 
by  the  proportions  assumed  by  his  own  outcries  sent  s 
back  by  tin's  echo,  but  she  crushed  evervbodv,  even  hers 
her  turn  she  caught  the  trick  of  unwarrantably  bemoa 
health,  and  her  father's,  and  her  daughter's,  and  her  son's. 
It  became  a  mania:  bv  constant  repetition  she  came  to  believe 
what  she  said.  She  took  the  least  chill  tragically:  she  was 
uneasv  and  worried  about  evervbodv.  More  ihan  that,  when 
thev  were  well,  she  still  worried,  becausi  of  the  sickness  that 
was  bound  to  come.  So  life  was  passed  in  perpetual  fear. 
Outside  that  thev  were  all  in  fairlv  n'ood  health,  and  it 


226  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

as  though  their  state  of  continual  moaning  and  groaning  did 
serve  to  keep  them  well.  They  all  ate  and  slept  and  worked 
as  usual,  and  the  life  of  this  household  was  not  relaxed  for  it 
all.  Amalia's  activity  was  not  satisfied  with  working  from 
morning  to  night  up  and  down  the  house;  they  all  had  to  toil 
with  her,  and  there  was  forever  a  moving  of  furniture,  a  wash- 
ing of  floors,  a  polishing  of  wood,  a  sound  of  voices,  footsteps, 
quivering,  movement. 

The  two  children,  crushed  by  such  loud  authority,  leaving 
nobody  alone,  seemed  to  find  it  natural  enough  to  submit  to  it. 
The  boy,  Leonard,  was  good  looking,  though  insignificant  of 
feature,  and  stiff  in  manner.  The  girl,  Rosa,  fair-haired,  with 
pretty  blue  eyes,  gentle  and  affectionate,  would  have  been  pleas- 
ing especially  with  the  freshness  of  her  delicate  complexion, 
and  her  kind  manner,  had  her  nose  not  been  quite  so  large 
or  so  awkwardly  placed;  it  made  her  face  heavy  and  gave  her 
a  foolish  expression.  She  was  like  a  girl  of  Holbein,  in  the 
gallery  at  Basle — the  daughter  of  burgomaster  Meier — sitting, 
with  eyes  cast  down,  her  hands  on  her  knees,  her  fair  hair 
falling  down  to  her  shoulders,  looking  embarrassed  and  ashamed 
of  her  uncomely  nose.  But  so  far  Rosa  had  not  been  troubled 
by  it,  and  it  never  had  broken  in  upon  her  inexhaustible  chatter. 
Always  her  shrill  voice  was  heard  in  the  house  telling  stories, 
always  breathless,  as  though  she  had  no  time  to  say  everything, 
always  excited  and  animated,  in  spite  of  the  protests  which 
she  drew  from  her  mother,  her  father,  and  even  her  grand- 
father, exasperated,  not  so  much  because  she  was  forever  talking 
as  because  she  prevented  them  talking  themselves.  For  those 
good  people,  kind,  loyal,  devoted — the  very  cream  of  good 
people — had  almost  all  the  virtues,  but  they  lacked  one  virtue 
which  is  capital,  and  is  the  charm  of  life:  the  virtue  of  silence. 

Christopbe  was  in  tolerant  mood.  His  sorrow  had  soft- 
ened his  intolerant  and  emphatic  temper.  His  experience  of 
the  cruel  indifference  of  the  elegant  made  him  more  conscious 
of  the  worth  of  tbese  honest  folk,  graceless  and  devilish  tire- 
some, who  had  yet  an  austere  conception  of  life,  and  because 
they  lived  joylessly,  seemed  to  him  to  live  without  weakness. 
Having  decided  that  they  were  excellent,  and  that  he  ought  to 
like  them,  like  the  German  that  he  was,  he  tried  to  persuade 


YOUTH  227 

himself  that  he  did  in  fact  like  them.  But  he  did  not  succeed; 
he  lacked  that  easy  Germanic  idealism,  which  does  not  wish  to 
see,  and  does  not  see,  what  would  be  displeasing  to  its  sight. 
for  fear  of  disturbing  the  very  proper  tranquillity  of  its  judg- 
ment and  the  pleasantness  of  its  existence.  On  the  contrary, 
he  never  was  so  conscious  of  the  defects  of  these  people  as 
when  he  loved  them,  when  he  wanted  to  love  them  absolutely 
without  reservation;  it  was  a  sort  of  unconscious  loyalty,  and 
an  inexorable  demand  for  truth,  which,  in  spite  of  himself, 
made  him  more  clear-sighted,  and  more  exacting,  with  what  was 
dearest  to  him.  And  it  was  not  long  before  he  began  to  be 
irritated  by  the  oddities  of  the  family.  They  made  no  attempt 
to  conceal  them.  Contrary  to  the  usual  habit  they  displayed 
every  intolerable  quality  they  possessed,  and  all  the  good  in 
them  was  hidden.  So  Christophe  told  himself,  for  he  judged 
himself  to  have  been  unjust,  and  tried  to  surmount  his  first 
impressions,  and  to  discover  in  them  the  excellent  qualities 
which  they  so  carefully  concealed. 

He  tried  to  converse  with  old  Justus  Euler,  who  asked  nothing 
better.  He  had  a  secret  sympathy  with  him,  remembering  that 
his  grandfather  had  liked  to  praise  him.  But  good  old  Jean 
Michel  had  more  of  the  pleasant  faculty  of  deceiving  himself 
about  his  friends  than  Christophe,  and  Christophe  soon  saw 
that.  In  vain  did  he  try  to  accept  Euler's  memories  of  his 
grandfather.  He  could  only  get  from  him  a  discolored  cari- 
cature of  Jean  Michel,  and  scraps  of  talk  that  were  utterly 
uninteresting.  Euler's  stories  used  invariably  to  begin  with: 

"  As  I  used  to  say  to  your  poor  grandfather  .  .  .'' 
He  could  remember  nothing  else.  He  had  heard  only  what 
he  had  said  himself. 

Perhaps  Jean  Michel  used  only  to  listen  in  the  same  way. 
Most  friendships  are  little  more  than  arrangements  for  mutual 
satisfaction,  so  that  each  party  may  talk  about  himself  to  the 
other.  But  at  least  Jean  Michel,  however  naively  he  used  to 
give  himself  up  to  the  delight  of  talking,  had  sympathy  which 
he  was  always  ready  to  lavish  on  all  sides.  He  was  interested 
in  everything;  he  always  regretted  that  he  was  no  longer  fifteen, 
so  as  to  be  able  to  see  the  marvelous  inventions  of  the  new 
generations,  and  to  share  their  thoughts.  He  had  the  quality, 


228  JEAN-CHRTSTOPHE 

perhaps  the  most  precious  in  life,  a  curiosity  always  fresh, 
never  changing  with  the  years,  born  anew  every  morning,  lie 
had  not  the  talent  to  turn  this  gift  to  account;  but  how  many 
men  of  talent  might  en\y  him!  ilost  men  die  at  twenty  or 
thirty;  thereafter  they  are  only  reflections  of  themselves:  for 
the  rest  of  the'r  lives  they  are  aping  themselves,  repeating  from 
day  to  day  more  and  more  mechanically  and  affectedly  what 
they  said  and  did  and  thought  and  loved  when  they  were  alive. 

It  was  so  long  since  old  Euler  had  been  alive,  and  he  had 
been  such  a  small  thing  then,  that  what  was  left  of  him  now 
was  very  poor  and  rather  ridiculous.  Outside  his  former  trade 
and  his  family  life  he  knew  nothing,  and  wished  to  know  noth- 
ing. On  every  subject  he  had  ideas  ready-made,  dating  from 
his  youth.  He  pretended  to  some  knowledge  of  the  arts,  but 
he  clung  to  certain  hallowed  names  of  men,  about  whom  he 
was  forever  reiterating  his  emphatic  formula;:  everything  else 
was  naught  and  had  never  been.  When  .modern  interests  were 
mentioned  he  would  not  listen,  and  talked  of  something  else. 
He  declared  that  he  loved  music  passionately,  and  he  would 
ask  Christophe  to  play.  But  as  soon  as  Christophe,  who 
had  been  caught  once  or  twice,  began  to  play,  the  old  fellow 
would  begin  to  talk  loudly  to  his  daughter,  as  though 
the  music  only  increased  his  interest  in  every  tiling  but 
music.  Christophe  would  get  up  exasperated  in  the  middle 
of  his  piece,  so  one  would  notice  it.  There  were  only  a  few 
old  airs — three  or  four — some  very  beautiful,  others  very  ugly, 
but  all  equally  sacred,  which  we're  privileged  to  gain  comparative 
silence  and  absolute  approval.  With  the  very  first  notes  the 
old  man  would  go  into  ecstasies,  tears  would  come  to  his  eyes, 
not  so  much  for  the  pleasure  he  was  enjoying  as  for  the  pleasure 
which  once  he  had  enjoyed.  In  the  end  Christophe  had 
a  horror  of  these  airs,  though  some  of  them,  like  the  Adfln'idc, 
of  "Beethoven,  were  very  dear  to  him  :  the  old  man  was  always 
humming  the  first  bars  of  them,  and  never  failed  to  declare, 
"  There,  that  is  music,"  contemptuously  comparing  it  with  "  all 
the  blessed  modern  music,  in  which  there  is  no  melody."  Truth 
to  tell,  he  knew  nothing  whatever  about  it. 

His  son-in-law  was  better  educated  and  kept  in  touch  with 
artistic  movements;  but  that  was  even  worse,  for  in  his  judgment 


YOl  Til  ;>•.'!) 

there  was  always  a  disparaging  tinge.  He  was  lacking  neither 
in  taste  nor  intelligence;  hut  he  could  not  bring  himself  to 
admire  anything  modern.  He  would  have  disparaged  Mozart 
and  Beethoven,  if  they  had  been  contemporary,  just  as  he  would 
have  acknowledged  the  merits  of  Wagner  and  LMchard  Strauss 
had  they  been  dead  for  a  century.  His  discontented  temper 
refused  to  allow  that  there  might  be  great  men  living  during 
his  own  lifetime;  the  idea  was  distasteful  to  him.  He  was  so 
embittered  by  his  wasted  life  that  he  insist ed  on  pretending 
that  every  life  was  wasted,  that  it  could  not  be  otherwise,  and 
that  those  who  thought  the  opposite,  or  pretended  to  think  so. 
were  one  of  two  things:  fools  or  humbugs. 

And  so  he  never  spoke  of  any  new  celebrity  except  in  a  tone 
of  bitter  irony,  and  as  lie  was  not  stupid  lie  never  failed  to 
discover  at  the  first  glance  the  weak  or  ridiculous  sides  of  them. 
Any  new  name  roused  him  to  distrust;  before  he  knew  anything 
about  the  man  he  was  inclined  to  criticise  him — because  he 
knew  nothing  about  him.  Jf  he  was  sympathetic  towards 
Christophe  it  was  because  he  thought  that  the  misanthropic 
boy  found  life  as  evil  as  he  did  himself,  and  that  he  was  not 
a  genius.  Nothing  so  unites  the  small  of  soul  in  their  suffering 
and  discontent  as  the  statement  of  their  common  impotence. 
Nothing  so  much  restores  the  desire  for  health  or  life  to  those 
who  are  healthy  and  made  for  the  joy  of  life  as  contact 
with  the  stupid  pessimism  of  the  mediocre  and  the  sick,  who, 
because  they  are  not  happy,  deny  the  happiness  of  others. 
Christophe  felt  this.  And  yet  these  gloomy  thoughts  were 
familiar  to  him:  but  he  was  surprised  to  lind  them  on  Vogel's 
lips,  where  they  were  unrecognizable;  more  than  that,  they  were 
repugnant  to  him;  they  offended  him. 

Tie  was  even  more  in  revolt  against  Amelia's  ways.  The 
good  creature  did  no  more  than  practise  Ohristophe's  theories 
of  duty.  The  word  was  upon  her  lips  at  every  turn.  She 
worked  unceasingly,  and  wanted  everybody  to  work  as  she 
did.  Her  work  was  never  directed  towards  making  herself 
and  others  happier;  on  the  contrary.  It  almost  seemed  as 
though  it  was  mainlv  intended  to  incommode  everybody  and 
to  make  life  as  disagreeable  as  possible  so  as  to  sanctify  it. 
Nothing  would  induce  her  for  a  moment  to  relinquish  her  holy 


230  JEAX-CHRISTOPHE 

duties  in  the  household,  that  sacro-sanct  institution  which  in 
so  many  women  takes  the  place  of  all  other  duties,  social  and 
moral.  She  would  have  thought  herself  lost  had  she  not  on 
the  same  day,  at  the  same  time,  polished  the  wooden  floors, 
washed  the  tiles,  cleaned  the  door-handles,  heaten  the  carpets, 
moved  the  chairs,  the  cupboards,  the  tables.  She  was  osten- 
tatious about  it.  It  was  as  though  it  was  a  point  of  honor 
with  her.  And  after  all,  is  it  not  in  much  the  same  spirit  that 
many  women  conceive  and  defend  their  honor?  It  is  a  sort 
of  piece  of  furniture  which  they  have  to  keep  polished,  a  well 
waxed  floor,  cold,  hard — and  slippery. 

The  accomplishment  of  her  task  did  not  make  Frau  Yogel 
more  amicable.  She  sacrificed  herself  to  the  trivialities  of  the 
household,  as  to  a  duty  imposed  by  God.  And  she  despised 
those  who  did  not  do  as  she  did,  those  who  rested,  and  were 
able  to  enjoy  life  a  little  in  the  intervals  of  work.  She  would 
go  and  rouse  Louisa  in  her  room  when  from  time  to  time  she 
sat  down  in  the  middle  of  her  work  to  dream.  Louisa  would 
sigh,  but  she  submitted  to  it  with  a  half-shamed  smile.  Fortu- 
nately, Christophe  knew  nothing  about  it;  Amalia  used  to 
wait  until  he  had  gone  out  before  she  made  these  irruptions 
into  their  rooms,  and  so  far  she  had  not  directly  attacked  him; 
he  would  not  have  put  up  with  it.  When  he  was  with  her  he 
was  conscious  of  a  latent  hostility  within  himself.  What  lie 
could  least  forgive  her  Avas  the  noise  she  made.  He  was  mad- 
dened by  it.  When  he  was  locked  in  his  room — a  little  low 
room  looking  out  on  the  yard — with  the  window  hermetically 
sealed,  in  spite  of  the  want  of  air,  so  as  not  to  hear  the  clatter 
in  the  house,  he  could  not  escape  from  it.  Involuntarily  he 
was  forced  to  listen  attentively  for  the  least  sound  coming  up 
from  below,  and  .when  the  terrible  voice  which  penetrated  all 
the  walls  broke  out  again  after  a  moment  of  silence  he  was 
filled  with  rage;  he  would  shout,  stamp  with  his  foot,  and 
roar  insults  at  her  through  the  wall.  In  the  general  uproar, 
no  one  ever  noticed  it ;  they  thought  he  was  composing.  He 
would  consign  Frau  A'ogel  to  the  depths  of  hell.  He  had  no 
respect  for  her,  nor  esteem  to  check  him.  At  such  times  it 
seemed  to  him  that  he  would  have  preferred  the  loosest 
and  most  stupid  of  women,  if  only  she  did  not  talk,  to  clev- 


YOUTH  231 

erness,  honesty,  all  the  virtues,  when  they  make  too  much 
noise. 

His  hatred  of  noise  brought  him  in  touch  with  Leonard. 
In  the  midst  of  the  general  excitement  the  boy  was  the  only 
one  to  keep  calm.,  and  never  to  raise  his  voice  more  at  one 
moment  than  another.  He  always  expressed  himself  correctly 
and  deliberately,  choosing  his  words,  and  never  hurrying. 
Amalia,  simmering,  never  had  patience  to  wait  until  he  had 
finished;  the  whole  family  cried  out  upon  his  slowness.  He 
did  not  worry  about  it.  Xothing  could  upset  his  calm,  respect- 
ful deference.  Christophe  was  the  more  attracted  to  him  when 
he  learned  that  Leonard  intended  to  devote  his  life  to  the 
Church,  and  his  curiosity  was  roused. 

With  regard  to  religion,  Christophe  was  in  a  queer  posi- 
tion; he  did  not  know  himself  how  he  stood  towards  it.  He 
had  never  had  time  to  think  seriously  about  it.  lie  was  not 
well  enough  educated,  and  he  was  too  much  absorbed  by  the 
difficulties  of  existence  to  be  able  to  analyze  himself  and  to 
set  his  ideas  in  order.  His  violence  led  him  from  one  extreme 
to  the  other,  from  absolute  facts  to  complete  negation,  without 
troubling  to  find  out  whether  in  either  case  he  agreed  with 
himself.  When  he  was  happy  he  hardly  thought  of  God  at 
all,  but  he  was  quite  ready  to  believe  in  Him.  When  he  was 
unhappy  he  thought  of  Him,  but  did  not  believe;  it  seemed 
to  him  impossible  that  a  Clod  could  authorize  unhappiness  and 
injustice.  But  these  difficulties  did  not  greatly  exercise1  him. 
He  was  too  fundamentally  religious  to  think  much  about  Clod. 
He  lived  in  God;  he  had  no  need  to  believe  in  Him.  That  is 
well  enough  for  the  weak  and  worn,  for  those  whose  lives  are 
anaemic.  They  aspire  to  God,  as  a  plant  does  to  the  sun.  The 
dying  cling  to  life.  But  he  who  bears  in  his  soul  the  sun  and 
life,  what  need  has  lie  to  seek  them  outside  himself? 

Christophe  would  probably  never  have  bothered  about 
these  questions  had  he  lived  alone.  But  the  obligations  of  social 
life  forced  him  to  bring  his  thoughts  to  bear  on  these  puerile 
and  useless  problems,  which  occupv  a  place  out  of  all  proportion 
in  the  world;  it  is  impossible  not  to  take  them  into  account 
since  at  every  step  they  are  in  the  way.  As  if  a  healthy,  gen- 
erous creature,  overflowing  with  strength  and  love,  had  not  a 


•&32  ,TEAX-CTTTnSTOPTTE 

thousand  more  worthy  things  to  do  than  to  worry  as  to  whether 
God  exists  or  no !  .  .  .  If  it  were  only  a  question  of  believing 
in  God!  But  it  is  needful  to  believe  in  a  God.  of  whatever 
shape  or  size  and  color  and  race.  So  far  Christophe  never 
gave  a  thought  to  the  matter.  Jesus  hardly  occupied  his 
thoughts  at  all.  It  was  not  that  lie;  did  not  love  him:  he  loved 
him  when  he  thought  of  him  :  but  he  never  thought  of  him. 
Sometimes  he  reproached  himself  for  it,  was  angry  with  himself, 
could  not  understand  why  he  did  not  lake  more  interest  in  him. 
And  yet  he  professed,  all  his  family  professed;  his  grandfather 
was  forever  reading  the  Bible;  he  went  regularly  to  Mass; 
he  served  it  in  a  sort  of  way,  for  he  was  an  organist;  and  he 
set  about  his  task  conscientiously  and  in  an  exemplary  manner. 
But  when  he  left  the  church  he  would  have  been  hard  put  to 
it  to  sny  what  he  had  been  thinking  about.  He  set  himself 
to  read  the  Holy  Books  in  order  to  fix  his  ideas,  and  he  found 
amusement  and  even  pleasure  in  them,  just  as  in  any  beautiful 
strange  books,  not  essentially  di  If  event  from  other  books,  which 
no  one  ever  thinks  of  calling  sacred.  In  truth,  if  Jesus  ap- 
pealed to  him,  Beethoven  did  no  less.  And  at  his  organ  in 
Saint  Florian's  Church,  where  he  accompanied  on  Sundays,  he 
was  more  taken  up  with  his  organ  than  with  Mass,  and  he 
was  more  religious  when  he  played  Bach  than  when  lie  played 
Mendelssohn.  Some  of  the  ritual  brought  him  to  a  fervor  of 
exaltation.  But  did  he  then  love  God,  or  was  it  only  the  music, 
as  an  impudent  priest  said  to  him  one  day  in  jest,  without 
thinking  of  the  unhappiness  which  his  quip  might  cause  in 
him?  Anybody  else  would  not  have  paid  any  attention  to  it, 
and  would  not  have  changed  his  mode  of  living — (so  many 
people  put  up  with  not  knowing  what  they  think!)  But 
Christophe  was  cursed  with  an  awkward  need  for  sincerity, 
which  tilled  him  with  scruples  at  every  turn.  And  when  scruples 
came  to  him  thev  possessed  him  forever.  He  tortured  himself; 
he  thought  that  he  had  acted  with  duplicity.  Did  he  believe 
or  did  he  not?  .  .  .  lie  had  no  means,  material  or  intellectual — 
(knowledge  and  leisure  are  necessary) — of  solving  the  prob- 
lem by  himself.  And  yet  it  had  to  be  solved,  or  he  was  either 
indifferent  or  a  hypocrite.  Xow,  he  was  incapable  of  being 
either  one  or  the  other. 


YOUTH  233 

He  tried  timidly  to  sound  those  about  him.  Thev  all  seemed 
to  be  sure  of  themselves.  Christophe  burned  to  know  their 
reasons.  He  could  not  discover  them.  Hardly  did  he  receive; 
a  definite  answer;  they  always  talked  obliquely.  Some  thought 
him  arrogant,  and  said  that  there  is  no  arguing  those  things. 
that  thousands  of  men  chneror  and  belter  than  himself  had 
believed  without  argument,  and  thai  he  needed  only  to  do  as 
they  had  done.  There  were  some  who  were  a  lilt  It;  hurt,  as 
though  it  were  a  personal  ail'ront  to  ask  them  such  a  question, 
and  yet  they  were  of  all  perhaps  the  least  certain  of  their  facts. 
Others  shrugged  their  shoulders  and  said  with  a  smile:  "Bah! 
it  can't  do  any  harm."  And  their  smile  said:  "And  it  is  so 
useful!  .  .  ."  Christophe  despised  them  with  all  his  heart. 

He  had  tried  to  lay  his  uncertainties  before  a  priest,  but 
he  was  discouraged  by  the  experiment.  He  could  not  discuss 
the  matter  seriously  with  him.  Though  his  interlocution  was 
quite  pleasant,  he  made  Christophe  feel,  quite  politely,  that 
there  was  no  real  equality  between  them;  he  seemed  to 
assume  in  advance  that  his  superiority  was  beyond  dispute,  and 
that  the  discussion  could  not  exceed  the  limits  which  he  laid 
down  for  it.  without  a  kind  of  impropriety:  it  was  just  a 
fencing  bout,  and  was  quite  inoil'ensive.  When  t'hristophe 
wished  to  exceed  the  limits  and  to  ask  questions,  which  the 
worthy  man  was  pleased  not  to  answer,  lie  stepped  back  with 
a  patronizing  smile,  and  a  few  Latin  quotations,  and  a  fatherly 
objurgation  to  pray,  pray  that  (Jod  would  enlighten  him. 
Christophe  issued  from  the  interview  humiliated  and  wounded 
by  his  love  of  polite  superiority.  Wrong  or  right,  he  would 
never  again  for  anything  in  the  world  have  recourse  to  a  priesv. 
He  admitted  that  these  men  were  his  superiors  in  intelligence, 
or  by  reason  of  their  sacred  calling:  but  in  argument  there  is 
neither  superiority,  nor  inferiority,  nor  title,  nor  age.  nor  name: 
nothing  is  of  worth  but  truth,  before  which  all  men  atv  equal. 

So  he  was  glad  to  find  a  bov  of  his  own  age  who  believed. 
He  asked  no  more  than  belief,  and  he  hoped  that  Leonard 
would  give  him  good  reason  for  believing.  He  made  advances 
to  him.  Leonard  replied  with  his  usual  gentleness,  but  without 
eagerness;  he  was  never  eager  about  anything.  As  they  could 
not  carry  on  a  long  conversation  in  the  house  without  being 


234  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

interrupted  every  moment  by  Amalia  or  the  old  man,  Chris- 
tophe  proposed  that  they  should  go  for  a  walk  one  evening 
after  dinner.  Leonard  was  too  polite  to  refuse,  although  he 
would  gladly  have  got  out  of  it,  for  his  indolent  nature  dis- 
liked walking,  talking,  and  anything  that  cost  him  an  effort. 

Christophe  had  some  difficulty  in  opening  up  the  con- 
versation. After  two  or  three  awkward  sentences  ahout  triviali- 
ties he  plunged  with  a  brusqueness  that  was  almost  brutal.  He 
asked  Leonard  if  he  were  really  going  to  be  a  priest,  and  if 
he  liked  the  idea.  Leonard  was  nonplussed,  and  looked  at  him 
uneasily,  but  when  he  saw  that  Christophe  was  not  hos- 
tilely  disposed  he  was  reassured. 

"  Yes,"  he  replied.     "  How  could  it  be  otherwise  ?  " 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Christophe.  "  You  are  very  happy."  Leonard 
was  conscious  of  a  shade  of  envy  in  Christophe's  voice  and  was 
agreeably  flattered  by  it.  He  altered  his  manner,  became  ex- 
pansive, his  face  brightened. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  I  am  happy."     He  beamed. 

"What  do  you  do  to  be  so?"  asked  Christophe. 

Before  replying  Leonard  proposed  that  they  should  sit  down 
on  a  quiet  seat  in  the  cloisters  of  St.  Martin's.  From  there 
they  could  see  a  corner  of  the  little  square,  planted  with  acacias, 
and  beyond  it  the  town,  the  country,  bathed  in  the  evening 
mists.  The  Bhine  flowed  at  the  foot  of  the  hill.  An  old 
deserted  cemetery,  with  graves  lost  under  the  rich  grass,  lay 
in  slumber  beside  them  behind  the  closed  gates. 

Leonard  began  to  talk.  He  said,  with  his  eyes  shining  with 
contentment,  how  happy  he  was  to  escape  from  life,  to  have 
found  a  refuge,  where  a  man  is,  and  forever  will  be,  in  shelter. 
Christophe,  still  sore  from  his  wounds,  felt  passionately  the 
desire  for  rest  and  forgetf ulness ;  but  it  was  mingled  with  regret. 
He  asked  with  a  sigh: 

"  And  yet,  does  it  cost  you  nothing  to  renounce  life  alto- 
gether ?  " 

"  Oil !  "  said  Leonard  quietly.  "  What  is  there  to  regret? 
Isn't  life  sad  and  ugly?*' 

"  There  are  lovely  tilings  too,"  said  Christophe,  looking  at 
the  beautiful  evening. 

"  There  are  some  beautiful  things,  but  very  few." 


YOUTH  235 

"  The  few  that  there  are  are  yet  man)  to  me." 

"  Oh,  well !  it  is  simply  a  matter  of  common  sense.  On  the 
one  hand  a  little  good  and  much  evil;  on  the  other  neither  good 
nor  evil  on  earth.,  and  after,  infinite  happiness — how  can  one 
hesitate  ?  " 

Christophe  was  not  very  pleased  with  this  sort  of  arith- 
metic. So  economic  a  life  seemed  to  him  very  poor.  But  he 
tried  to  persuade  himself  that  it  was  wisdom. 

"So,"  he  asked  a  little  ironically,  "there  is  no  risk  of  your 
being  seduced  by  an  hour's  pleasure?" 

"  How  foolish !  When  you  know  that  it  is  only  an  hour,  and 
that  after  it  there  is  all  eternity!" 

"You  are  quite  certain  of  eternity?" 

"  Of  course." 

Christophe  questioned  him.  He  was  thrilled  with  hope 
and  desire.  Perhaps  Leonard  would  at  last  give  him  im- 
pregnable reasons  for  believing.  With  what  a  passion  he  would 
himself  renounce  all  the  world  to  follow  him  to  dod. 

At  first  Leonard,  proud  of  his  role  of  apostle,  and  convinced 
that  Christophe's  doubts  were  only  ;i  matter  of  form,  and 
that  they  would  of  course  give  way  before  his  first  argu- 
ments, relied  upon  the  Holy  Books,  the  authority  of  the  Gospel, 
the  miracles,  and  traditions.  But  lie  began  to  grow  gloomy 
when,  after  Christophe  had  listened  for  a  few  minutes, 
he  stopped  him  and  said  that  he  was  answering  questions  with 
questions,  and  that  he  had  not  asked  him  to  tell  exact! v  what 
it  was  that  he  was  doubting,  but  to  give  some  means  of  resolv- 
ing his  doubts.  Leonard  then  had  to  reali/.e  that  Christophe 
was  mucli  more  ill  than  he  seemed,  and  that  he  would 
only  allow  himself  to  be  convinced  bv  the  light  of  reason.  Hut 
he  still  thought  that  Christophe  was  playing  the  free 
thinker— (it  never  occurred  to  him  that  he  might  he  so  sin- 
cerely).— He  was  not  discouraged,  and.  strong  in  his  recently 
acquired  knowledge,  he  turned  hack  to  his  school  learning:  he 
unfolded  higgledv,  piggledv,  with  more  authority  than  order, 
his  metaphysical  proofs  of  the  existence  of  (!od  and  the  im- 
mortality of  the  soul.  Christophe.  with  his  mind  at  stretch, 
and  his  brow  knit  in  the  effort,  labored  in  silence,  and  made 
him  say  it  all  over  again;  tried  hard  to  gather  the  meai> 


23G  J  EAN-CHRISTOPHE 

ing,  and  to  take  it  io  himself,  and  to  follow  the  reason- 
ing. Then  suddenly  he  burst  out,  vowed  that  Leonard 
was  lauglung  at  him,  that  it  was  all  tricks,  jests  of  the  line 
talkers  who  forged  words  and  then  amused  themselves  with 
pretending  that  these  words  were,  things.  Leonard  was  nettled, 
and  guaranteed  the  good  faith  of  his  authors.  Christophe 
shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  said  with  an  oath  that  they  were 
only  humbug-:,  infernal  writers;  and  he  demanded  fresh  proof. 

Leonard  perceived  to  his  honor  that  Christophe  was 
incurably  attainted,  and  took  no  more  interest  in  him.  Uc 
remembered  that  he  had  been  told  not  to  waste  his  time  in 
arguing  with  skeptics, — at  least  when  they  stubbornly  refuse 
to  believe.  There  was  the  risk  of  being  shaken  himself,  without 
profiting  the  other.  It  was  better  to  leave  the  unfortunate 
fellow  to  the  will  of  God,  who,  if  He  so  designs,  would  see  to 
it  that  the  skeptic  was  enlightened:  or  if  not,  who  would 
dare  to  go  against  the  will  of  Cod?  Leonard  did  not  insist 
then  on  carrying  on  the  discussion.  He  only  said  gently  that 
for  the  time  being  there  was  nothing  to  be  done,  that  no  reason- 
ing could  show  the  way  to  a  man  who  was  determined  not  to 
see  it,  and  that  Jean-Christophe  must  pray  and  appeal  to 
Grace:  nothing  is  possible  without  that:  he  must  desire  grace- 
and  the  will  to  believe. 

''  The  will,''  thought  Christophe  bitterly.  '"  So  then,  God 
will  e*ist;  because  I  will  Him  to  exist?  So  then,  death  will 
not  exist,  because  it  pleases  me  to  deny  it!  ...  Alas!  How 
easy  life  is  to  those  who  have  no  need  to  see  the  truth,  to  those 
who  can  see  what  they  wish  to  see,  and  are  forever  forging 
pleasant  dreams  in  which  softly  to  sleep!"  In  such  a  bed, 
Christophe  knew  well  that  he  would  never  sleep.  .  .  . 

Leonard  went  on  talking.  lie  had  fallen  back  on  his  favorite 
subject,  the  sweets  of  the  contemplative  life,  and  once  on  this 
neutral  ground,  he  was  inexhaustible.  In  his  monotonous  voice, 
that  shook  with  the  pleasure  in  him,  he  told  of  the  joys  of 
ihe  life  in  God,  outside,  above  (he  world,  far  from  noise,  of 
which  he  spoke  in  a  sudden  tone  of  hatred  (he  detested  it 
almost  as  much  as  Christophe),  far  from  violence,  far 
from  frivolity.,  far  from  the  little  miseries  that  one  has  to 
suffer  even  dav,  in  the  warm,  secure  nest  of  faith,  from  which 


YOUTH 

you  can  contemplate  in  peace  the  wretchedness  of  a  strange 
and  distant  world.  And  as  Christophe  listened,  he  per- 
ceived the  egoism  of  that  faith.  Leonard  saw  that.  He  hur- 
riedly explained:  the  contemplative  life  was  not  a  la/.y  life. 
On  the  contrary,  a  man  is  more  active  in  prayer  than  in  action. 
What  would  the  world  be  without  prayer?  You  expiate  the 
sins  of  others,  you  bear  the  burden  of  their  misdeeds,  you 
offer  up  your  talents,  you  intercede  between  the  world  and 
God. 

Christophe  listened  in  silence  with  increasing  hostility. 
He  was  conscious  of  the  hypocrisy  of  such  renunciation  in 
Leonard.  He  was  not  unjust  enough  to  assume  hypocrisy  in 
all  those  who  believe.  He  knew  well  that  with  a  few.  such 
abdication  of  life  comes  from  the  impossibility  of  living,  from 
a  bitter  despair,  an  appeal  to  death,— that  with  still  fewer, 
it  is  an  ecstasy  of  passion.  .  .  .  (How  long  does  it  last?)  .  .  . 
But  with  the  majority  of  men  is  it  not  too  often  the  cold  reason- 
ing of  souls  more  busied  with  their  own  ease  and  peace  than 
with  the  happiness  of  others,  or  with  truth?  And  if  sincere 
'men  are  conscious  of  it,  how  much  they  must  suffer  by  such 
profanation  of  their  ideal!  .  .  . 

Leonard  was  quite  happy,  and  now  set  forth  the  beauty  and 
harmony  of  the  world,  seen  from  the  loftiness  of  the  divine 
roost:  below  all  was  dark,  unjust.,  sorrowful:  seen  from  on 
high,  it  all  became  clear,  luminous,  ordered  :  the  world  was 
like  the  works  of  a  clock,  perfectly  ordered.  .  .  . 

Xow  C'hristophe  onl\  listened  absently.  He  was  asking 
himself:  u  Does  he  believe,  or  does  he  'believe  that  he  believes?  " 
And  yet  his  own  faith,  his  own  passionate  desire  for  faith  was 
not  shaken.  .Not  the  mediocrity  of  soul,  and  the  poverty  of 
argument  of  a  fool  like  Leonard  could  touch  that.  .  .  . 

Xight  came  down  over  the  {own.  'The  seat  on  which  they 
were  sitting  was  in  darkness;  the  stars  shone  oui.  a  white  mis: 
came  up  from  the  river,  the  crickets  chirped  under  the  trees 
in  the  cemetery.  The  hells 
them,  alone,  like  a  plaintive 
the  second,  a  third  lower,  jo 
the  deepest,  on  the  fifth,  am 
three  voices  wer 


238  JEAX-CimiSTOPIIE 

towers  there  was  a  bu/x'mg,  as  of  a  gigantic  hive  of  bees.  The 
air  and  the  hoy's  heart  quivered.  Christophe  held  his  breath, 
and  thought  how  poor  was  the  nuisie  of  musicians  coin- 
pared  with  such  an  ocean  of  music,  with  all  the  sounds  of 
thousands  of  creatures:  the  former,  the  free  world  of  sounds. 
compared  with  the  world  tamed,  catalogued,  coldly  labeled  by 
human  intelligence.  He  sank  and  sank  into  that  sonorous  and 
immense  world  without  continents  or  bounds.  .  .  . 

And  when  the  great  murmuring  had  died  away,  when  the 
air  had  ceased  at  last  to  quiver,  Christophe  woke  up. 
He  looked  about  him  startled.  .  .  .  He  knew  nothing.  Around 
him  and  in  him  everything  was  changed.  There  was  no 
God.  .  .  . 

As  with  faith,  so  the  loss  of  faith  is  often  equally  a  Hood 
of  grace,  a  sudden  light.  Reason  counts  for  nothing:  the 
smallest  thing  is  enough — a  word,  silence,  the  sound  of  bells. 
A  man  walks,  dreams,  expects  nothing.  Suddenly  the  world 
crumbles  away.  All  about  him  is  in  ruins.  He  is  alone.  He 
no  longer  believes. 

Christophe  was  terrified,  and  could  not  understand  how 
it  had  come  about.  It  was  like  the  flooding  of  a  river  in  the 
spring.  .  .  . 

Leonard's  voice  was  still  sounding,  more  monotonous  than 
the  voice  of  a  cricket.  Christophe  did  not  hear  it:  he  heard 
nothing.  Xight  was  fully  come.  Leonard  stopped.  Surprised 
to  find  Christophe  motionless,  uneasy  because  of  the  lateness 
of  the  hour,  he  suggested  that  they  shouVl  go  home.  Christophe 
did  not  reply.  Leonard  took  his  arm.  Christophc  trembled, 
and  looked  at  Leonard  with  wild  eyes. 

"  Christophe,  we  must  go  home,''  said  Leonard. 

"  Go  to  hell !  "  cried  Christophe  furiously. 

"Oh!  Christophe!  What  have  1  done?"  asked  Leonard 
tremulously.  He  was  d  urn  founded. 

Christophe  came  to  himself. 

"Yes.  You  arc  right.''  he  said  more  gently.  "I  do  not 
know  what  Tin  saying.  Go  to  God!  Go  to  God!" 

Tie  was  alone.      lie  was  in  bitter  distress. 

"Ah!  my  God!  my  God!'"  lie  cried,  wringing  his  hands, 
passionately  raising  his  face  to  the  dark  sky.  "  Why  do  I  no 


YOUTH  230 

longer  believe?  Why  can  I  believe  no  more?  What  lias  hap- 
pened to  me?  .  .  ." 

The  disproportion  between  the  wreck  of  his  faith  and  the 
conversation  that  he  had  just  had  with  Leonard  was  too  great: 
it  was  obvious  that  the  conversation  had  no  more  brought  it 
about  than  that  the  boisterousness  of  Amalia's  gabble  and  the 
pettiness  of  the  people  with  whom  he  lived  were  not  the  cause 
of  the  upheaval  which  for  some  days  had  been  taking  place 
in  his  moral  resolutions.  These  were  only  pretexts.  The  un- 
easiness had  not  come  from  without.  It  was  within  himself. 
He  felt  stirring  in  his  heart  monstrous  and  unknown  things, 
and  he  dared  not  rely  on  his  thoughts  to  face  the  evil.  The 
evil?  Was  it  evil?  A  languor,  an  intoxication,  a  voluptuous 
agony  filled  all  his  being.  He  was  no  longer  master  of  him- 
self. In  vain  he  sought  to  fortify  himself  with  his  former 
stoicism.  His  whole  being  crashed  down.  He  had  a  sudden 
consciousness  of  the  vast  world,  burning,  wild,  a  world  immeas- 
urable. .  .  .  How  it  swallows  up  God! 

Only  for  a  moment.  But  the  whole  balance  of  his  old  life 
was  in  that  moment  destroyed. 

There  was  only  one  person  in  the  family  to  whom  Christophe 
paid  no  attention:  this  was  little  Kosa.  She  was  not  beau- 
tiful: and  Christophe,  who  was  far  from  beautiful  himself, 
was  very  exacting  of  beauty  in  others,  lie  had  that  calm 
cruelty  of  youth,  for  which  a  woman  does  not  exist  if  she 
be  ugly, — unless  she  has  passed  the  age  for  inspiring  tender- 
ness, and  there  is  then  no  need  to  feel  for  her  anything 
but  grave,  peaceful,  and  quasi-religious  sentiments.  Hosa  also 
was  not  distinguished  by  any  especial  gift,  although  she  was 
not  without  intelligence:  and  she  was  cursed  with  a  chattering 
tongue  which  drove  Christophe  from  her.  And  he  had  never 
taken  the  trouble  to  know  her,  thinking  that  there  was  in  her 
nothing  to  know;  and  the  most  he  ever  did  was  to  glance 
at  her. 

But  she  was  of  better  stuff  than  most  girls:  she  was  certainly 
better  than  Minna,  whom  he  had  so  loved.  She  was  a  good 
girl,  no  coquette,  not  at  all  vain,  and  until  Christophe  came 
it  had  never  occurred  to  her  that  she  was  plain,  or  it'  it  had, 


240  JEAX-CHK1STOPHE 

it  had  not  worried  her:  for  none  of  her  family  bothered 
about  it.  Whenever  her  grandfather  or  her  mother  told  her 
so  out  of  a  desire  to  grumble,  she  only  laughed:  she  did  not 
believe  it,  or  she  attached  no  importance  to  it:  nor  did  they. 
So  many  others,  just  as  plain,  and  more,  had  found  some  one 
to  love  them!  The  (Germans  are  very  mildly  indulgent  to 
physical  imperfections:  thev  cannot  see  them:  they  are  even 
able  to  embellish  them,  by  virtue  of  an  easy  imagination  which 
finds  unexpected  qualities  in  the  face  of  their  desire  to  make 
them  like  the  most  illustrious  examples  of  human  beauty.  Old 
Euler  would  not  have  needed  much  urging  to  make  him  declare 
that  his  granddaughter  had  the  nose  of  the  Juno  Ludovisi. 
Happily  he  was  too  grumpy  to  pay  compliments:  and  1'osa, 
unconcerned  about  the  shape  of  her  nose,  had  no  vanity  except 
in  the  accomplishment,  with  all  the  ritual,  of  the  famous  house- 
hold duties.  She  had  accepted  as  Gospel  all  that  she  had  been 
taught.  She  hardly  ever  went  out,  and  she  had  very  little 
standard  of  comparison;  she  admired  her  family  nai'velv,  and 
believed  what  they  said.  She  was  of  an  expansive  and  con- 
tiding  nature,  easily  satisfied,  and  tried  to  fall  in  with  the 
mournfulness  of  her  home,  and  docilely  used  to  repeat  the 
pessimistic  ideas  which  she  heard.  She  was  a  creature  of 
devotion — alwavs  thinking  of  others,  trying  to  please,  sharing 
anxieties,  guessing  at  what  others  wanted:  she  had  a  great 
need  of  loving  without  demanding  anything  in  return.  Nat- 
urally her  family  took  advantage  of  her,  although  they  were 
kind  and  loved  her:  but  there  is  always  a  temptation  to  take 
advantage  of  the  love  of  those  who  are  absolutely  delivered 
into  your  hands.  Tier  family  were  so  sure  of  her  attentions 
that  they  were  not  at  all  grateful  for  them:  whatever  she  did. 
they  expected  more.  And  then,  she  was  clumsy:  she  was  awk- 
ward and  hasty:  her  movements  wore  jerky  and  boyish:  she 
had  outbursts  of  tenderness  which  used  to  end  in  disaster:  a 
hroke-n  glass,  a  jug  upset,  a  door  slammed  to:  tilings  which 
Jet  loose  upon  her  the  wrath  of  everybody  in  the  house.  She 
was  always  being  snubbed  and  would  go  and  weep  in  a  corner. 
Her  tears  did  not  last  long.  She  would  soon  smile  again,  and 
begin  to  chatter  without  a  suspicion  of  rancor  against  any- 
body 


YOUTH  241 

Christophe's  advent  was  an  important  event  in  her  life. 
She  had  often  heard  of  him.  Christopho  had  some  place 
in  the  gossip  of  the  town:  he  was  a  sort  of  little  local  celebrity: 
his  name  used  often  to  recur  in  the  family  conversation,  espe- 
cially when  old  Jean  Michel  was  alive,  who,  proud  of  his  grand- 
son, used  to  Bing  his  praises  to  all  of  his  acquaintance.  Rosa 
had  seen  the  young  musician  once  or  twice  at  concert?.  When 
she  heard  that  he  was  coming  to  live  with  thorn,  she  clapped 
her  hands.  She  was  sternly  rebuked  for  her  breach  of  man- 
ners and  became  confused.  She  saw  no  harm  in  it.  In  a  life 
so  monotonous  as  hers,  a  new  lodger  was  a  great  distraction. 
She  spent  the  last  few  days  before  his  arrival  in  a  fever  of 
expectancy.  She  was  fearful  lest  he  should  not  like  the  house. 
and  she  tried  hard  to  make  every  room  as  attractive  as  possible. 
On  the  morning  of  his  arrival,  she  even  put  a  little  bunch  of 
flowers  on  the  mantelpiece  to  bid  him  welcome.  As  to  herself, 
she  took  no  care  at  all  to  look  her  best;  and  one  glance  was 
enough  to  make  Christophe  decide  that  she  was  plain, 
and  slovenly  dressed.  She  did  not  think  the  same  of  him. 
though  she  had  good  reason  to  do  so :  for  Ohristophe, 
busy,  exhausted,  ill-kempt,  Was  even  more  ugly  than  usual. 
But  Rosa,  who  was  incapable  of  thinking  the  least  ill  of  any- 
body, Rosa,  who  thought  her  grandfather,  her  father,  and  her 
mother,  all  perfectly  beautiful,  saw  Christophe  exactly  as 
she  had  expected  to  see  him,  and  admired  him  with  all  her 
heart.  She  was  frightened  at  sitting  next  to  him  at  table:  and 
unfortunately  her  shyness  took  the  shape  of  a  Hood  of  words, 
which  at  once  alienated  Christophe's  sympathies.  She  did 
not  see  this,  and  that  first  evening  remained  a  shining  memory 
in  her  life.  When  she  was  alone  in  her  room,  after 
they  had  all  gone  upstairs,  she  heard  the  tread  of  the  ne\v 
lodgers  as  they  walked  over  her  head :  and  the  sound  of  it 
ran  joyously  through  her;  the  house  seemed  to  her  to  have 
taken  new  life. 

The  next  morning  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  looked 
at  herself  in  the  mirror  carefullv  and  uneasily,  and  without 
exactly  knowing  the  extent  of  her  misfortune  she  began  to 
be  conscious  of  it.  She  tried  to  decide  about  her  features, 
one  by  one;  but  she  could  not.  She  was  tilled  with  sadness 


242  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

and  apprehension.  She  sighed  deeply,  and  thought  of  intro- 
ducing certain  changes  in  her  toilet,  but  she  only  made  herself 
look  still  more  plain.  She  conceived  the  unlucky  idea  of 
overwhelming  Christophe  with  her  kindness.  In  her  na'ive 
desire  to  be  always  seeing  her  new  friends,  and  doing  them 
service,  she  was  forever  going  up  and  down  the  stairs,  bringing 
them  some  utterly  useless  thing,  insisting  on  helping  them, 
and  always  laughing  and  talking  and  shouting.  Her  zeal  and 
her  stream  of  talk  could  only  be  interrupted  by  her  mother's 
impatient  voice  calling  her.  Christophe  looked  grim;  but 
for  his  good  resolutions  he  must  have  lost  his  temper  quite 
twenty  times.  He  restrained  himself  for  two  days;  on  the 
third,  he  locked  his  door.  Rosa  knocked,  called,  understood, 
went  downstairs  in  dismay,  and  did  not  try  again.  When  he 
saw  her  he  explained  that  he  was  very  busy  and  could  not 
be  disturbed.  She  humbly  begged  his  pardon.  She  could  not 
deceive  herself  as  to  the  failure  of  her  innocent  advances :  they 
had  accomplished  the  opposite  of  her  intention :  they .  had 
alienated  Christophe.  He  no  longer  took  the  trouble  to  con- 
ceal his  ill-humor;  he  did  not  listen  when  she  talked,  and  did 
not  disguise  his  impatience.  She  felt  that  her  chatter  irritated 
him,  and  by  force  of  will  she  succeeded  in  keeping  silent  for 
a  part  of  the  evening:  but  the  thing  was  stronger  than  herself: 
suddenly  she  would  break  out  again  and  her  words  would 
tumble  over  each  other  more  tumultuously  than  ever.  Chris- 
tophe would  leave  her  in  the  middle  of  a  sentence.  She  was 
not  angry  with  him.  She  was  angry  with  herself.  She  thought 
herself  stupid,  tiresome,  ridiculous:  all  her  faults  assumed 
enormous  proportions  and  she  tried  to  wrestle  with  them :  but 
she  was  discouraged  by  the  check  upon  her  first  attempts,  and 
said  to  herself  that  she  could  not  do  it,  that  she  was  not  strong 
enough.  But  she  would  try  again. 

But  there  were  other  faults  against  which  she  was  powerless : 
what  could  she  do  against  her  plainness?  There  was  no  doubt 
about  it.  The  certainty  of  her  misfortune  had  suddenly  been 
revealed  to  her  one  day  when  she  was  looking  at  herself  in 
the  mirror;  it  came  like  a  thunderclap.  Of  course  she  exag- 
gerated the  evil,  and  saw  her  nose  as  ten  times  larger  than 
it  was;  it  seemed  to  her  to  fill  all  her  face;  she  dared  not 


YOUTH  243 

show  herself;  she  wished  to  die.  But  there  is  in  youth  such 
a  power  of  hope  that  these  fits  of  discouragement  never  lasted 
long:  she  would  end  by  pretending  that  she  had  been  mistaken; 
she  would  try  to  believe  it,  and  for  a  moment  or  two  would 
actually  succeed  in  thinking  her  nose  quite  ordinary  and  almost 
shapely.  Her  instinct  made  her.  attempt,  though  very  clumsily, 
certain  childish  tricks,  a  way  of  doing  her  hair  so  as  not  so 
much  to  show  her  forehead  and  so  accentuate  the  disproportion 
of  her  face.  And  yet,  there  was  no  coquetry  in  her ;  no  thought 
of  love  had  crossed  her  mind,  or  she  was  unconscious  of  it. 
She  asked  little :  nothing  but  a  little  friendship :  but  Christophe 
did  not  show  any  inclination  to  give  her  that  little.  It  seemed 
to  Eosa  that  she  would  have  been  perfectly  happy  had  he  only 
condescended  to  say  good-day  when  they  met.  A  friendly  good- 
evening  with  a  little  kindness.  But^  Christophe  usually  looked 
so  hard  and  so  cold !  It  chilled  her.  He  never  said  anything 
disagreeable  to  her,  but  she  would  rather  have  had  cruel  re- 
proaches than  such  cruel  silence. 

One  evening  Christophe  was  playing  his  piano.  He  had 
taken  up  his  quarters  in  a  little  attic  at  the  top  of  the  house 
so  as  not  to  be  so  much  disturbed  by  the  noise.  Downstairs 
Eosa  was  listening  to  him,  deeply  moved.  She  loved  music 
though  her  taste  was  bad  and  unformed.  While  her  mother 
was  there,  she  stayed  in  a  corner  of  the  room  and  bent  over 
her  sewing,  apparently  absorbed  in  her  work ;  but  her  heart  was 
with  the  sounds  coming  from  upstairs,  and  she  wished  to  miss 
nothing.  As  soon  as  Amalia  went  out  for  a  walk  in  the  neigh- 
borhood, Eosa  leaped  to  her  feet,  threw  down  her  sewing,  and 
went  upstairs  with  her  heart  beating  until  she  came  to  the 
attic  door.  She  held  her  breath  and  laid  her  ear  against  the 
door.  She  stayed  like  that  until  Amalia  returned.  Sbe  went 
on  tiptoe,  taking  care  to  make  no  noise,  but  as  she  was  not 
very  sure-footed,  and  was  always  in  a  hurry,  she  was  always 
tripping  upon  the  stairs;  and  once  while  she  was  listening, 
leaning  forward  with  her  cheek  glued  to  the  keyhole,  she  lost 
her  balance,  and  banged  her  forehead  against  the  door.  She 
was  so  alarmed  that  she  lost  her  breath.  The  piano  stopped 
dead:  she  could  not  escape.  She  was  getting  up  when  the 
door  opened.  Christophe  saw  her,  glared  at  her  furiously,  and 


JEAX-CH1USTOPIIE 

thcu  without  a  word,  brushed  her  aside,  walked  angrily  down- 
stairs, and  went  out.  He  did  not  return  until  dinner  time, 
paid  no  heed  to  the  despairing  looks  with  which  she  asked  his 
pardon,  ignored  her  existence,  and  for  several  weeks  he  never 
played  at  all.  Ixosa  secretly  shed  many  tears;  no  one  noticed 
it,  no  one  paid  any  attention  to  her.  Ardently  she  prayed  to 
God  .  .  .  for  wluit?  She  did  not  know.  She  had  to  confide 
her  grief  in  some  one.  She  was  sure  that  Christophe  detested 
her. 

And,  in  spite  of  all,  she  hoped.  1 1  was  enough  for  her  if 
Christophe  seemed  to  show  any  sign  of  interest  in  her,  if  he 
appeared  to  listen  to  what  she  said,  if  he  pressed  her  hand 
with  a  little  more  friendliness  than  usual,  .  .  . 

A  few  imprudent  words  from  her  relations  set  her  imagina- 
tion oil  upon  a  false  road. 

The  whole  family  was  filled  with  sympathy  for  Christophe. 
The  big  boy  of  sixteen,  serious  and  solitary,  who  had  such  lofty 
ideas  of  his  duty,  inspired  a  sort  of  respect  in  them  all.  His 
fits  of  ill-temper,  his  obstinate  silences,  his  gloomy  air,  his 
brusque  manner,  were  not  surprising  in  such  a  house  as  that. 
Fran  'Yogel,  herself,  who  regarded  every  artist  as  a  loafer,  dared 
not  reproach  him  aggressively,  as  she  would  have  liked  to  do, 
with  the  hours  that  he  spent  in  star-gazing  in  the  evening, 
leaning,  motionless,  out  of  the  attic  window  overlooking  the 
yard,  until  night  fell;  for  she  knew  that  during  the  rest  of  the 
day  he  was  hard  at  work  with  his  lessons;  and  she  humored 
him — like  the  rest — -for  an  ulterior  motive  which  no  one  ex- 
pressed though  everybody  knew  it. 

Rosa  had  seen  her  parents  exchanging  looks 'and  mysterious 
whisperings  when  she  was  talking  to  Christophe.  At  first  she 
took  no  notice  of  it.  Then  she  was  puzzled  and  roused  by 
it;  she  longed  to  know  what  they  were  saying,  but  dared  not 
ask. 

One  evening  when  she  had  climbed  on  to  a  garden  seat  to 
untie  the  clothes-line  hung  between  two  trees,  she  leaned  on 
Christophers  shoulder  to  jump  down,  .hist  at  that  moment 
her  eyes  met  her  grandfather's  and  her  father's;  they  were 
sitting  smoking  their  pipes,  and  leaning  against  the  wall  of 


YOUTH  243 

the  house.  The  two  men  winked  at  each  oilier,  and  Justus 
Euler  said  to  Yogel : 

"  They  will  make  a  fine  couple," 

Yogel  nudged  him,  seeing  that  the  girl  was  listening,  and 
he  covered  his  remark  very  cleverly — (or  so  lie  thought,) — with 
a  loud  "  Hm !  h:n!"  that  could  have  been  hoard  twenty  yards 
away.  Christophe,  whose  back  was  turned,  saw  nothing,  but 
Rosa  was  so  bowled  over  by  it  that  she  forgot  that  she  was 
jumping  down,  and  sprained  her  foot.  She  would  have  fallen 
had  not  Christophe  caught  her,  muttering  curses  on  her  clumsi- 
ness. She  had  hurt  herself  badly,  but  she  did  not  show  it; 
she  hardly  thought  of  it;  she  thought  only  of  what  she  had 
just  heard.  She  walked  to  her  room;  every  step  was  agony  to 
her;  she  stiffened  herself  against  it  so  as  not  to  let  it  be  seen. 
A  delicious,  vague  uneasiness  surged  through  her.  She  fell 
into  a  chair  at  the  foot  of  her  bed  and  hid  her  face  in  the 
coverlet.  Her  cheeks  were  burning;  there  were  tears  in  her 
eyes,  and  she  laughed.  She  was  ashamed,  she  wished  to  sink 
into  the  depths  of  the  earth,  she  could  not  lix  her  ideas;  her 
blood  beat  in  her  temples,  there  were  sharp  pains  in  her  ankle; 
she  was  in  a  feverish  stupor.  Yaguely  she  heard  sounds  out- 
side, children  crying  and  playing  in  the  street,  and  her  grand- 
father's words  were  ringing  in  her  ears;  she  was  thrilled,  she 
laughed  softly,  she  blushed,  with  her  face  buried  in  the  eider- 
down: she  prayed,  gave  thanks,  desired,  feared — she  loved. 

Her  mother  called  her.  She  tried  to  get  up.  At  the  first 
step  she  felt  a  pain  so  unbearable  that  she  almost  fainted  :  her 
head  swam.  She  thought  she  was  going  to  die,  she  wished  to 
die,  and  at  the  same  time  she  wished  to  live  with  all  the1  forces 
of  her  being,  to  live  for  the  promised  happiness.  Her  mother 
came  at  last,  and  the  whole  household  was  soon  excited.  She 
was  scolded  as  usual,  her  ankle  was  dressed,  she  was  put  to 
bed,  and  sank  into  the  sweet  bewilderment  of  her  physical  pain 
and  her  inward  joy.  The  night  was  sweet.  .  .  .  The  smallest 
memory  of  that  dear  evening  was  hallowed  for  her.  She  did 
not  think  of  Christophe,  she  knew  not  what  she;  thought.  She 
was  happy. 

The  next  day,  Christophe,  who  thought  himself  in  some 
measure  responsible  for  the  accident,  came  to  make  inquiries, 


246  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

and  for  the  first  time  ho  made  some  show  of  affection  for  her. 
She  was  filled  with  gratitude.,  and  blessed  her  sprained  ankle. 
She  would  gladly  have  suffered  all  her  life,  if,  all  her  life,  she 
might  have  such  joy. — She  had  to  lie  down  for  several  days 
and  never  move;  she  spent  them  in  turning  over  and  over 
her  grandfather's  words,  and  considering  them.  Had  he  said: 

"  They  will  .  .  ." 

Or: 

"They  would  .  .  .?" 

But  it  was  possible  that  he  had  never  said  anything  of  this 
kind? — Yes.  He  had  said  it;  she  was  certain  of  it.  ...  What! 
Did  they  not  sec  that  she-  was  ugly,  and  that  Christophe  could 
not  bear  her?  .  .  .  But  it  was  so  good  to  hope!  She  came  to 
believe  that  perhaps  she  had  been  wrong,  that  she  was  not  as 
ugly  as  she  thought ;  she  would  sit  up  on  her  sofa  to  try  and 
see  herself  in  the  mirror  on  the  wall  opposite,  above  the  .mantel- 
piece; she  did  not  know  what  to  think.  After  all,  her  father 
and  her  grandfather  were  better  judges  than  herself;  people 
cannot  tell  about  themselves.  .  .  .  Oh!  Heaven,  if  it  were  pos- 
sible! ...  If  it  could  be  ...  if,  she  never  dared  think  it, 
if  ...  if  she  were  pretty !  .  .  .  Perhaps,  also,  she  had  exag- 
gerated Christophe's  antipathy.  No  doubt  he  was  indifferent, 
and  after  the  interest  he  had  shown  in  her  the  day  after  the 
accident  did  not  bother  about  her  any  more;  he  forgot  to  in- 
quire; but  Kosa  made  excuses  for  him,  he  was  so  busy!  How 
should  he  think  of  her?  An  artist  cannot  be  judged  like  other 
men.  .  .  . 

And  yet,  resigned  though  she  was,  she  could  not  help  expect- 
ing with  beating  heart  a  word  of  sympathy  from  him  when 
he  came  neat1  her.  A  word  only,  a  look  .  .  .  her  imagination 
did  the  rest.  In  the  beginning  love  needs  so  little  food!  It 
is  enough  to  see.  to  touch  as  you  pass;  such  a  power  of  dreams 
flows  from  the  soul  in  such  moments,  that  almost  of  itself  it 
can  create  its  love:  a  trifle  can  plunge  it  into  ecstasy  that 
later,  when  it  is  more  satisfied,  and  in  proportion  more  exacting, 
it  will  hardly  find  again  when  at  last  it  does  possess  the  object 
of  its  desire. — Hosa  lived  absolutely,  though  no  one  knew  it, 
in  a  romance  of  her  own  fashioning,  pieced  together  by  her- 
self: Christophe  loved  her  secretly,  and  was  too  shy  to  confess 


YOUTH  24? 

his  love,  or  there  was  some  stupid  reason,  fantastic  or  romantic, 
delightful  to  the  imagination  of  the  sentimental  little  ninny. 
She  fashioned  endless  stories,  and  all  perfectly  absurd;  she 
knew  it  herself,  but  tried  not  to  know  it;  she  lied  to  herself 
voluptuously  for  days  and  days  as  she  bent  over  her  sewing. 
It  made  her  forget  to  talk:  her  flood  of  words  was  turned 
inward,  like  a  river  which  suddenly  disappears  underground. 
But  then  the  river  took  its  revenge.  What  a  debauch  of  speeches, 
of  unuttered  conversations  which  no  one  heard  but  herself! 
Sometimes  her  lips  would  move  as  they  do  with  people  who 
have  to  spell  out  the  syllables  to  themselves  as  they  read  so 
as  to  understand  them. 

When  her  dreams  left  her  she  was  happy  and  sad.  She  knew 
that  things  were  not  as  she  had  just  told  herself :  but  she  was 
left  with  a  reflected  happiness,  and  had  greater  confidence  for 
her  life.  She  did  not  despair  of  winning  Christophe. 

She  did  not  admit  it  to  herself,  but  she  set  about  doing  it. 
With  the  sureness  of  instinct  that  great  affection  brings,  the 
awkward,  ignorant  girl  contrived  immediately  to  find  the  road 
by  which  she  might  reach  her  beloved's  heart.  She  did  not 
turn  directly  to  him.  But  as  soon  as  she  was  better  and  could 
once  more  walk  about  the  house  she  approached  Louisa.  The 
smallest  excuse  served.  She  found  a  thousand  little  services 
to  render  her.  When  she  went  out  she  never  failed  to  under- 
take various  errands :  she  spared  her  going  to  the  market,  argu- 
ments with  tradespeople,  she  would  fetch  water  for  her  from 
the  pump  in  the  yard;  she  cleaned  the  windows  and  polished 
the  floors  in  spite  of  Louisa's  protestations,  who  was  confused 
when  she  did  not  do  her  work  alone;  but  she  was  so  weary  that 
she  had  not  the  strength  to  oppose  anybody  who  came  to  help 
her.  Christophe  was  out  all  day.  Louisa  felt  that  she  was 
deserted,  and  the  companionship  of  the  affectionate,  chattering 
girl  was  pleasant  to  her.  Rosa  took  up  her  quarters  in  her 
room.  She  brought  her  sewing,  and  talked  all  the  time.  By 
clumsy  devices  she  tried  to  bring  conversation  round  to  Chris- 
tophe. Just  to  hear  of  him,  even  to  hear  his  name,  made 
her  happy;  her  hands  would  tremble;  she  would  sit  with  down- 
cast eyes.  Louisa  was  delighted  to  talk  of  her  beloved  Chris- 
tophe, and  would  tell  little  tales  of  his  childhood,  trivial  and 


248  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

just  a  little  ridiculous;  but  there  was  no  fear  of  Rosa  thinking 
them  so :  she  took  a  great  joy,  and  there  was  a  dear  emotion 
for  her  in  imagining  Christophe  as  a  child,  and  doing  all  the 
tricks  and  having  all  the  darling  ways  of  children:  in  her  the 
motherly  tenderness  which  lies  in  the  hearts  of  all  women  was 
mingled  deliciously  with  that  other  tenderness :  she  would  laugh 
heartily  and  tears  would  come  to  her  eyes.  Louisa  was  touched 
by  the  interest  that  Rosa  took  in  her.  She  guessed  dimly  what 
was  in  the  girl's  heart,  but  she  ne\cr  let  it  appear  that  she  did 
so;  but  she  was  glad  of  it;  for  of  all  in  the  house  she  only 
knew  the  worth  of  the  girl's  heart.  Sometimes  she  would  stop 
talking  to  look  at  her.  Rosa,  surprised  by  her  silence,  would 
raise  her  eyes  from  her  work.  Louisa  would  smile  at  her.  Rosa 
would  throw  herself  into  her  arms,  suddenly,  passionately,  and 
would  hide  her  face  in  Louisa's  bosom.  Then  they  would  go 
on  working  and  talking,  as  if  nothing  had  happened. 

In  the  evening  when  Christophe  came  home,  Louisa,  grateful 
for  Rosa's  attentions,  and  in  pursuance  of  the  little  plan  she 
had  made,  always  praised  the  girl  to  the  skies.  Christophe 
was  touched  b}r  Rosa's  kindness.  He  saw  how  much  good 
she  was  doing  his  mother,  in  whose  face  there  was  more  serenity : 
and  he  would  thank  her  effusively.  Rosa  would  murmur,  and 
escape  to  conceal  her  embarrassment :  so  she  appeared  a  thou- 
sand times  more  intelligent  and  sympathetic  to  Christophe  than 
if  she  had  spoken.  He  looked  at  her  less  with  a  prejudiced 
eye,  and  did  not  conceal  his  surprise  at  finding  unsuspected 
qualities  in  her.  Rosa  saw  that;  she  marked  the  progress  that 
she  made  in  his  sympathy  and  thought  that  his  sympathy  would 
lead  to  love.  She  gave  herself  up  more  than  ever  to  her  dreams. 
She  came  near  to  believing  with  the  beautiful  presumption  of 
youth  that  what  you  desire  with  all  your  being  is  always 
accomplished  in  the  end.  Besides,  how  was  her  desire  unreason- 
able? Should  not  Christophe  have  been  more  sensible  than 
any  other  of  her  goodness  and  her  affectionate  need  of  self- 
devotion  ? 

But  Christophe  gave  no  thought  to  her.  He  esteemed  her; 
but  she  filled  no  room  in  his  thoughts.  He  was  busied  with 
far  other  things  at  the  moment.  Christophe  was  no  longer 
Christophe.  He  did  not  know  himself.  He  was  in  a  mighty 


YOUTH  249 

travail  that  was  like  to  sweep   everything  away,  a   complete 
upheaval. 

Christophe  was  conscious  of  extreme  weariness  and  great  un- 
easiness. He  was  for  no  reason  worn  out;  his  head  was  heavy, 
his  eyes,  his  ears,  all  his  senses  were  dumb  and  throbbing.  He 
could  not  give  his  attention  to  anything.  His  mind  leaped  from 
one  subject  to  another,  and  was  in  a  fever  that  sucked  him  dry. 
The  perpetual  fluttering  of  images  in  his  mind  made  him  giddy. 
At  first  he  attributed  it  to  fatigue  and  the  enervation  of  the 
first  clays  of  spring.  But  spring  passed  and  his  sickness  only 
grew  worse. 

It  was  what  the  poets  who  only  touch  lightly  on  things  call 
the  unease  of  adolescence,  the  trouble  of  the  cherubim,  the 
waking  of  the  desire  of  love  in  the  young  body  and  soul.  As 
if  the  fearful  crisis  of  all  a  man's  being,  breaking  up,  dying, 
and  coming  to  full  rebirth,  as  if  the  cataclysm  in  which  every- 
thing, faith,  thought,  action,  all  life,  seems  like  to  be  blotted 
out,  and  then  to  be  new-forged  in  the  convulsions  of  sorrow 
and  joy,  can  be  reduced  to  terms  of  a  child's  folly ! 

All  his  body  and  soul  were  in  a  ferment.  lie  watched  them, 
having  no  strength  to  struggle,  with  a  mixture  of  curiosity  and 
disgust.  He  did  not  understand  what  was  happening  in  himself. 
His  whole  being  was  disintegrated.  He  spent  days  together  in 
absolute  torpor.  Work  was  torture  to  him.  At  night  he  slept 
heavily  and  in  snatches,  dreaming  monstrously,  with  gust?  of 
desire;  the  soul  of  a  beast  was  racing  madly  in  him.  Burning, 
bathed  in  sweat,  he  watched  himself  in  horror;  he  tried  to 
break  free  of  the  crazy  and  unclean  thoughts  that  possessed 
him,  and  he  wondered  if  he  were  going  mad. 

The  day  gave  him  no  shelter  from  his  brutish  thoughts.  Fn 
the  depths  of  his  soul  he  felt  that  he  was  slipping  down  and 
down ;  there  was  no  stay  to  clutch  at :  no  barrier  to  keep  back 
chaos.  All  his  defenses,  all  his  citadels,  with  the  quadruple 
rampart  that  hemmed  him  in  so  proudly — his  Cod.  his  art,  his 
pride,  his  moral  faith,  all  was  crumbling  away,  falling  piece 
by  piece  from  him.  He  saw  himself  naked,  bound,  lying  unable 
to  move,  like  a  corpse  on  which  vermin  swarm.  He  had  spasms 
of  revolt:  where  was  his  will,  of  which  he  was  so  proud?  He 


250  JEAN-CHKISTOPHE 

called  to  it  in  vain:  it  was  like  the  efforts  that  one  makes  in 
sleep,  knowing  that  one  is  dreaming,  and  trying  to  awake.  Then 
one  succeeds  only  in  falling  from  one  dream  to  another  like 
a  lump  of  lead,  and  in  being  more  and  more  choked  by  the 
suffocation  of  the  soul  in  bondage.  At  last  he  found  that  it 
was  less  painful  not  to  struggle.  He  decided  not  to  do  so,  with 
fatalistic  apathy  and  despair. 

The  even  tenor  of  his  life  seemed  to  be  broken  up.  Now  he 
slipped  down  a  subterranean  crevasse  and  was  like  to  disappear; 
now  he  bounded  up  again  with  a  violent  jerk.  The  chain  of 
his  days  was  snapped.  In  the  midst  of  the  even  plain  of  the 
hours  great  gaping  holes  would  open  to  engulf  his  soul.  Chris- 
tophe  looked  on  at  the  spectacle  as  though  it  did  not  concern 
him.  Everything,  everybody, — and  himself — were  strange  to 
him.  He  went  about  his  business,  did  his  work,  automatically: 
it  seemed  to  him  that  the  machinery  of  his  life  might  stop  at 
any  moment:  the  wheels  were  out  of  gear.  At  dinner  with  his 
mother  and  the  others,  in  the  orchestra  with  the  musicians 
and  the  audience,  suddenly  there  would  be  a  void  and  emptiness 
in  his  brain:  he  would  look  stupidly  at  the  grinning  faces  about 
him:  and  he  could  not  understand.  He  would  ask  himself: 

"  What  is  there  between  these  creatures  and  .  .  .  ?  " 

He  dared  not  even  say : 

".  .  .  and  me." 

For  he  knew  not  whether  he  existed.  He  woiild  speak  and 
his  voice  would  seem  to  issue  from  another  body.  He  would 
move,  and  he  saw  his  movements  from  afar,  from  above — from 
the  top  of  a  tower.  He  would  pass  his  hand  over  his  face,  and 
his  eyes  would  wander.  He  was  often  near  doing  crazy  things. 

It  was  especially  when  he  was  most  in  public  that  he  had 
to  keep  guard  on  himself.  For  example,  on  the  evenings  when 
he  went  to  the  Palace  or  was  playing  in  public.  Then  he  would 
suddenly  be  seized  by  a  terrific  desire  to  make  a  face,  or  say 
something  outrageous,  to  pull  the  Grand  Duke's  nose,  or  to  take 
a  running  kick  at  one  of  the  ladies.  One  whole  evening  while 
he  was  conducting  the  orchestra,  he  struggled  against  an  in- 
sensate desire  to  undress  himself  in  public:  and  he  was  haunted 
by  the  idea  from  the  moment  when  he  tried  to  check  it :  he 
had  to  exert  all  his  strength  not  to  give  way  to  it.  When  he 


YOUTH  251 

issued  from  the  brute  struggle  he  was  dripping  with  sweat 
and  his  mind  was  blank.  He  was  really  mad.  Jt  was  enough 
for  him  to  think  that  he  must  not  do  a  thing  for  it  to  fasten 
on  him  with  the  maddening  tenacity  of  a  fixed  idea. 

So  his  life  was  spent  in  a  series  of  unbridled  outbreaks  and 
of  endless  falls  into  emptiness.  A  furious  wind  in  the  desert. 
Whence  came  this  wind?  From  what  abyss  came  these  desires 
that  wrenched  his  body  and  mind?  He  was  like  a  bow  stretched 
to  breaking  point  by  a  strong  hand, — to  what  end  unknown? — 
which  then  springs  back  like  a  piece  of  dead  wood.  Of  what 
force  was  he  the  prey?  He  dared  not  probe  for  it.  lie  felt  that 
he  was  beaten,  humiliated,  and  lie  would  not  face  his  defeat.  He 
was  weary  and  broken  in  spirit.  He  understood  now  the  people 
whom  formerly  he  had  despised :  those  who  will  not  seek  awk- 
ward truth.  In  the  empty  hours,  when  he  remembered  that 
time  was  passing,  his  work  neglected,  the  future  lost,  he  was 
frozen  with  terror.  But  there  was  no  reaction :  and  his  cowardice 
found  excuses  in  desperate  affirmation  of  the  void  in  which  he 
lived :  he  took  a  bitter  delight  in  abandoning  himself  to  it  like 
a  wreck  on  the  waters.  What  was  the  good  of  fighting?  There 
was  nothing  beautiful,  nor  good;  neither  (iod,  nor  life,  nor  being 
of  any  sort.  In  the  street  as  he  walked,  suddenly  the  earth 
would  sink  away  from  him :  there  was  neither  ground,  nor  air, 
nor  light,  nor  himself:  there  was  nothing.  He  would  fall,  his 
head  would  drag  him  down,  face  forwards :  he  could  hardly  hold 
himself  up;  he  was  on  the  point  of  collapse.  He  thought  he 
was  going  to  die,  suddenly,  struck  down.  He  thought  lie  was 
dead.  .  .  . 

Christophe  was  growing  a  new  skin.  Christophe  was  growing 
a  new  soul.  And  seeing  the  worn  out  and  rotten  soul  of  his 
childhood  falling  away  he  never  dreamed  that  he  was  taking 
on  a  new  one.  young  and  stronger.  As  through  life  we  change 
our  bodies,  so  also  do  we  change  our  souls:  and  the  metamor- 
phosis does  not  always  take  place  slowly  over  many  days ;  there 
are  times  of  crisis  when  the  whole  is  suddenly  renewed.  The 
adult  changes  his  soul.  Tin;  old  soul  that  is  cast  oil'  dies.  In 
those  hours  of  anguish  we  think  that  all  is  at  an  end.  And 
the  whole  thing  begins  again.  A  life  dies.  Another  life  has 
alreadv  come  into  being. 


252  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

One  night  he  was  alone  in  his  room,  with  his  elbow  on  his 
desk  under  the  light  of  a  candle.  His  back  was  turned  to  the 
window.  He  was  not  working.  He  had  not  been  able  to  work 
for  weeks.  Everything  was  twisting  and  turning  in  his  head. 
He  had  brought  everything  under  scrutiny  at  once :  religion, 
morals,  art,  the  whole  of  life.  And  in  the  general  dissolution 
of  his  thoughts  was  no  method,  no  order:  he  had  plunged  into 
the  reading  of  books  taken  haphazard  from  his  grandfather's 
heterogeneous  library  or  from  Vogel's  collection  of  books :  books 
of  theology,  science,  philosophy,  an  odd  lot,  of  which  he  under- 
stood nothing,  having  everything  to  learn:  he  could  not  finish 
any  of  them,  and  in  the  middle  of  them  went  off  on  divagations, 
endless  whimsies,  which  left  him  weary,  empty,  and  in  mortal 
sorrow. 

So.  that  evening,  he  was  sunk  in  an  exhausted  torpor.  The 
whole  house  was  asleep.  His  window  was  open.  Xot  a  breath 
came  up  from  the  yard.  Thick  clouds  filled  the  sky.  Chris- 
toplie  mechanically  watched  the  candle  burn  away  at  the  bottom 
of  the  candlestick.  He  could  not  go  to  bed.  He  had  no  thought 
of  anything.  He  felt  the  void  growing,  growing  from  moment 
to  moment.  He  tried  not  to  see  the  abyss  that  drew  him  to  its 
brink :  and  in  spite  of  himself  he  leaned  over  and  his  eyes  gazed 
into  the  depths  of  the  night.  In  the  void,  chaos  was  stirring, 
and  faint  sounds  came  from  the  darkness.  Agony  filled  him: 
a  shiver  ran  down  his  spine :  his  skin  tingled :  he  clutched  the 
table  so  as  not  to  fall.  Convulsively  he  awaited  nameless  things, 
a  miracle,  a  God.  .  .  . 

Suddenly,  like  an  opened  sluice,  in  the  yard  behind  him,  a 
deluge  of  water,  a  heavy  rain,  large  drops,  down  pouring,  fell. 
The  still  air  quivered.  The  dry,  hard  soil  rang  out  like  a  bell. 
And  the  vast  scent  of  the  earth,  burning,  warm  as  that  of  an 
animal,  the  smell  of  the  flowers,  fruit,  and  amorous  flesh  rose 
in  a  spasm  of  fury  and  pleasure.  Christophe,  under  illusion, 
at  fullest  stretch,  shook.  He  trembled.  .  .  .  The  veil  was  rent. 
He  was  blinded.  By  a  flash  of  lightning,  he  saw,  in  the  depths 
of  the  night,  he  saw — he  was  God.  God  was  in  himself;  He 
burst  the  ceiling  of  the  room,  the  walls  of  the  house;  He  cracked 
the  very  bounds  of  existence.  He  filled  the  sky,  the  universe, 
space.  The  world  coursed  through  Him,  like  a  cataract.  In 


YOUTH  253 

the  horror  and  ecstasy  of  that  cataclysm,  Christophe  fell  too, 
swept  along  by  the  whirlwind  which  brushed  away  and  crushed 
like  straws  the  laws  of  nature.  He  was  breathless :  he  was 
drunk  with  the  swift  hurtling  down  into  God  .  .  .  God-abyss! 
God-gulf!  Fire  of  Being!  Hurricane  of  life!  Madness  of  living, 
— aimless,  uncontrolled,  beyond  reason, — for  the  fury  of  living! 

When  the  crisis  was  over,  he  fell  into  a  deep  sleep  and  slept 
as  he  had  not  done  for  long  enough.  Xext  day  when  lie  awoke 
his  head  swam :  he  was  as  broken  as  though  he  had  been  drunk. 
But  in  his  inmost  heart  he  had  still  a  beam  of  that  somber  and 
great  light  that  had  struck  him  down  the  night  before.  Pie 
tried  to  relight  it.  In  vain.  The  more  he  pursued  it,  the  more 
it  eluded  him.  From  that  time  on,  all  his  energy  was  directed 
towards  recalling  the  vision  of  a  moment.  The  endeavor  was 
futile.  Ecstasy  does  not  answer  the  bidding  of  the  will. 

But  that  mystic  exaltation  was  not  the  only  experience 
that  he  had  of  it:  it  recurred  several  times,  but  never  with 
the  intensity  of  the  first.  It  came  always  at  moments  when 
Christophe  was  least  expecting  it,  for  a  second  only,  a  time  so 
short,  so  sudden, — no  longer  than  a  wink  of  an  eye  or  a  raising 
of  a  hand — that  the  vision  was  gone  before  he  could  discover 
that  it  was :  and  then  he  would  wonder  whether  he  had  not 
dreamed  it.  After  that  fiery  bolt  that  had  set  the  night  aflame, 
it  was  a  gleaming  dust,  shedding  fleeting  sparks,  which  the 
eye  could  hardly  see  as  they  sped  by.  But  they  reappeared 
more  and  more  often:  and  in  the  end  they  surrounded  Chris- 
tophe with  a  halo  of  perpetual  misty  dreams,  in  which  his 
spirit  melted.  Everything  that  distracted  him  in  his  state  of 
semi-hallucination  was  an  irritation  to  him.  It  was  impossible 
to  work;  he  gave  up  thinking  about  it.  Society  was  odious 
to  him;  and  more  than  any,  that  of  his  intimates,  even  that 
of  his  mother,  because  they  arrogated  to  themselves  more  rights 
over  his  soul. 

He  left  the  house:  he  took  to  spending  his  days  abroad,  and 
never  returned  until  nightfall.  He  sought  the  solitude  of  the 
fields,  and  delivered  himself  up  to  it,  drank  his  (ill  of  it,  like 
a  maniac  who  wishes  not  to  be  disturbed  by  anything  in  the 
obsession  of  his  fixed  ideas. — But  in  the  great  sweet  air,  in 


254  JEAX-CHKISTOPHE 

contact  with  the  earth,  his  obsession  relaxed,  his  ideas  ceased 
to  appear  like  specters.  His  exaltation  was  no  less :  rather  it 
was  heightened,  but  it  was  no  longer  a  dangerous  delirium  of 
the  mind  but  a  healthy  intoxication  of  his  whole  being:  body 
and  soul  crazy  in  their  strength. 

He  rediscovered  the  world,  as  though  he  had  never  seen  it. 
It  was  a  new  childhood.  It  was  as  though  a  magic  word  had 
been  uttered.  An  "  Open  Sesame!  "—Nature  flamed  with  glad- 
ness. The  sun  boiled.  The  liquid  sky  ran  like  a  clear  river. 
The  earth  steamed  and  cried  aloud  in  delight.  The  plants, 
the  trees,  the  insects,  all  the  innumerable  creatures  were  like 
dazzling  tongues  of  flame  in  the  lire  of  life  writhing  upwards, 
Everything  sang  aloud  in  joy. 

And  that  joy  was  his  own.  That  strength  was  his  own.  He 
was  no  longer  cut  off  from  the  rest  of  the  world.  Till  then, 
even  in  the  happy  days  of  childhood,  when  he  saw  nature  with 
ardent  and  delightful  curiosity,  all  creatures  had  seemed  to 
him  to  be  little  worlds  shut  up,  terrifying  and  grotesque,  un- 
related to  himself,  and  incomprehensible.  He  was  not  even 
sure  that  they  had  feeling  and  life.  They  were  strange  machines. 
And  sometimes  Christophc  had  even,  with  the  unconscious 
cruelty  of  a  child,  dismembered  wretched  insects  without  dream- 
ing that  they  might  suffer — for  the  pleasure  of  watching  their 
queer  contortions.  His  uncle  Gottfried,  usually  so  calm,  had 
one  clay  indignantly  to  snatch  from  his  hands  an  unhappy 
fly  that  he  was  torturing.  The  boy  had  tried  to  laugh  at  first: 
then  he  had  burst  into  tears,  moved  by  his  uncle's  emotion: 
he  began  to  understand  that  his  victim  did  really  exist,  as  well 
as  himself,  and  that  he  had  committed  a  crime.  But  if  there- 
after nothing  would  have  induced  him  to  do  harm  to  the  beasts, 
he  never  fell,  any  sympathy  for  them  :  he  used  to  pass  them 
by  without  ever  trying  to  feel  what  it  was  that  worked  their 
machinery:  rather  he  was  afraid  to  think  of  it:  it  was  some- 
thing like  a  had  dream. — And  now  everything  was  made  plain. 
These  humble,  obscure  creatures  became  in  their  turn  centers 
of  light. 

Lying  on  his   bellv    in   the   grass   where   creatures   swarmed, 

./  O  «' 

in  the  shade  of  the  trees  that  bu//,ed  with  insects,  Christophe 
would  watch  the  fevered  movements  of  the  ants,  the  long-legged 


YOUTH  255 

spiders,  that  seemed  to  dance  as  they  walked,  the  bounding 
grasshoppers,  that  leap  aside,  the  heavy,  bustling  beetles,  and 
the  naked  worms,  pink  and  glabrous,  mottled  with  white,  or 
with  his  hands  under  his  head  and  his  eyes  closed  he  would 
listen  to  the  invisible  orchestra,  the  roundelay  of  the  frenzied 
insects  circling  in  a  sunbeam  about  the  scented  pines,  the 
trumpeting  of  the  mosquitoes,  the  organ  notes  of  the  wasps,  the 
brass  of  the  wild  bees  humming  like  bells  in  the  tops  of 
the  trees,  and  the  godlike  whispering  of  the  swaying  trees,  the 
sweet  moaning  of  the  wind  in  the  branches,  the  soft  whispering 
of  the  waving  grass,  like  a  breath  of  wind  rippling  the  limpid 
surface  of  a  lake,  like  the  rustling  of  a  light  dress  and  lovers' 
footsteps  coming  near,  and  passing,  then  lost  upon  the  air. 

He  heard  all  these  sounds  and  cries  within  himself.  Through 
all  these  creatures  from  the  smallest  to  the  greatest  flowed  the 
same  river  of  life :  and  in  it  he  too  swam.  So,  he  was  one  of 
them,  he  was  of  their  blood,  and,  brotherly,  he  heard  the  echo 
of  their  sorrows  and  their  joys:  their  strength  was  merged  in 
his  like  a  river  fed  with  thousands  of  streams.  He  sank  into 
them.  His  lungs  were  like  to  burst  with  the  wind,  too  freely 
blowing,  too  strong,  that  burst  the  windows  and  forced  its  way 
into  the  closed  house  of  his  suffocating  heart.  The  change 
was  too  abrupt:  after  finding  everywhere  a  void,  when  he  had 
been  buried  only  in  his  own  existence,  and  had  felt  it  slip- 
ping from  him  and  dissolving  like  rain,  now  everywhere  lie 
found  infinite  and  unmeasured  Being,  now  that  he  longed  to 
forget  himself,  to  find  rebirth  in  the  universe.  He  seemed  to 
have  issued  from  the  grave.  He  swam  voluptuously  in  life 
flowing  free  and  full :  and  borne  on  by  its  current  he  thought 
that  he  was  free.  He  did  not  know  that  he  was  less  free  than 
ever,  that  no  creature  is  ever  free,  that  even  the  law  that  gov- 
erns the  universe  is  not  free,  that  only  deatli — perhaps — can 
bring  deliverance. 

But  the  chrysalis  issuing  from  its  stifling  sheath,  joyously 
stretched  its  limbs  in  its  new  shape,  and  had  no  time  as  yet 
to  mark  the  bounds  of  its  new  prison. 

There  began  a  new  cycle  of  days.  "Days  of  gold  and  fever, 
mysterious,  enchanted,  like  those  of  his  childhood,  when  one 


256  JEAtf-CHKISTOPHE 

by  one  he  discovered  tilings  for  the  first  time.  From  dawn 
to  set  of  sun  he  lived  in  one  long  mirage.  He  deserted  all  his 
business.  The  conscientious  boy,  who  for  years  had  never 
missed  a  lesson,  or  an  orchestra  rehearsal,  even  when  he  was 
ill,  was  forever  finding  paltry  excuses  for  neglecting  his  work. 
He  was  not  afraid  to  lie.  He  had  no  remorse  about  it.  The 
stoic  principles  of  life,  to  which  he  had  hitherto  delighted  to 
bend  his  will,  morality,  duty,  now  seemed  to  him  to  have  no 
truth,  nor  reason.  Their  jealous  despotism  was  smashed  against 
Nature.  Human  nature,  healthy,  strong,  free,  that  alone  was 
virtue:  to  hell  with  all  the  rest!  It  provoked  pitying  laughter 
to  see  the  little  peddling  rules  of  prudence  and  policy  which 
the  world  adorns  with  the  name  of  morality,  while  it  pretends 
to  inclose  all  life  within  them.  A  preposterous  mole-hill,  an 
ant-like  people !  Life  sees  to  it  that  they  are  brought  to  reason. 
Life  does  but  pass,  and  all  is  swept  away.  .  .  . 

Bursting  with  energy  Christophe  had  moments  when  he  was 
consumed  with  a  desire  to  destroy,  to  burn,  to  smash,  to  glut 
with  actions  blind  and  uncontrolled  the  force  which  choked 
him.  These  outbursts  usually  ended  in  a  sharp  reaction :  he 
would  weep,  and  fling  himself  down  on  the  ground,  and  kiss 
the  earth,  and  try  to  dig  into  it  with  his  teeth  and  hands,  to 
feed  himself  with  it,  to  merge  into  it:  he  trembled  then  with 
fever  and  desire. 

One  evening  he  was  walking  in  the  outskirts  of  a  wood. 
His  eyes  were  swimming  with  the  light,  his  head  was  whirling: 
he  was  in  that  state  of  exaltation  when  all  creatures  and  things 
were  transfigured.  To  that  was  added  the  magic  of  the 
soft  warm  light  of  evening.  Bays  of  purple  and  gold  hovered 
in  the  trees.  From  the  meadows  seemed  to  come  a  phos- 
phorescent glimmer.  In  a  field  near  by  a  girl  was  making  bay. 
In  her  blouse  and  short  skirt,  with  her  arms  and  neck  bare, 
she  was  raking  the  bay  and  heaping  it  up.  She  had  a  short 
nose,  wide  cheeks,  a  round  face,  a  handkerchief  thrown  over 
her  hair.  The  setting  sun  touched  with  red  her  sunburned 
skin,  which,  like  a  piece  of  pottery,  seemed  to  absorb  the  last 
beams  of  the  day. 

She  fascinated  Christophe.  Leaning  against  a  beech-tree 
he  watched  her  come  towards  the  verge  of  the  woods,  eagerly, 


YOUTH  257 

passionately.  Everything-  else  had  disappeared.  She  took  no 
notice  of  him.  For  a  moment  she  looked  at  him  cautiously: 
he  saw  her  eyes  blue  and  hard  in  her  brown  face.  She  passed 
so  near  to  him  that,  when  she  leaned  down  to  gather  up  the 
hay,  through  her  open  blouse  he  saw  a  soft  down  on  her  shoul- 
ders and  back.  Suddenly  the  vague  desire  which  was  in  him 
leaped  forth.  He  hurled  himself  at  her  from  behind,  seized  her 
neck  and  waist,  threw  back  her  head  and  fastened  his  lips  upon 
hers.  He  kissed  her  dry,  cracked  lips  until  he  came  against 
her  teeth  that  bit  him  angrily.  His  hands  ran  over  her  rough 
arms,  over  her  blouse  wet  with  her  sweat.  She  struggled. 
He  held  her  tighter,  he  wished  to  strangle  her.  She  broke 
loose,  cried  out,  spat,  wiped  her  lips  with  her  hand,  and  hurled 
insults  at  him.  He  let  her  go  and  fled  across  the  fields.  She 
threw  stones  at  him  and  went  on  discharging  after  him  a  litany 
of  filthy  epithets.  He  blushed,  less  for  anything  that  she  might 
say  or  think,  but  for  what  he  was  thinking  himself.  The  sudden 
unconscious  act  filled  him  with  terror.  What  had  he  done? 
What  should  he  do?  What  he  was  able  to  understand  of  it 
all  only  filled  him  with  disgust.  And  he  was  tempted  by  his 
disgust.  He  fought  against  himself  and  knew  not  on  which 
side  was  the  real  Christophe.  A  blind  force  beset  him :  in  vain 
did  he  fly  from  it:  it  was  only  to  fly  from  himself.  What 
would  she  do  about  him?  What  should  he  do  to-morrow  .  .  . 
in  an  hour  .  .  .  the  time  it  took  to  cross  the  plowed  field  to 
reach  the  road?  .  .  .  Would  he  ever  reach  it?  Should  he  not 
stop,  and  go  back,  and  run  back  to  the  girl  ?  And  then  ?  .  .  . 
He  remembered  that  delirious  moment  when  he  had  held  her 
by  the  throat.  Everything  was  possible.  All  things  were  worth 
while.  A  crime  even.  .  .  .  Yes,  even  a  crime.  .  .  .  The  tur- 
moil in  his  heart  made  him  breathless.  When  he  reached  the 
road  he  stopped  to  breathe.  Over  there  the  girl  was  talking  to 
another  girl  who  had  been  attracted  by  her  cries :  and  with 
arms  akimbo,  they  were  looking  at  each  other  and  shouting  with 
laughter. 


258  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

II 

SABINE 

HE  went  home.  He  shut  himself  up  in  his  room  and  never 
stirred  for  several  days.  lie  only  went  out  even  into  the  town 
when  he  was  compelled.  He  was  fearful  of  ever  going  out 
beyond  the  gates  and  venturing  forth  into  the  fields:  he  was 
afraid  of  once  more  falling  in  with  the  soft,  maddening  breath 
that  had  blown  upon  him  like  a  rushing  wind  during  a  calm 
in  a  storm.  He  thought  that  the  walls  of  the  town  might 
preserve  him  from  it.  lie  never  dreamed  that  for  the  enemy 
to  slip  within  there  needed  be  only  the  smallest  crack 
in  the  closed  shutters,,  no  more  than  is  needed  for  a  peep 
out. 

In  a  wing  of  the  house,  on  die  other  side  of  the  yard,  there 
lodged  on  the  ground  floor  a  young  woman  of  twenty,  some 
months  a  widow,  with  a  little  girl.  Fran  Sabine  Froehlieh 
was  also  a  tenant  of  old  Filler's.  She  occupied  the  shop  which 
opened  on  to  the  street,  and  she  had  as  well  two  rooms  looking 
on  to  the  yard,  together  with  a  little  patch  of  garden,  marked 
oil'  from  the  Fulers'  by  a  wire  fence  up  which  ivy  climbed. 
They  did  not  often  see  her:  the  child  used  to  play  down  in 
the  garden  from  morning  to  night  making  mud  pies:  and  the 
garden  was  left  to  itself,  to  the  great  distress  of  old  Justus, 
who  loved  tidy  paths  and  neatness  in  the  beds.  He  had  tried 
to  bring  the  matter  to  the  attention  of  his  tenant:  but  that 
was  probably  why  she  did  not  appear :  and  the  garden  was  not 
improved  by  it. 

Frau  Froeblich  kept  a  little  draper's  shop  which  might  have 
had  customers  enough,  thanks  to  its  position  in  a  street  of 
shops  in  the  center  of  the  town:  but  she  did  not  bother  about 
it  any  more  than  about  her  garden.  Instead  of  doing  her 
housework  herself,  as.  according  to  Frau  Yogel,  every  self- 
respecting  woman  ought  to  do — especially  when  she  is  in  cir- 
cumstances which  do  not  permit  much  less  excuse  idleness — 
she  had  hired  a  little  servant,  a  girl  of  fifteen,  who  came  in 
for  a  few  hours  in  the  morn  in"1  to  clean  the  rooms  and  look 


YOUTH  259 

after  the  shop,  while  the  young  woman  lay  in  bed  or  dawdled 
over  her  toilet. 

Christophe  used  to  see  her  sometimes,  through  his  windows, 
walking  about  her  room,  with  bare  feet,  in  her  long  nightgown, 
or  sitting  for  hours  together  before  her  mirror:  for  she  was 
so  careless  that  she  used  to  forget  to  draw  her  curtains:  and 
when  she  saw  him,  she  was  so  lazy  that  she  could  not  take 
the  trouble  to  go  and  lower  them.  Christophe,  more  modest 
than  she,  would  leave  the  window  so  as  not  to  incommode  her: 
but  the  temptation  was  great.  He  would  blush  a  little  and 
steal  a  glance  at  her  bare  arms,  which  were  rather  thin,  as 
she  drew  them  languidly  around  her  flowing  hair,  and  with  her 
hands  clasped  behind  her  head,  lost  herself  in  a  dream,  until 
they  were  numbed,  and  then  she  would  let  them  fall.  Christophe 
would  pretend  that  he  only  saw  these  pleasant  sights  inadver- 
tently as  he  happened  to  pass  the  window,  and  that  they  did  not 
disturb  him  in  his  musical  thoughts :  but  he  liked  it,  and  in  the 
end  he  wasted  as  much  time  in  watching  Frau  Sabine,  as  she 
did  over  her  toilet.  Not  that  she  was  a  coquette:  she  was 
rather  careless,  generally,  and  did  not  take  anything  like  the 
meticulous  care  with  her  appearance  that  Amalia  or  Kosa  did. 
If  she  dawdled  in  front  of  her  dressing  table  it  was  from  pure 
laziness :  every  time  she  put  in  a  pin  she  had  to  rest  from  the 
effort  of  it,  while  she  made  little  piteous  faces  at  herself  in 
the  mirrors.  She  was  never  quite  properly  dressed  at  the  end 
of  the  day. 

Often  her  servant  used  to  go  before  Sabine  was  ready :  and 
a  customer  would  ring  the  shop-bell.  She  would  let  him  ring 
and  call  once  or  twice  before  she  could  make  up  her  mind 
to  get  up  from  her  chair.  She  would  go  down,  smiling,  and 
never  hurrying, — never  hurrying  would  look  for  the  article 
required, — and  if  she  could  not  iind  it  after  looking  for  some 
time,  or  even  (as  happened  sometimes)  if  she  had  to  take 
too  much  trouble  to  reach  it,  as  for  instance,  inking  the  ladder 
from  one  end  of  the  shop  to  the  other,— she  would  say  calmly 
that  she  did  not  have  it  in  stock:  and  as  she  never  bothered 
to  put  her  stock  in  order,  or  to  order  more  of  the  articles  of 
which  she  had  run  out,  her  customers  used  to  lose  patience 
and  go  elsewhere.  But  she  never  minded.  How  could  you  be 


260  JEAX-CHRISTOPHE 

angry  with  such  a  pleasant  creature  who  spoke  so  sweetly,  and 
was  never  excited  about  anything!  She  did  not  mind  what 
anybody  said  to  her:  and  she  made  this  so  plain  that  those 
who  began  to  complain  never  had  the  courage  to  go  on :  they 
used  to  go,  answering  her  charming  smile  with  a  smile :  but 
they  never  came  back.  She  never  bothered  about  it.  She  went 
on  smiling. 

She  was  like  a  little  Florentine  figure.  Her  well  marked 
eyebrows  were  arched :  her  gray  eyes  were  half  open  behind 
the  curtain  of  her  lashes.  The  lower  eyelid  was  a  little  swollen, 
with  a  little  crease  below  it.  Her  little,  finely  drawn  nose  turned 
up  slightly  at  the  end.  Another  little  curve  lay  between  it 
and  her  upper  lip,  which  curled  up  above  her  half-open  mouth, 
pouting  in  a  weary  smile.  Her  lower  lip  was  a  little  thick : 
the  lower  part  of  her  face  was  rounded,  and  had  the  serious 
expression  of  the  little  virgins  of  Filippo  Lippi.  Her  com- 
plexion was  a  little  muddy,  her  hair  was  light  brown,  always 
untidy,  and  done  up  in  a  slovenly  chignon.  She  was  slight  of 
figure,  small-boned.  And  her  movements  were  lazy.  Dressed 
carelessly — a  gaping  bodice,  buttons  missing,  ugly,  worn  shoes, 
always  looking  a  little  slovenly — she  charmed  by  her  grace  and 
youth,  her  gentleness,  her  instinctively  coaxing  ways.  When 
she  appeared  to  take  the  air  at  the  door  of  her  shop,  the  young 
men  who  passed  used  to  look  at  her  with  pleasure :  and  al- 
though she  did  not  bother  about  them,  she  noticed  it  none 
the  less.  Always  then  she  wore  that  grateful  and  glad  ex- 
pression which  is  in  the  eyes  of  all  women  when  they  know 
that  they  have  been  seen  with  sympathetic  eyes.  It  seemed  to 
say: 

"  Thank  you  !  .  .  .  Again !  Look  at  me  again  !  "  But  though 
it  gave  her  pleasure  to  please,  her  indifference  would  never 
let  her  make  the  smallest  effort  to  please. 

She  was  an  object  of  scandal  to  the  Euler-Yogels.  Every- 
thing about  her  offended  them :  her  indolence,  the  untidiness 
of  her  house,  the  carelessness  of  her  dress,  her  polite  indiffer- 
ence to  their  remarks,  her  perpetual  smile,  the  impertinent 
serenity  with  which  she  had  accepted  her  husband's  death,  her 
child's  illnesses,  her  straitened  circumstances,  the  great  and 
small  annoyances  of  her  daily  life,  while  nothing  could  change 


YOUTH  2G1 

one  jot  of  her  favorite  habits,  or  her  eternal  longing, — every- 
thing about  her  offended  them :  and  the  worst  of  all  was  that, 
as  she  was,  she  did  give  pleasure.  Fran  Yogel  could  not  forgive 
her  that.  It  was  almost  as  though  Sabine  did  it  on  purpose, 
on  purpose,  ironically,  to  set  at  naught  by  her  conduct  the  great 
traditions,  the  true  principles,  the  savorless  duty,  the  pleasure- 
less  labor,  the  restlessness,  the  noise,  the  quarrels,  the  mooning 
ways,  the  healthy  pessimism  which  was  the  motive  power  of 
the  Euler  family,  as  it  is  that  of  all  respectable  persons,  and 
made  their  life  a  foretaste  of  purgatory.  That  a  woman  who 
did  nothing  but  dawdle  about  all  the  blessed  day  should  take 
upon  herself  to  defy  them  with  her  calm  insolence,  while  they 
bore  their  suffering  in  silence  like  galley-slaves, — and  that 
people  should  approve  of  her  into  the  bargain — that  was  beyond 
the  limit,  that  was  enough  to  turn  you  against  respectability! 
.  .  .  Fortunately,  thank  God,  there  were  still  a  few  sensible 
people  left  in  the  world.  Fran  Yogel  consoled  herself  with 
them.  They  exchanged  remarks  about  the  little  widow,  and 
spied  on  her  through  her  shutters.  Such  gossip  was  the  joy 
of  the  family  when  they  met  at  supper.  Christophe  would 
listen  absently.  He  was  so  used  to  hearing  the  Yogels  set  them- 
selves up  as  censors  of  their  neighbors  that  he  never  took  any 
notice  of  it.  Besides  he  knew  nothing  of  Fran  Sabine  except 
her  bare  neck  and  arms,  and  though  they  were  pleasing  enough, 
they  did  not  justify  his  coming  to  a  definite  opinion  about  her. 
However,  he  was  conscious  of  a  kindly  feeling  towards  her: 
and  in  a  contradictory  spirit  he  was  especially  grateful  to  her 
for  displeasing  Fran  Yogel. 

After  dinner  in  the  evening  when  it  was  very  hot  it  was 
impossible  to  stay  in  the  stifling  yard,  where  the  sun  shone 
the  whole  afternoon.  The  only  place  in  the  house  where  it 
was  possible  to  breathe  was  the  rooms  looking  into  the  street. 
Euler  and  his  son-in-law  used  sometimes  to  go  and  sit  on  the 
doorstep  with  Louisa.  Fran  Yogel  and  Rosa  would  only  appear 
for  a  moment :  they  were  kept  by  their  housework  :  Frau  Yogel 
took  a  pride  in  showing  that  she  had  no  time  for  dawdling: 
and  she  used  to  say,  loudly  enough  to  be  overheard,  that  all 
the  people  sitting  there  and  yawning  on  their  doorsteps,  with- 


262  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

out  doing  a  stitch  of  work,  got  on  her  nerves.  As  she  could 
not — (to  her  sorrow) — compel  them  to  work,  she  would  pre- 
tend not  to  see  them,  and  would  go  in  and  work  furiously. 
Kosa  thought  she  must  do  likewise.  Euler  and  Yogel  would 
discover  draughts  everywhere,  and  fearful  of  catching  cold, 
would  go  up  io  their  rooms:  they  used  to  go  to  hed  early,  and 
would  have  thought  themselves  ruined  had  they  changed  the 
least  of  their  habits.  After  nine  o'clock  only  Louisa  and  Chris- 
tophe  would  be  left.  Louisa  spent  the  day  in  her  room:  and, 
in  the  evening,  Christophe  used  to  take  pains  to  be  with  her, 
whenever  he  could,  to  make  her  take  the  air.  If  she  were  left 
alone  she  would  never  go  out:  the  noise  of  the  street  frightened 
her.  Children  were  always  chasing  each  other  with  shrill  cries. 
All  the  dogs  of  the  neighborhood  took  it  up  and  barked.  The 
sound  of  a  piano  came  up,  a  little  farther  off  a  clarinet,  and  in 
the  next  street  a  cornet  a  piston.  Voices  chattered.  People 
came  and  went  and  stood  in  groups  in  front  of  their  houses. 
Louisa  would  have  lost  her  head  if  she  had  been  left  alone 
in  all  the  uproar.  Rut  when  her  son  was  with  her  it  gave  her 
pleasure.  The  noise  would  gradually  die  down.  The  children 
and  the  dogs  would  go  to  lied  first.  The  groups  of  people  would 
break  up.  The  air  would  become  more  pure.  Silence  would 
descend  upon  the  street.  Louisa  would  tell  in  her  thin  voice 
the  little  scraps  of  news  that  she  had  heard  from  Amalia  or 
TJosa.  She  was  not  greatly  interested  in  them.  But  she  never 
knew  what  to  talk  about  to  her  son,  and  she  felt  the  need  of 
keeping  in  touch  with  him.  of  saying  something  to  him.  And 
Christophe,  who  felt  her  need,  would  pretend  to  be  interested 
in  everything  she  said:  but  he  did  not  listen.  lie  was  off  in 
vague  dreams,  turning  over  in  his  mind  the  doings  of  the  day. 
One  evening  when  they  were  sitting  there — while  his  mother 
was  talking  he  saw  the  door  of  the  draper's  shop  open.  A 
woman  came  out  silently  and  sat  in  the  street.  Her  chair 
was  only  a  few  yards  from  Louisa.  She  was  sitting  in  the 
darkest  shadow.  Christophe  could  not  see  her  face:  but  he  rec- 
ognized her.  His  dreams  vanished.  The  air  seemed  sweeter 
to  him.  Louisa  had  not  noticed  Sabine's  presence,  and  went 
on  with  her  chatter  in  a  low  voice;.  Christophe  paid  more 
attention  to  her,  and  he  felt  impelled  to  throw  out  a  remark 


YOUTH  263 

here  and  there,  to  talk,  perhaps  to  he  heard.  The  slight  figure 
sat  there  without  stirring,  a  little  limp,  with  her  legs  lightly 
crossed  and  her  hands  lying  crossed  in  her  lap.  She  was  look- 
ing straight  in  front  of  her,  and  seemed  to  hear  nothing.  Louisa 
was  overcome  with  drowsiness.  She  went  in.  Christophe  said 
he  would  stay  a  little  longer. 

]t  was  nearly  ten.  The  street  was  empty.  The  people  were 
going  indoors.  The  sound  of  the  shops  being  shut  was  heard. 
The  lighted  windows  winked  and  then  were  dark  again.  One 
or  two  were  still  lit:  then  they  were  blotted  out.  Silence.  .  .  . 
They  were  alone,  they  did  not  look  at  each  other,  they  held 
their  breath,  they  seemed  not  to  he  aware  of  each  other.  From 
the  distant  fields  came  the  smell  of  the  new-mown  hay.  and 
from  a  balcony  in  a  house  near  by  the  scent  of  a  pot  of  cloves. 
No  wind  stirred.  Above  their  heads  was  the  Milky  Way.  To 
their  right  red  Jupiter.  Above  a  chimney  Charles'  Wain  bent 
its  axles:  in  the  pale  green  sky  its  stars  flowered  like  daisies. 
From  the  bells  of  the  parish  church  eleven  o'clock  rang  out 
and  was  caught  up  by  all  the  other  churches,  with  their  voices 
clear  or  muffled,  and,  from  the  houses,  by  the  dim  chiming  of 
the  clock  or  husky  cuckoos. 

They  awoke  suddenly  from  their  dreams,  and  got  up  at  the 
same  moment.  And  just  as  they  were  going  indoors  they  both 
bowed  without  speaking.  Christophe  went  up  to  his  room,  lie 
lighted  his  candle,  and  sat  down  by  his  desk  with  his  head  in 
his  hands,  and  stayed  so  for  a  long  time  without  a  thought. 
Then  he  sighed  and  went  to  bed. 

Xext  day  when  he  got  up.  mechanically  he  went  to  his 
window  to  look  down  into  Sabine's  room.  But  the  curtains 
were  drawn.  They  were  drawn  the  whole  morning.  They  were 
drawn  ever  after. 

Xext  evening  Christophe  proposed  to  his  mother  that  they 
should  go  again  to  sit  by  the  door.  He  did  so  regularly.  Louisa 
was  glad  of  it:  she  did  not  like  his  shutting  himself  up  in 
his  room  immediately  after  dinner  with  the  window  and  shutters 
closed. — The  little  silent  shadow  never  failed  to  come  and  sit 
in  its  usual  place.  They  gave  each  other  a  quick  nod.  which 
Louisa  never  noticed.  Christophe  would  talk  to  his  mother. 


264  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

Sabine  would  smile  at  her  little  girl,  playing  in  the  street: 
about  nine  she  would  go  and  put  her  to  bed  and  would  then 
return  noiselessly.  If  she  stayed  a  little  Christophc  would 
begin  to  be  afraid  that  she  would  not  come  back.  lie  would 
listen  for  sounds  in  the  house,  the  laughter  of  the  little  girl 
who  would  not  go  to  sleep:  he  would  hear  the  rustling  of 
Sabine's  dress  before  she  appeared  on  the  threshold  of  the  shop. 
Then  he  would  look  away  and  talk  to  his  mother  more  eagerly. 
Sometimes  lie  would  feel  that  Sabine  was  looking  at  him.  In 
turn  he  would  furtively  look  at  her.  But  their  eyes  would 
never  meet. 

The  child  was  a  bond  between  them.  She  would  run  about 
in  the  street  with  other  children.  They  would  find  amusement 
in  teasing  a  good-tempered  dog  sleeping  there  with  his  nose 
in  his  paws:  he  would  cock  a  red  eye  and  at  last  would  emit  a 
growl  of  boredom :  then  they  would  fly  this  way  and  that 
screaming  in  terror  and  happiness.  The  little  girl  would  give 
piercing  shrieks,  and  look  behind  her  as  though  she  were  being 
pursued :  she  would  throw  herself  into  Louisa's  lap,  and  Louisa 
would  smile  fondly.  She  would  keep  the  child  and  question 
her:  and  so  she  would  enter  into  conversation  with  Sabine. 
Christophe  never  joined  in.  He  never  spoke  to  Sabine.  Sabine 
never  spoke  to  him.  By  tacit  agreement  they  pretended  to 
ignore  each  other.  But  he  never  lost  a  word  of  what  they 
said  as  -they  talked  over  him.  His  silence  seemed  unfriendly 
to  Louisa.  Sabine  never  thought  it  so :  but  it  would  make  her 
shy,  and  she  would  grow  confused  in  her  remarks.  Then  she 
would  find  some  excuse  for  going  in. 

For  a  whole  week  Louisa  kept  indoors  for  a  cold.  Christophe 
and  Sabine  were  left  alone.  The  first  time  they  were  fright- 
ened by  it.  Sabine,  to  seem  at  her  ease,  took  her  little  girl  on 
her  knees  and  loaded  her  with  caresses.  Christophe  was 
embarrassed  and  did  not  know  whether  he  ought  to  go  on 
ignoring  what  was  happening  at  his  side.  It  became  difficult: 
although  they  had  not  spoken  a  single  word  to  each  other, 
they  did  know  each  other,  thanks  to  Louisa.  He  tried  to  begin 
several  times:  but  the  words  stuck  in  his  throat.  Once  more 
the  little  girl  extricated  them  from  their  difficulty.  She  played 
hide-and-seek,  and  went  round  Christophe's  chair.  He  caught 


YOUTH  2G5 

her  as  she  passed  and  kissed  her.  He  was  not  very  fond  of 
children:  but  it  was  curiously  pleasant  to  him  to  kiss  the  little 
girl.  She  struggled  to  be  free,  for  she  was  busy  with  her  game. 
He  teased  her,  she  bit  his  hands :  he  let  her  fall.  Sabine  laughed. 
They  looked  at  the  child  and  exchanged  a  few  trivial  words. 
Then  Christophe  tried — (he  thought  he  must) — to  enter  into 
conversation :  but  he  had  nothing  very  much  to  go  upon :  and 
Sabine  did  not  make  his  task  any  the  easier:  she  only  repeated 
what  he  said : 

"  It  is  a  fine  evening." 

"  Yes.    It  is  a  very  fine  evening." 

"  Impossible  to  breathe  in  the  yard." 

"  Yes.     The  yard  was  stifling." 

Conversation  became  very  difficult.  Sabine  discovered  that 
it  was  time  to  take  the  little  girl  in,  and  went  in  herself:  and 
she  did  not  appear  again. 

Christophe  was  afraid  she  would  do  the  same  on  the  evenings 
that  followed  and  that  she  would  avoid  being  left  alone  with 
him,  as  long  as  Louisa  was  not  there.  But  on  the  contrary, 
the  next  evening  Sabine  tried  to  resume  their  conversation. 
She  did  so  deliberately  rather  than  for  pleasure :  she  was 
obviously  taking  a  great  deal  of  trouble  to  find  subjects  of 
conversation,  and  bored  with  the  questions  she  put :  questions 
and  answers  came  between  heartbreaking  silences.  Christophe 
remembered  his  first  interviews  with  Otto :  but  with  Sabine 
their  subjects  were  even  more  limited  than  then,  and  she  had 
not  Otto's  patience.  When  she  saw  the  small  success  of  her 
endeavors  she  did  not  try  any  more:  she  had  to  give  herself 
too  much  trouble,  and  she  lost  interest  in  it.  She  said  no  more, 
and  he  followed  her  lead. 

And  then  there  was  sweet  peace  again.  The  night  was  calm 
once  more,  and  they  returned  to  their  inward  thoughts.  Sabine 
rocked  slowly  in  her  chair,  dreaming.  Christophe  also  was 
dreaming.  They  said  nothing.  After  half  an  hour  Christophe 
began  to  talk  to  himself.,  and  in  a  low  voice  cried  out  with 
pleasure  in  the  delicious  scent  brought  by  the  soft  wind  that 
came  from  a  cart  of  strawberries.  Sabine  said  a  word  or  two 
in  reply.  Again  they  were  silent.  They  were  enjoying  the 
charm  of  these  indefinite  silences,  aud  trivial  words.  Their 


JEAF-CHRISTOPHE 

dreams  were  the  same,  they  had  lint  one  thought:  they  did  not 
know  what  it  was:  they  did  not  admit  it  to  themselves.  At 
eleven  they  smiled  and  parted. 

Next  day  they  did  not  even  try  to  talk:  they  resumed  their 
sweet  silence.  At  long  intervals  a,  word  or  t\vo  let  them  know 
that  they  were  thinking  of  the  same  things. 

Sabine  began  to  laugh. 

"How  much  better  it  is,"  she  said,  "  not  to  try  to  talk!  One 
thinks  one  must,  and  it  is  so  tiresome!  " 

"Ah!"  said  Christophe  with  conviction,  "if  only  everybody 
thought  the  same." 

They  both  laughed.     They  were  thinking  of  Frau  Yogel. 

"  Poor  woman!"  said   Sabine;  '"'how  exhausting  she  is-!" 

"  She  is  never  exhausted,"  replied  Christophe  gloomily. 

She  was  tickled  by  his  manner  and  his  jest. 

"  You  think  it  amusing?  "  lie  asked.  "  That  is  easy  for  you. 
You  are  sheltered." 

"So  I  am,"  said  Sabine.  "I  lock  myself  in."  She  had  a 
little  soft  laugh  that  hardly  sounded.  Christophe  heard  it  with 
delight  in  the  calm  of  the  evening.  He  snutt'ed  the  fresh  air 
luxuriously. 

"  Ah!     It  is  good  to  be  silent! '"  he  said,  stretching  his  limbs. 

"  And  talking  is  no  use !  "  said  she. 

"  Yes/'*  returned  Christophe,  "  we  understand  each  other  so 
well !  " 

They  relapsed  into  silence.  In  the  darkness  they  could  not 
see  each  other.  They  were  both  smiling. 

And  yet,  though  they  felt  the  same,  when  they  were  together — 
or  imagined  that  they  did — in  reality  they  knew  nothing  of 
each  other.  Sabine  did  not  bother  about  it.  Christophe  was 
more  curious.  One  evening  he  asked  her: 

"  Do  you  like  music?  " 

"  Xo,"  she  said  simply.  "It  bores  me.  I  don't  understand 
it." 

Her  frankness  charmed  him.  He  was  sick  of  the  lies  of  people 
who  said  that  they  were  mad  about  music,  and  were;  bored  to 
death  when  they  heard  it:  and  it  seemed  to  him  almost  a  virtue 
not  to  like  it  and  to  say  so.  He  asked  if  Sabine  read. 

"  Xo.     She  had  no  books/'-' 


YOUTH  26? 

He  offered  to  lend  her.  his. 

"Serious  books?"  she  asked  uneasily. 

"  Not  serious  hooks  if  she  did  not  want  them.     Poetry." 

"  But  those  are  serious  books." 

"  Novels,  then." 

She  pouted. 

"They  don't  interest  you?" 

"  Yes.  She  was  interested  in  them :  but  they  were  alway, 
too  long:  she  never  had  the  patience  to  finish  them.  She  for- 
got the  beginning:  skipped  chapters  and  then  losi  the  thread. 
And  then  she  threw  the  book  away." 

"  Fine  interest  you  take!  " 

"  Bah !  Enough  for  a  story  that  is  not  true.  She  kept  her 
interest  for  better  things  than  books." 

"  For  the  theater,  then  ?  " 

"No.  .  .  .  No." 

"  Didn't  she  go  to  the  theater?" 

"  No.  It  was  too  hot.  There  were  too  many  people.  So 
much  better  at  home.  The  lights  tired  her  eyes.  And  the 
actors  were  so  ugly!" 

He  agreed  with  her  in  that.  But  there  Avere  other  things  in 
the  theater :  the  play,  for  instance. 

"  Yes,"  she  said  absently.     "  But  I  have  no  time." 

"What  do  you  do  all  day?" 

She  smiled. 

"  There  is  so  much  to  do." 

"  True,"  said  he.     "  There  is  your  shop." 

"  Oh !  "  she  said  calmly.     "  That  does  not  take  much  time." 

"Your  little  girl  takes  up  your  time  then?" 

"  Oh !  no,  poor  child !  She  is  very  good  and  plays  by  her- 
self." 

"  Then  ?  " 

He  begged  pardon  for  his  indiscretion.  But  she  was  amused 
by  it. 

"There  are  so  manv  tilings." 

"What  things?" 

"  She  could  not  say.  All  sorts  of  things.  Getting  up,  dress- 
ing, thinking  of  dinner,  cooking  dinner,  eating  dinner,  thinking 
of  supper,  cleaning  her  room.  .  .  ,  And  then  the  day  was  over, 


268  JEAN-CHEISTOPHE 

.  .  .  And  besides  you  must  have  a  little  time  for  doing  noth- 
ing !  " 

"  And  you  are  not  bored  ?  " 

"  Never." 

"  Even  when  you  are  doing  nothing?  " 

"  Especially  when  I  am  doing  nothing.  It  is  much  worse 
doing  something :  that  bores  me." 

They  looked  at  each  other  and  laughed. 

"  You  are  very  happy ! "  said  Christophe.  "  I  can't  do 
nothing." 

"It  seems  to  me  that  you  know  how." 

"  I  have  been  learning  lately." 

"  Ah  !  well,  you'll  learn." 

When  he  left  off  talking  to  her  he  was  at  his  ease  and  com- 
fortable. It  was  enough  for  him  to  sec  her.  lie  was  rid  of 
his  anxieties,  and  irritations,  and  the  nervous  trouble  that 
made  him  sick  at  heart.  When  he  was  talking  to  her  he  was 
beyond  care:  and  so  when  he  thought  of  her.  lie  dared  not 
admit  it  to  himself:  but  as  soon  as  he  was  in  her  presence, 
he  was  filled  with  a  delicious  soft  emotion  that  1) rough t  him 
almost  to  unconsciousness.  At  night  he  slept  as  he  had  never 
done. 

When  he  came  back  from  his  work  lie  would  look  into 
this  shop.  It  was  not  often  that  he  did  not  see  Sabine.  They 
bowed  and  smiled.  Sometimes  she  was  at  the  door  and 
then  they  would  exchange  a  few  words:  and  he  would  open 
the  door  and  call  the  little  girl  and  hand  her  a  packet  of 
sweets. 

One  day  he  decided  to  go  in.  He  pretended  that  he  wanted 
some  waistcoat  buttons.  She  began  to  look  for  them:  but  she 
could  not  find  them.  All  the  buttons  were  mixed  up:  it  was 
impossible  to  pick  them  out.  She  was  a  little  put  out  that  he 
should  see  her  untidiness,  lie  laughed  at  it  and  bent  over  the 
better  to  see  it. 

"  Xo,"  she  said,  trying  to  hide  the  drawers  with  her  hands. 
"Don't  look!  It  is  a  dreadful  muddle.  .  .  ." 

She  went  on  looking.  But  Christophe  embarrassed  her.  She 
was  cross,  and  as  she  pushed  the  drawer  back  she  said : 


YOUTH  269 

"  I  can't  find  any.  Go  to  Lisi,  in  the  next  street.  She 
is  sure  to  have  them.  She  has  everything  that  people 
want." 

He  laughed  at  her  way  of  doing  business. 

"Do  you  send  all  your  customers  away  like  that?" 

"  Well.     You  are  not  the  first,"  said  Sabine  warmly. 

And  yet  she  was  a  little  ashamed. 

"  It  is  too  much  trouble  to  tidy  up,"  she  said.  "  I  put  off 
doing  it  from  day  to  day.  .  .  .  But  I  shall  certainly  do  it 
to-morrow." 

"Shall  I  help  you?"  asked  Christophe. 

She  refused.  She  would  gladly  have  accepted :  but  she  dared 
not,  for  fear  of  gossip.  And  besides  it  humiliated  her. 

They  went  on  talking. 

"  And  your  buttons?  "  she  said  to  Christophe  a  moment  later. 
"  Aren't  you  going  to  Lisi  ?  " 

"  Xever,"  said  Christophe.  "  I  shall  wait  until  you  have 
tidied  up." 

"  Oh ! "  said  Sabine,  who  had  already  forgotten  what  she 
had  just  said,  "  don't  wait  all  that  time !  " 

Her  frankness  delighted  them  both. 

Christophe  went  to  the  drawer  that  she  had  shut. 

"  Let  me  look." 

She  ran  to  prevent  his  doing  so. 

"  Xo,  now  please.    I  am  sure  I  haven't  any." 

"  I  bet  you  have." 

At  once  he  found  the  button  he  wanted,  and  was  triumphant. 
He  wanted  others.  He  wanted  to  go  on  rummaging:  but  she 
snatched  the  box  from  his  hands,  and,  hurt  in  her  vanity,  she 
began  to  look  herself. 

The  light  was  fading.  She  went  to  the  window.  Christophe 
sat  a  little  away  from  her:  the  little  girl  clambered  on  to  his 
knees.  He  pretended  to  listen  to  her  chatter  and  answered  her 
absently.  He  was  looking  at  Sabine  and  she  knew  that  he  was 
looking  at  her.  She  bent  over  the  box.  lie  could  see  her  neck 
and  a  little  of  her  cheek. — And  as  he  looked  he  saw  that  she 
was  blushing.  And  he  blushed  too. 

The  child  went  on  talking.  Xo  one  answered  her.  Sabine 
did  not  move.  Christophe  could  not  see  what  she  was  doing* 


270  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

he  was  sure  she  was  doing  nothing :  she  was  not  even  looking 
at  the  box  in  her  hands.  The  silence  went  on  and  on.  The 
little  girl  grew  uneasy  and  slipped  down  from  Christophe's 
knees. 

"Why  don't  you  say  anything?" 

Sabine  turned  sharply  and  took  her  in  her  arms.  The  box 
was  spilled  on  the  floor:  the  little  girl  shouted  with  glee  and 
ran  on  hands  and  knees  after  the  buttons  rolling  under  the 
furniture.  Sabine  went  to  the  window  again  and  laid  her  cheek 
against  the  pane.  She  seemed  to  be  absorbed  in  what  she  saw 
outside. 

"  Good-night !  "  said  Christophe,  ill  at  ease.  She  did  not 
turn  her  head,  and  said  in  a  low  voice : 

"  Good-night." 

On  Sundays  the  house  was  empty  during  the  afternoon.  The 
whole  family  went  to  church  for  Vespers.  Sabine  did  not  go. 
Ohristophc  jokingly  reproached  her  with  it  once  when  lie  saw 
her  sitting  at  her  door  in  the  little  garden,  while  the  lovely  bells 
were  bawling  themselves  hoarse  summoning  her.  She  replied 
in  the  same  tone  that  only  Mass  was  compulsory:  not  Vespers: 
it  was  then  no  use^  and  perhaps  a  little  indiscreet  to  be  too 
zealous:  and  she  liked  to  think  that  God  would  be  rather  pleased 
than  angry  with  her. 

"You  have  made  God  in  your  own  image,"  said  Christophe. 

"  I  should  be  so  bored  if  I  were  in  His  place,"  replied  she  with 
conviction. 

"  You  would  not  bother  much  about  the  world  if  you  were  in 
His  place." 

"  All  that  T  should  ask  of  it  would  be  that  it  should  not  bother 
itself  about  me." 

"Perhaps  it  would  be  none  the  worse  for  that/'  said  Chris- 
tophe. 

"  Tssh !  "  cried   Sabine,  "we  are  being  irreligious." 

"1  don't  see  anything  irreligious  in  saying  that  God  is  like 
you.  1  am  sure  He  is  flattered. " 

""Will,  you  lie  silent!  "  said  Sabine,  half  laughing,  half  angry. 
She  was  beginning  to  be  afraid  that  God  would  be  scandalized, 
She  quickly  turned  the  conversation. 


YOUTH  271 

"Besides,"  she  said,  "it  is  the  only  time  in  the  week  when 
one  can  enjoy  the  garden  in  peace." 

"  Yes,"  said  Christophe.  "  They  are  gone."  They  looked  at 
each  other. 

"  How  silent  it  is,"  muttered  Sabine.  "  We  are  not  used  to 
it.  One  hardly  knows  where  one  is.  .  .  ." 

"  Oh !  "  cried  Christophe  suddenly  and  angrily. 

"  There  are  days  when  I  would  like  to  strangle  her !  "  There 
was  no  need  to  ask  of  whom  he  was  speaking. 

"  And  the  others  ?  "  asked  Sabine  gaily. 

"  True,"  said  Christophe,  a  little  abashed.  "  There  is 
Eosa." 

"  Poor  child !  "  said  Sabine. 

They  were  silent. 

"  If  only  it  were  always  as  it  is  now !  "  sighed  Christophe. 

She  raised  her  laughing  eyes  to  his,  and  then  dropped  them. 
He  saw  that  she  was  working. 

"  What  are  you  doing  ?  "  he  asked. 

(The  fence  of  ivy  that  separated  the  two  gardens  was  between 
them. ) 

"  Look !  "  she  said,  lifting  a  basin  that  she  was  holding  in 
her  lap.  "  I  am  shelling  peas." 

She  sighed. 

"  But  that  is  not  unpleasant,"  he  said,  laughing. 

"  Oh!  "  she  replied,  "it  is  disgusting,  always  having  to  think 
of  dinner." 

"  I  bet  that  if  it  were  possible,"  he  said,  "  you  would  go 
without  your  dinner  rather  than  have  the  trouble  of  cooking 
it." 

"  That's  true,"  cried  she. 

"  Wait !     I'll  come  and  help  you." 

He  climbed  over  the  fence  and  came  to  her. 

She  was  sitting  in  a  chair  in  the  door.  He  sat  on  a  step 
at  her  feet.  He  dipped  into  her  lap  for  hand  fills  of  green 
pods:  and  he  poured  the  little  round  peas  into  tin1  basin  that 
Sabine  held  between  her  knees.  He  looked  down.  He  saw 
Sabine's  black  stockings  clinging  to  her  ankles  and  feet — one 
of  her  feet  was  half  out  of  its  shoe.  He  dared  not  raise  his 
eyes  to  look  at  her. 


272  JEAN-CHEISTOPHB 

The  air  was  heavy.  The  sky  was  dull  and  clouds  hung  low: 
there  was  no  wind.  ?^o  leaf  stirred.  The  garden  was  inclosed 
within  high  walls :  there  was  no  world  beyond  them. 

The  child  had  gone  out  with  one  of  the  neighbors.  They  were 
alone.  They  said  nothing.  They  could  say  nothing.  Without 
looking  he  went  on  taking  handfuls  of  peas  from  Sabine's 
lap :  his  fingers  trembled  as  he  touched  her :  among  the  fresh 
smooth  pods  they  met-  Sabine's  fingers,  and  they  trembled  too. 
They  could  not  go  on.  They  sat  still,  not  looking  at  each  other: 
she  leaned  back  in  her  chair  with  her  lips  half-open  and  her 
arms  hanging :  he  sat  at  her  feet  leaning  against  her :  along 
his  shoulder  and  arm  he  could  feel  the  warmth  of  Sabine's  leg. 
They  were  breathless.  Christophe  laid  his  hands  against  the 
stones  to  cool  them :  one  of  his  hands  touched  Sabine's  foot, 
that  she  had  thrust  out  of  her  shoe,  and  he  left  it  there,  could 
not  move  it.  They  shivered.  Almost  they  lost  control.  Chris- 
tophe's  hand  closed  on  the  slender  toes  of  Sabine's  little  foot. 
Sabine  turned  cold,  the  sweat  broke  out  on  her  brow,  she  leaned 
towards  Christophe.  .  .  . 

Familiar  voices  broke  the  spell.  They  trembled.  Christophe 
leaped  to  his  feet  and  crossed  the  fence  again.  Sabine  picked 
up  the  shells  in  her  lap  and  went  in.  In  the  yard  he  turned. 
She  was  at  her  door.  They  looked  at  each  other.  Drops  of 
rain  were  beginning  to  patter  on  the  leaves  of  the  trees.  .  .  . 
She  closed  her  door.  Fran  Vogel  and  Rosa  came  in.  .  .  .  He 
went  up  to  his  room.  .  .  . 

In  the  yellow  light  of  the  waning  day  drowned  in  the  torrents 
of  rain,  he  got  up  from  his  desk  in  response  to  an  irresistible 
impulse:  he  ran  to  his  window  and  held  out  his  arms  to  the 
opposite  window.  At  the  same  moment  through  the  opposite 
window  in  the  half-darkness  of  the  room  he  saw — lie  thought 
he  saw — Sabine  holding  out  her  arms  to  him. 

He  rushed  from  his  room.  He  went  downstairs.  He  ran  to 
the  garden  fence.  At  the  risk  of  being  seen  he  was  about  to 
clear  it.  But  when  he  looked  at  the  window  at  which  she  had 
appeared,  he  saw  that  the  shutters  were  closed.  The  house 
seemed  to  be  asleep.  He  stopped.  Old  Euler,  going  to  his 
cellar,  saw  him  and  called  him.  He  retraced  his  footsteps.  He 
thought  he  must  have  been  dreaming. 


YOUTH  273 

It  was  not  long  before  Rosa  began  to  see  what  was  happening. 
She  had  no  diffidence  and  she  did  not  yet  know  what  jealousy 
was.  She  was  ready  to  give  wholly  and  to  ask  nothing  in  return. 
But  if  she  was  sorrowfully  resigned  to  not  being  loved  by 
Christophe,,  she  had  never  considered  the  possibility  of  Chris- 
tophe  loving  another. 

One  evening,  after  dinner,  she  had  just  finished  a  piece  of 
embroidery  at  which  she  had  been  working  for  months.  She 
was  happy,  and  wanted  for  once  in  a  way  to  leave  her  work  and 
go  and  talk  to  Christophe.  She  waited  until  her  mothers 
back  was  turned  and  then  slipped  from  the  room.  She  crept 
from  the  house  like  a  truant.  She  wanted  to  go  and  confound 
Christophe,  who  had  vowed  scornfully  that  she  would  never 
finish  her  work.  She  thought  it  would  be  a  good  joke  to  go 
and  take  them  by  surprise  in  the  street.  It  was  no  use  the 
poor  child  knowing  how  Christophe  felt  towards  her:  she  was 
always  inclined  to  measure  the  pleasure  which  others  should 
have  at  seeing  her  by  that  which  she  had  herself  in  meeting 
them. 

She  went  out.  Christophe  and  Sabine  were  sitting  as  usual 
in  front  of  the  house.  There  was  a  catch  at  Eosa's  heart.  And 
yet  she  did  not  stop  for  the  irrational  idea  that  was  in  her: 
and  she  chaffed  Christophe  warmly.  The  sound  of  her  shrill 
voice  in  the  silence  of  the  night  struck  on  Christophe  like  a 
false  note.  He  started  in  his  chair,  and  frowned  angrily.  Eosa 
waved  her  embroidery  in  his  face  triumphantly.  Christophe 
snubbed  her  impatiently. 

"It  is  finished — finished!"  insisted  Eosa. 

"Oh!  well — go  and  begin  another,"  said  Christophe  curtly. 

Eosa  was  crestfallen.  All  her  delight  vanished.  Christophe 
went  on  crossly : 

"  And  when  you  have  done  thirty,  when  you  are  verv  old, 
you  will  at  least  be  able  to  say  to  yourself  that  your  life  has 
not  been  wasted  !  " 

Eosa  was  near  weeping. 

"  How  cross  you  are,  Christophe!  "  she  said. 

Christophe  was  ashamed  and  spoke  kindly  to  her.  She  was 
satisfied  with  so  little  that  she  regained  confidence:  and  she 
began  once  more  to  chatter  noisily :  she  could  not  speak  low, 


274  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

she  shouted  deafeningly,  like  everybody  in  the  house.  In  spite 
of  himself  Christophe  could  not  conceal  his  ill-humor.  At 
first  he  answered  her  with  a  few  irritated  monosyllables:  then 
lie  said  nothing  at  all,  turned  his  back  on  her,  fidgeted  in  his 
chair,  and  ground  his  teeth  as  she  rattled  on.  llosa  saw  that 
he  was  losing  his  temper  and  knew  that  she  ought  to  stop: 
hut  she  went  on  louder  than  ever.  Sabine,  a  few  yards  away, 
in  the  dark,  said  nothing,  watched  the  scene  with  ironic  im- 
passivity. Then  she  was  weary  and,  feeling  that  the  evening 
was  wasted,  she  got  up  and  went  in.  Christophe  only  noticed 
her  departure  after  she  had  gone.  He  got  up  at  once  and 
without  ceremony  went  away  with  a  curt  "  Good-evening.'' 

Eosa  was  left  alone  in  the  street,  and  looked  in  bewilderment 
at  the  door  by  which  he  had  just  gone  in.  Tears  came  to  her 
eyes.  She  rushed  in,  went  up  to  her  room  without  a  sound, 
so  as  not  to  have  to  talk  to  her  mother,  undressed  hurriedly, 
and  when  she  was  in  her  bed,  buried  under  the  clothes,  sobbed 
and  sobbed.  She  made  no  attempt  to  think  over  what  had 
passed:  she  did  not  ask  herself  whether  Christophe  loved  Sabine, 
or  whether  Christophe  and  Sabine  could  not  bear  her:  she  knew 
only  that  all  was  lost,  that  life  was  useless,  that  there  was  noth- 
ing left  to  her  but  death. 

Xext  morning  thought  came  to  her  once  more  with  eternal 
illusive  hope.  She  recalled  the  events  of  the  evening  and  told 
herself  that  she  was  wrong  to  attach  so  much  importance  to 
them.  Xo  doubt  Christophe  did  not  love  her:  she  was  resigned 
to  that,  though  in  her  heart  she  thought,  though  she  did  not 
admit  the  thought,  that  in  the  end  she  would  win  his  love 
by  her  love  for  him.  But  what  reason  had  she  for  thinking 
that  there  was  anything  between  Sabine  and  him?  How  could 
he,  so  clever1  as  lie  was.  love  a  little  creature  whose  insignificance 
and  mediocrity  were  patent?  She  was  reassured,- — but  for  that 
she  did  not  watch  Christophe  any  the  less  closely.  She  saw 
nothing  all  day.  because  there  was  iiothing  to  see:  but  Chris- 
tophe seeing  her  prowling  about  him  all  day  long  without  any 
sort  of  explanation  was  peculiarly  irritated  by  if.  She  set  the 
crown  on  her  efforts  in  the  evening  when  she  appeared  again 
and  sat  with  them  in  the  street.  The  scene  of  the  previous 
evening  was  repeated.  Rosa  talked  alone.  But  Sabine  did  not 


YOUTH  -215 

wait  so  long  before  she  went  indoors :  and  Christophe  followed 
her  example.  Rosa  could  no  longer  pretend  that  her  presence 
was  not  unwelcome:  but  the  unhappy  girl  tried  to  deceive  her- 
self. She  did  not  perceive  that  she  could  have  done  nothing 
worse  than  to  try  so  to  impose  on  herself:  and  with  her  usual 
clumsiness  she  vent  on  through  the  succeeding  days. 

Next  day  with  Rosa  sitting  by  his  side  Christophe  waited  in 
vain  for  Sabine  to  appear. 

The  day  after  Rosa  was  alone.  They  had  given  up  the 
struggle.  But  she  gained  nothing  by  it  save  resentment  from 
Christophe,  who  was  furious  at  being  robbed  of  his  beloved 
evenings,  his  only  happiness.  He  was  the  less  inclined  to  for- 
give her,  for  being  absorbed  with  his  own  feelings,  he  had  no 
suspicion  of  Rosa's. 

Sabine  had  known  them  for  some  time:  she  knew  that  Rosa 
was  jealous  even  before  she  knew  that  she  herself  was  in  love : 
but  she  said  nothing  about  it:  and,  with  the  natural  cruelty 
of  a  pretty  woman,  who  is  certain  of  her  victory,  in  quizzical 
silence  she  watched  the  futile  efforts  of  her  awkward  rival. 

Left  mistress  of  the  field  of  battle  Rosa  gazed  piteously  upon 
the  results  of  her  tactics.  The  best  thing  she  could  have  done 
would  have  been  not  to  persist,  and  to  leave  Christophe  alone, 
at  least  for  the  time  being:  but  that  was  not  what  she  did: 
and  as  the  worst  thing  she  could  have  done  was  to  talk  to*  him 
about  Sabine,  that  was  precisely  what  she  did. 

With  a  fluttering  at  her  heart,  by  way  of  sounding  him,  she 
said  timidly  that  Sabine  was  pretty.  Christophe  replied  curtly 
that  she  was  very  pretty.  And  although  Rosa  might  have  fore- 
seen the  reply  she  would  provoke,  her  heart  thumped  whim 
she  heard  him.  She  knew  that  Sabine  was  pretty:  but  she  had 
never  particularly  remarked  it:  now  she  saw  her  for  the  first 
time  with  the  eyes  of  Christophe:  she  saw  her  delicate  features, 
her  short  nose,  her  fine  mouth,  her  slender  figure,  her  graceful 
movements.  ...  Ah !  how  sad!  .  .  .  What  would  not  she  have 
given  to  possess  Sabine's  body,  and  live  in  it !  She  did  not  go 
closely  into  why  it  should  be  preferred  to  hor  own!  .  .  .  Her 
own!  .  .  .  What  had  she  done  to  possess  such  a  body?  What 
a  burden  it  was  upon  her.  How  ugly  it  seemed  to  her!  It 


276  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

was  odious  to  her.  And  to  think  that  nothing  but  death  could 
ever  free  her  from  it !  .  .  .  She  was  at  once  too  proud  and 
too  humble  to  complain  that  she  was  not  loved :  she  had  no 
right  to  do  so :  and  she  tried  even  more  to  humble  herself. 
But  her  instinct  revolted.  .  .  .  Xo.  It  was  not  just !  .  .  .  Why 
should  she  have  such  a  body,  she,  and  not  Sabine?  .  .  .  And 
why  should  Sabine  be  loved?  What  had  she  done  to  be  loved? 
.  .  .  Bosa  ?aw  her  with  no  kindly  eye,  lazy,  careless,  egoistic, 
indifferent  towards  everybody,  not  looking  after  her  house,  or 
her  child,  or  anybody,  loving  only  herself,  living  only  for  sleep- 
ing, dawdling,  and  doing  nothing.  .  .  .  And  it  was  such  a 
woman  who  pleased  .  .  .  who  pleased  Christophe.  .  .  .  Chris- 
tophe  who  was  so  severe,  Christophe  who  was  so  discerning, 
Christophe  whom  she  esteemed  and  admired  more  than  any- 
body! .  .  .  How  could  Christophe  be  blind  to  it? — She  could 
not  help  from  time  to  time  dropping  an  unkind  remark  about 
Sabine  in  his  hearing.  She  did  not  wish  to  do  so :  but  the 
impulse  was  stronger  than  herself.  She  was  always  sorry  for 
it,  for  she  was  a  kind  creature  and  disliked  speaking  ill  of 
anybody.  But  she  was  the  more  sorry  because  she  drew  down 
on  herself  such  cruel  replies  as  showed  how  much  Christophe 
was  in  love.  He  did  not  mince  matters.  Hurt  in  his  love, 
he  tried  to  hurt  in  return:  and  succeeded.  Kosa  would  make 
no  reply  and  go  out  with  her  head  bowed,  and  her  lips  tight 
press'ed  to  keep  from  crying.  She  thought  that  it  was  her  own 
fault,  that  she  deserved  it  for  having  hurt  Christophe  by  attack- 
ing the  object  of  his  love. 

Her  mother  was  less  patient.  Frau  Yogel,  who  saw  every- 
thing, and  old  Euler,  also,  had  not  been  slow  to  notice  Chris- 
tophe's  interviews  with  their  young  neighbor:  it  was  not  difficult 
to  guess  their  romance.  Their  secret  projects  of  one  day  marry- 
ing Eosa  to  Christophc  were  set  at  naught  by  it :  and  that  seemed 
to  them  a  personal  affront  of  Christophe.  although  he  was  not 
supposed  to  know  that  they  had  disposed  of  him  without  con- 
sulting his  wishes.  But  Amalia's  despotism  did  not  admit  of 
ideas  contrary  to  her  own:  and  it  seemed  scandalous  to  her  that 
Christophe  should  have  disregarded  the  contemptuous  opinion 
she  had  often  expressed  of  Sabine. 

She  did  not  hesitate  to  repeat  it  for  his  benefit.     Whenever 


YOUTH  21 1 

he  was  present  she  found  some  excuse  for  talking  about  her 
neighbor:  she  cast  about  for  the  most  injurious  things  to  say 
of  her,  things  which  might  sting  Christophe  most  cruelly :  and 
with  the  crudity  of  her  point  of  view  and  language  she  had 
no  difficulty  in  finding  them.  The  ferocious  instinct  of  a 
woman,  so  superior  to  that  of  a  man  in  the  art  of  doing  evil, 
as  well  as  of  doing  good,  made  her  insist  less  on  Sabine's  lazi- 
ness and  moral  failings  than  on  her  uncleanliness.  Her  in- 
discreet and  prying  eye  had  watched  through  the  window  for 
proofs  of  it  in  the  secret  processes  of  Sabine's  toilet:  and  she 
exposed  them  with  coarse  complacency.  When  from  decency 
she  could  not  say  everything  she  left  the  more  to  be  understood. 

Christophe  would  go  pale  with  shame  and  anger:  he  would 
go  white  as  a  sheet  and  his  lips  would  quiver.  Kosa,  foreseeing 
what  must  happen,  would  implore  her  mother  to  have  done: 
she  would  even  try  to  defend  Sabine.  But  she  only  succeeded 
in  making  Amalia  more  aggressive. 

And  suddenly  Christophe  would  leap  from  his  chair,  lie 
would  thump  on  the  table  and  begin  to  shout  that  it  was  mon- 
strous to  speak  of  a  woman,  to  spy  upon  her,  to  expose  her 
misfortunes:  only  an  evil  mind  could  so  persecute  a  creature 
who  was  good,  charming,  quiet,  keeping  herself  to  herself,  and 
doing  no  harm  to  anybody,  and  speaking  no  ill  of  anybody. 
But  they  were  making  a  great  mistake  if  they  thought  they 
could  do  her  harm :  they  only  made  him  more  sympathetic  and 
made  her  kindness  shine  forth  only  the  more  clearly. 

Amalia  would  feel  then  that  she  had  gone  too  far:  but  she 
was  hurt  by  feeling  it:  and,  shifting  her  ground,  she  would 
say  that  it  was  only  too  easy  to  talk  of  kindness:  that  the  word 
was  called  in  as  an  excuse  for  everything.  Heavens!  It  was 
easy  enough  to  be  thought  kind  when  you  never  bothered  about 
anything  or  anybody,  and  never  did  your  duty! 

To  which  Christophe  would  reply  that  the  first  duty  of  all 
was  to  make  life  pleasant  for  others,  but  that  there  were  people 
for  whom  duty  meant  only  ugliness,  unpleasantness,  tiresome- 
ness, and  everything  that  interferes  with  the  liberty  of  others 
and  annoys  and  injures  their  neighbors,  their  servants,  their 
families,  and  themselves,  (iod  save  us  from  such  people,  and 
such  a  notion  of  duty,  as  from  the  jilatrue !  .  .  . 


278  JEAX-CHRISTOPHE 

They  would  grow  venomous.  Amalia  would  be  very  bitter. 
Christophe  would  not  budge  an  inch. — And  the  result  of  it  all 
was  that  henceforth  Ohristophe  made  a  point  of  being  seen  con- 
tinually with  Sabine.  He  would  go  and  knock  at  her  door. 
He  would  talk  gaily  and  laugh  with  her.  He  would  choose 
moments  when  Amalia  and  Rosa  could  see  him.  Amalia  would 
avenge  herself  with  angry  words.  But  the  innocent  liosa's  heart 

o  O     <J 

was  rent  and  torn  by  this  refinement  of  cruelty:  she  felt  that 
he  detested  them  and  wished  to  avenge  himself :  and  she  wept 
bitterly. 

So,  Christophe,  who  had  suffered  so  much  from  injustice, 
learned  unjustly  to  inflict  suffering. 

Some  time  after  that  Sabine's  brother,  a  miller  at  Landegg, 
a  little  town  a  few  miles  away,  was  to  celebrate  the  christening 
of  a  child.  Sabine  was  to  be  godmother.  She  invited  Chris- 
tophe. He  had  no  liking  for  these  functions:  but  for  the 
pleasure  of  annoying  the  Vogels  and  of  being  with  Sabine  he 
accepted  eagerly. 

Sabine  gave  herself  the  malicious  satisfaction  of  inviting 
Amalia  and  Ifosa  also,  being  quite  sure  that  they  would  refuse. 
They  did.  Eosa  was  longing  to  accept.  She  did  not  dislike 
Sabine :  sometimes  even  her  heart  was  filled  with  tenderness 
for  her  because  Christophe  loved  her:  sometimes  she  longed  to 
tell  her  so  and  to  throw  her  arms  about  her  neck.  But  there 
was  her  mother  and  her  mother's  example.  She  stiffened  her- 
self in  her  pride  and  refused.  Then,  when  they  had  gone,  and 
she  thought  of  thorn  together,  happy  together,  driving  in  the 
country  on  the  lovely  July  day,  while  she  was  left  shut  up  in 
her  room,  with  a  pile  of  linen  to  mend,  with  her  mother  grum- 
bling by  her  side,  she  thought  she  must  choke:  and  she  cursed 
her  pride.  Oh!  if  there  were  still  time!  .  .  .  Alas!  if  it  were 
all  to  do  again,  she  would  have  done  the  same.  .  .  . 

The  miller  had  sent  his  wagonette  to  fetch  Christophe  and 
Sabine.  They  took  up  several  guests  from  the  town  and  the 
farms  on  the  road.  It  was  fresh  dry  weather.  The  bright  sun 
made  the  red  berries  of  the  brown  trees  by  the  road  and  the 
wild  cherry  trees  in  the  fields  shine.  Sabine  was  smiling.  Her 
pale  face  was  rosy  under  the  keen  wind.  Christophe  had  her 


YOUTH  2T9 

little  girl  on  his  knees.  They  did  not  try  to  talk  to  each  other : 
they  talked  to  their  neighbors  without  caring  to  whom  or  of 
what:  they  were  glad  to  hear  each  other's  voices:  they  were 
glad  to  be  driving  in  the  same  carriage.  They  looked  at  each 
other  in  childish  glee  as  they  pointed  out  to  each  other  a  house, 
a  tree,  a  passerby.  Sabine  loved  the  country :  but  she  hardly 
ever  went  into  it:  her  incurable  laziness  made  excursions  im- 
possible :  it  was  almost  a  year  since  she  had  been  outside  the 
town :  and  so  she  delighted  in  the  smallest  things  she  saw.  They 
were  not  new  to  Christophe:  but  he  loved  Sabine,  and  like  all 
lovers  he  saw  everything  through  her  eyes,  and  felt  all  her 
thrills  of  pleasure,  and  all  and  more  than  the  emotion  that 
was  in  her :  for,  merging  himself  with  his  beloved,  he  endowed 
her  with  all  that  he  was  himself. 

When  they  came  to  the  mill  they  found  in  the  yard  all  the 
people  of  the  farm  and  the  other  guests,  who  received  them 
with  a  deafening  noise.  The  fowls,  the  ducks,  and  the  dogs 
joined  in.  The  miller,  Bertold,  a  great  fair-haired  fellow, 
square  of  head  and  shoulders,  as  big  and  tall  as  Sabine  was 
slight,  took  his  little  sister  in  his  arms  and  put  her  down  gently 
as  though  he  were  afraid  of  breaking  her.  It  was  not  long 
before  Christophe  saw  that  the  little  sister,  as  usual,  did  just 
as  she  liked  with  the  giant,  and  that  while  he  made  heavy  fun 
of  her  whims,  and  her  laziness,  and  her  thousand  and  one  fail- 
ings, he  was  at  her  feet,  her  slave.  She  was  used  to  it,  and 
thought  it  natural.  She  did  nothing  to  win  love:  it  seemed 
to  her  right  that  she  should  be  loved :  and  if  she  were  not.  did 
not  care :  that  is  why  everybody  loved  her. 

Christophe  made  another  discovery  not  so  pleasing.  For  a 
christening  a  godfather  is  necessary  as  well  as  a  godmother,  and 
the  godfather  has  certain  rights  over  the  godmother,  rights 
which  he  does  not  often  renounce,  especially  when  she  is  young 
and  pretty.  He  learned  this  suddenly  when  he  saw  a  farmer, 
with  fair  curly  hair,  and  rings  in  his  ears,  go  up  to  Sabine 
laughing  and  kiss  her  on  both  cheeks.  Instead  of  telling  him- 
self that  he  was  an  ass  to  have  forgotten  this  privilege,  and 
more  than  an  ass  to  be  huffy  about  it,  he  was  cross  with  Sabine, 
as  though  she  had  deliberately  drawn  him  into  the  snare.  His 
crossness  grew  worse  when  he  found  himself  separated  from 


280  JEAX-CHE1 STOPHE 

her  during  the  ceremony.  Sabine  turned  round  every  now  and 
then  ab  the  procession  wound  across  the  fields  and  threw  him 
a  friendly  glance,  lie  pretended  not  to  see  it.  She  felt  that 
he  was  annoyed,  and  guessed  why:  but  it  did  not  trouble  her: 
it  amused  her.  if  she  had  had  a  real  squabble  with  some  one 
she  loved,  in  spite  of  all  the  pain  it  might  have  caused  her, 
she  would  never  have  made  the  least  effort  to  break  down  any 
misunderstanding:  it  would  have  been  too  much  trouble.  Every- 
thing would  come  right  if  it  were  only  left  alone. 

At  dinner,  sitting  between  the  miller's  wife  and  a  fat  girl 
with  red  cheeks  whom  he  had  escorted  to  the  service  without 
ever  paying  any  attention  to  her,  it  occurred  to  Christophe  to 
turn  and  look  at  his  neighbor:  and,  finding  her  comely,  out  of 
revenge,  he  flirted  desperately  with  her  with  the  idea  of  catch- 
ing Sabine's  attention.  He  succeeded :  but  Sabiue  was  not  the 
sort  of  woman  to  be  jealous  of  anybody  or  anything :  so  long 
as  she  was  loved,  she  did  not  care  whether  her  lover  did  or 
did  not  pay  court  to  others:  and  instead  of  being  angry,  she 
was  delighted  to  see  Christophe  amusing  himself.  From  the 
other  end  of  the  table  she  gave  him  her  most  charming  smile. 
Christophe  was  disgruntled:  there  was  no  doubt  then  that  Sabine 
was  indifferent  to  him:  and  he  relapsed  into  his  sulky  mood 
from  which  nothing  could  draw  him,  neither  the  soft  eyes  of 
his  neighbor,  nor  the  wine  that  he  drank.  Finally,  when  he 
was  half  asleep,  he  asked  himself  angrily  what  on  earth  he 
was  doing  at  such  an  interminable  orgy,  and  did  not  hear  the 
miller  propose  a  trip  on  the  water  to  take  certain  of  the  guests 
home.  Xor  did  he  see  Sabine  beckoning  him  to  come  with  her 
so  that  they  should  be  in  the  same  boat.  When  it  occurred 
to  him,  there  was  no  room  for  him:  and  lie  had  to  go  in  another 
boat.  This  fresh  mishap  was  not  likely  to  make  him  more 
amiable  until  he  discovered  that  he  was  to  be  rid  of  almost 
all  his  companions  on  the  way.  Then  lie  relaxed  and  was  pleas- 
ant. Besides  the  pleasant  afternoon  on  the  water,  the  pleasure 
of  rowing,  the  merriment  of  these  good  people,  rid  him  of  his 
ill-humor.  As  Sabine  was  no  longer  there  he  lost  his  self- 
consciousness,  and  had  nu  scruple  about  being  frankly  amused 
like  the  others. 

The\7  were  in  their  boats.     They  followed  each  other  closely, 


YOUTH  281 

and  tried  to  pass  each  other.  They  threw  laughing  insults  at 
each  other.  When  the  boats  bumped  Christophe  saw  Sabine's 
smiling  face:  and  he  could  not  help  smiling  too:  they  felt  that 
peace  was  made.  He  knew  that  very  soon  they  would  return 
together. 

They  began  to  sing  part  songs.  Each  voice  took  up  a  line 
in  time  and  the  refrain  was  taken  up  in  chorus.  The  people 
in  the  different  boats,  some  way  from  each  other,  now  echoed 
each  other.  The  notes  skimmed  over  the  water  like  birds.  From 
time  to  time  a  boat  would  go  in  to  the  bank:  a  few  peasants 
would  climb  out:  they  would  stand  there  and  wave  to  the  boats 
as  they  went  further  and  further  away.  Little  by  little  they 
were  disbanded.  One  by  one  voices  left  the  chorus.  At  last  they 
were  alone,  Christophe,  Sabine,  and  the  miller. 

They  came  back  in  the  same  boat,  floating  down  the  river. 
Christophe  and  Bertold  held  the  oars,  but  they  did  not  row. 
Sabine  sat  in  the  stern  facing  Christophe,  and  talked  to  her 
brother  and  looked  at  Christophe.  Talking  so,  they  were  able 
to  look  at  each  other  undisturbedly.  They  could  never  have 
done  so  had  the  words  ceased  to  flow.  The  deceitful  words 
seemed  to  say :  "  It  is  not  you  that  I  see."  But  their  eyes  said 
to  each  other :  "  Who  are  you  ?  Wlio  are  you  ?  You  that  I 
love !  .  .  .  You  that  I  love,  whoever  you  be !  .  .  ." 

The  sky  was  clouded,  mists  rose  from  the  fields,  the  river 
steamed,  the  sun  went  down  behind  the  clouds.  Sabine  shivered 
and  wrapped  her  little  black  shawl  round  her  head  and  shoul- 
ders. She  seemed  to  be  tired.  As  the  boat,  hugging  the  bank, 
passed  under  the  spreading  branches  of  the  willows,  she  closed 
her  eyes :  her  thin  face  was  pale :  her  lips  were  sorrowful :  .she 
did  not  stir,  she  seemed  to  suffer,— to  have  suffered. — to  be 
dead.  Christophe's  heart  ached.  He  leaned  over  to  her.  She 
opened  her  eyes  again  and  saw  Christophe's  uneasy  eyes  upon 
her  and  she  smiled  into  them.  It  was  like  a  ray  of  sunlight 
to  him.  He  asked  in  a  whisper: 

"  Are  you  ill  ?  " 

She  shook  her  head  and  said: 

"I  am  cold." 

The  two  men  put  their  overcoats  about  her,  wrapped  ,up 
her  feet,  her  legs,  her  knees,  like  a  child  being  tucked  up  in 


282  JEAN-CHEISTOPHB 

bed.  She  suffered  it  and  thanked  them  with  her  eyes.  A  fine, 
cold  rain  was  beginning  to  fall.  They  took  the  oars  and  went 
quietly  home.  Heavy  clouds  hung  in  the  sky.  The  river  was 
inky  black.  Lights  showed  in  the  windows  of  the  houses  hero 
and  there  in  the  fields.  When  they  reached  the  mill  the  rain 
was  pouring  down  and  Sabine  was  numbed. 

They  lit  a  large  fire  in  the  kitchen  and  waited  until  the  deluge 
should  be  over.  But  it  only  grew  worse,  and  the  wind  rose. 
They  had  to  drive  three  miles  to  get  back  to  the  town.  The 
miller  declared  that  he  would  not  let  Sabine  go  in  such  weather : 
and  he  proposed  that  they  should  both  spend  the  night  in  the 
farmhouse.  Christophe  was  reluctant  to  accept :  he  looked  at 
Sabine  for  counsel :  but  her  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  fire  on  the 
hearth :  it  was  as  though  they  were  afraid  of  influencing  Chris- 
tophe's  decision.  But  when  Christophe  had  said  "  Yes,"  she 
turned  to  him  and  she  was  blushing — (or  was  it  the  reflection 
of  the  fire?) — and  he  saw  that  she  was  pleased. 

A  jolly  evening.  .  .  .  The  rain  stormed  outside.  In  the  black 
chimney  the  fire  darted  jets  of  golden  sparks.  They  spun  round 
and  round.  Their  fantastic  shapes  were  marked  against  the 
wall.  The  miller  showed  Sabine's  little  girl  how  to  make 
shadows  with  her  hands.  The  child  laughed  and  was  not  alto- 
gether at  her  ease.  Sabine  leaned  over  the  fire  and  poked  it 
mechanically  with  a  heavy  pair  of  tongs :  she  was  a  little  weary, 
and  smiled  dreamily,  while,  without  listening,  she  nodded  to 
her  sister-in-law's  chatter  of  her  domestic  affairs.  Christophe 
sat  in  the  shadow  by  the  miller's  side  and  watched  Sabine  smil- 
ing. He  knew  that  she  was  smiling  at  him.  They  never  had 
an  opportunity  of  being  alone  all  evening,  or  of  looking  at  each 
other :  they  sought  none. 

They  parted  earl}r.  Their  rooms  were  adjoining,  and  com- 
municated by  a  door.  Christophe  examined  the  door  and  found 
that  the  lock  was  on  Sabine's  side.  He  went  to  bed  and  tried 
to  sleep.  The  rain  was  pattering  against  the  windows.  The 
wind  howled  in  the  chimney.  On  the  floor  above  him  a  door 
was  banging.  Outside  the  window  a  poplar  bent  and  groaned 
under  the  tempest.  Christophe  could  not  close  his  eyes.  He 
was  thinking  that  he  was  under  the  same  roof.,  near  her.  A 


YOUTH  283 

wall  only  divided  them.  He  heard  no  sound  in  Sabine's  room. 
But  he  thought  he  could  sec  her.  He  sat  up  in  his  bed  and 
called  to  her  in  a  low  voice  through  the  wall :  tender,  passionate 
words  he  said:  he  held  out  his  arms  to  her.  And  it  seemed  to 
him  that  she  was  holding  out  her  arms  to  him.  In  his  heart 
he  heard  the  beloved  voice  answering  him,  repeating  his  words, 
calling  low  to  him  :  and  he  did  not  know  whether  it  was  he 
who  asked  and  answered  all  the  questions,  or  whether  it  was 
really  she  who  spoke.  The  voice  came  louder,  the  call  to  him : 
he  could  not  resist:  he  leaped  from  his  bed:  he  groped  his  way 
to  the  door:  he  did  not  wish  to  open  it:  he  was  reassured  by 
the  closed  door.  And  when  he  laid  his  hand  once  more  on  the 
handle  he  found  that  the  door  was  opening.  .  .  . 

He  stopped  dead.  He  closed  it  softly :  he  opened  it  once  more : 
he  closed  it  again.  Was  it  not  closed  just  now?  Yes.  He  was 
sure  it  was.  Who  had  opened  it?  ...  His  heart  beat  so  that 
he  choked.  He  leaned  over  his  bed,  and  sat  down  to  breathe 
again.  He  was  overwhelmed  by  his  passion.  It  robbed  him 
of  the  power  to  see  or  hear  or  move:  his  whole  body  shook. 
He  was  in  terror  of  this  unknown  joy  for  which  for  months 
he  had  been  craving,  which  was  with  him  now,  near  him,  so 
that  nothing  could  keep  it  from  him.  Suddenly  the  violent 
boy  filled  with  love  was  afraid  of  these  desires  newly  realized 
and  revolted  from  them.  He  was  ashamed  of  them,  ashamed 
of  what  he  wished  to  do.  He  was  too  much  in  love  to  dare 
to  enjoy  what  he  loved :  he  was  afraid :  he  would  have  done 
anything  to  escape  his  happiness.  Is  it  only  possible  to  love, 
to  love,  at  the  cost  of  the  profanation  of  the  beloved?  .  .  . 

He. went  to  the  door  again:  and  trembling  with  love  and  fear, 
with  his  hand  on  the  latch  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  open  it. 

And  on  the  other  side  of  the  door,  standing  barefooted  on 
the  tiled  floor,  shivering  with  cold,  was  Sabine. 

So  they  stayed  .  .  .  for  how  long?  Minutes?  Hours?  .  .  . 
They  did  not  know  that  they  were  there:  and  yet  they  did  know. 
They  held  out  their  arms  to  each  other, — he  was  overwhelmed 
by  a  love  so  great  that  he  had  not  the  courage  to  enter. — she 
called  to  him,  waited  for  him,  trembled  lest  he.  should  enter. 

.  .  And  when  at  last  he  made  up  hi?  mind  to  enter,  she  had 
just  made  up  her  mind  to  turn  the  lock  again. 


284  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

Tlien  ho  cursed  himself  for  a  fool,  lie  loaned  against  the 
door  with  all  his  strength.  With  his  lips  to  the  lock  he  implored 
her : 

"  Open." 

He  called  to  Sahino  in  a  whisper:  she  could  hear  his  heated 
breathing.  She  slaved  motionless  near  the  door:  she  was  fro/con  : 
her  teeth  were  chattering :  she  had  no  strength  either  to  open 
the  door  or  to  go  to  bed  again.  .  .  . 

The  storm  made  the  trees  crack  and  the  doors  in  the  house 
bang.  .  .  .  They  turned  away  and  went  to  their  beds,  worn  out, 
sad  and  sick  at  heart.  The  cocks  crowed  huskily.  The  first 
light  of  dawn  crept  through  the  wot  windows,  a  wretched,  pale 
dawn,  drowned  in  the  persistent  rain.  .  .  . 

Christophe  got  up  as  soon  as  he  could:  he  went  down  to  the 
kitchen  and  talked  to  the  people  there.  Ho  was  in  a  hurry  to 
be  gone  and  was  afraid  of  being  left  alone  with  Sabine  again. 
He  was  almost  relieved  when  the  miller's  wife  said  that  Sabine 
was  unwell,  and  had  caught  cold  during  the  drive  and  would 
not  be  going  that  morning. 

His  journey  home  was  melancholy.  He  refused  to  drive, 
and  walked  through  the  soaking  fields,  in  the  yellow  mist  that 
covered  the  earth,  the  trees,  the  houses,  with  a  shroud.  Like 
the  light,  life  seemed  to  be  blotted  out.  Everything  loomed  like 
a  specter.  He  was  like  a  specter  himself. 

At  homo  he  found  angry  faces.  They  were  all  scandalized 
at  his  having  passed  the  night  God  knows  where  with  Sabine. 
He  shut  himself  up  in  his  room  and  applied  himself  to  his 
work.  Sabine  returned  the  next  day  and  shut  herself  up  also. 
They  avoided  meeting  each  other.  The  weather  was  still  wet 
and  cold:  neither  of  them  went  out.  They  saw  each  other 
through  their  closed  windows.  Sabine  was  wrapped  up  by 
her  fire,  dreaming.  Christophe  was  buried  in  his  papers.  Thov 
bowed  to  each  other  a  little  coldly  and  reservedly  and  then  pre- 
tended to  be  absorbed  again.  They  did  not  take  stock  of  what 
they  were  feeling:  they  wore  angry  with  each  other,  with  them- 
selves, with  things  generally.  The  night  at  the  farmhouse  had 
been  thrust  aside  in  their  memories:  they  were  ashamed  of  it, 
and  did  not  know  whether  they  were-  more  ashamed  of  their 


YOUTH  28r» 

folly  or  of  not  having  yielded  to  it.  It  was  painful  to  them 
to  see  each  other:  for  that  made  them  remember  things  from 
which  they  wished  to  escape:  and  by  joint  agreement  they 
retired  into  the  depths  of  their  rooms  so  as  utterly  to  forget 
each  other.  But  that  was  impossible,  and  they  suffered  keenly 
under  the  secret  hostility  which  they  felt  was  between  them. 
Christophe  was  haunted  by  the  expression  of  dumb  rancor  which 
he  had  once  seen  in  Sabine's  cold  eyes.  From  such  thoughts 
her  suffering  was  not  less:  in  vain  did  she  struggle  against 
them,  and  even  deny  them  :  she  could  not  rid  herself  of  them. 
They  were  augmented  by  her  shame  that  Christophe  should  have 
guessed  what  was  happening  within  her:  and  the  shame  of 
having  offered  herself  .  .  .  the  shame  of  having  offered  herself 
without  having  given. 

Christophe  gladly  accepted  an  opportunity  which  cropped  up 
to  go  to  Cologne  and  Diisseldorf  for  some  concerts.  He  was 
glad  to  spend  two  or  three  weeks  away  from  home.  Prepara- 
tion for  the  concerts  and  the  composition  of  a  new  work  that 
he  wished  to  play  at  them  took  up  all  his  time  and  he  succeeded 
in  forgetting  his  obstinate  memories.  They  disappeared  from 
Sabine's  mind  too,  and  she  fell  back  into  the  torpor  of  her 
usual  life.  They  came  to  think  of  each  other  with  indifference. 
Had  they  really  loved  each  other?  They  doubted  it.  Chris- 
tophe was  on  the  point  of  leaving  for  Cologne  without  saying 
good-bye  to  Sabine. 

On  the  evening  before  bis  departure  they  were  brought  to- 
gether again  by  some  imperceptible  influence.  It  was  one  of 
the  Sunday  afternoons  when  everybody  was  at-  church.  Chris- 
tophe had  gone  out  too  to  make  bis  final  preparations  for  the. 
journey.  Sabine  was  sitting  in  her  tinv  garden  wanning  her- 
self in  the  last  rays  of  the  sun.  Christophe  came  home:  he 
was  in  a  hurry  and  his  first  inclination  when  he  saw  her  was 
to  bow  and  pass  on.  But  something  held  him  back  as  he  was 
passing:  was  it  Sabine's  paleness,  or  some  indefinable  feeling: 
remorse,  fear,  tenderness?  ...  He  stopped,  turned  to  Sahine, 
and.  leaning  over  the  fence,  IK-  bade  her  troud-eveninir.  Without 
replying1  she  held  out  her  hand.  Her  smile  was  all  kindness. — 
such  kindness  as  he  bad  never  seen  in  IKT.  Her  gesture  seemed 
to  sav :  ''Peace  between  us.  .  Tie  took  her  hand  over  the 


286  JEAN-CHKISTOPHE 

fence,  bent  over  it,  and  kissed  it.  She  made  no  attempt  to 
withdraw  it.  He  longed  to  go  down  on  his  knees  and  say, 
"  I  love  you.'*  .  .  .  They  looked  at  each  other  in  silence.  But 
they  offered  no  explanation.  After  a  moment  she  removed  her 
hand  and  turned  her  head.  He  turned  too  to  hide  his  emotion. 
Then  they  looked  at  each  other  again  with  untroubled  eyes. 
The  sun  was  setting.  Subtle  shades  of  color,  violet,  orange,  and 
mauve,  chased  across  the  cold  clear  sky.  She  shivered  and  drew 
her  shawl  closer  about  her  shoulders  with  a  movement  that 
he  knew  well.  He  asked : 

"  How  are  you  ?  " 

She  made  a  little  grimace,  as  if  the  question  were  not  worth 
answering.  They  went  on  looking  at  each  other  and  were  happy. 
It  was  as  though  they  had  lost,  and  had  just  found  each  other 
again.  .  .  . 

At  last  he  broke  the  silence  and  said : 

"  I  am  going  away  to-morrow." 

There  was  alarm  in  Sabine's  eyes. 

"  Going  away?  "  she  said. 

He  added  quickly : 

"  Oh !  only  for  two  or  three  weeks." 

"  Two  or  three  weeks,"  she  said  in  dismay. 

He  explained  that  he  was  engaged  for  the  concerts,  but  that 
when  he  came  back  he  would  not  stir  all  winter. 

"  Winter,"  she  said.     "  That  is  a  long  time  off.  .  .  ." 

"  Oh !  no.     It  will  soon  be  here." 

She  saddened  and  did  not  look  at  him. 

"When  shall  .we  meet  again?"  she  asked  a  moment  later. 

He  did  not  understand  the  question :  he  had  already  an- 
swered it. 

"  As  soon  as  I  come  back :  in  a  fortnight,  or  three  weeks  at 
most." 

She  still  looked  dismayed.     He  tried  to  tease  her: 

"  It  won't  be  long  for  you,"  he  said.     "  You  will  sleep." 

"  Yes,"  said  Sabine. 

She  looked  down,  she  tried  to  smile :  but  her  eyes  trembled. 

"  Christophe !  .  .  ."  she  said  suddenly,  turning  towards  him. 

There  was  a  note  of  distress  in  her  voice.     She  seemed  to  say: 

"  Stay !    Don't  go !  .  .  ." 


YOUTH  28? 

He  took  her  hand,  looked  at  her,  did  not  understand  the 
importance  she  attached  to  his  fortnight's  absence :  but  he  was 
only  waiting  for  a  word  from  her  to  say : 

"I  will  stay.  .  .  ." 

And  just  as  she  was  going  to  speak,  the  front  door  was  opened, 
and  Eosa  appeared.  Sabine  withdrew  her  hand  from  Chris- 
tophe's  and  went  hurriedly  into  her  house.  At  the  door  she 
turned  and  looked  at  him  once  more — and  disappeared. 

Christophe  thought  he  should  see  her  again  in  the  evening. 
But  he  was  watched  by  the  Yogels,  and  followed  everywhere 
by  his  mother :  as  usual,  he  was  behindhand  with  his  prepara- 
tions for  his  journey  and  could  not  find  time  to  leave  the  house 
for  a  moment. 

Xext  day  he  left  very  early.  As  he  passed  Sabine's  door  he 
longed  to  go  in,  to  tap  at  the  window:  it  hurt  him  to  leave  her 
without  saying  good-bye :  for  he  had  been  interrupted  by  Eosa 
before  he  had  had  time  to  do  so.  But  he  thought  she  must  be 
asleep  and  would  be  cross  with  him  if  he  woke  her  up.  And 
then,  what  could  he  say  to  her  ?  It  was  too  late  now  to  abandon 
his  journey :  and  what  if  she  were  to  ask  him  to  do  so  ?  .  .  .  He 
did  not  admit  to  himself  that  he  was  not  averse  to  exercising  his 
power  over  her, — if  need  be,  causing  her  a  little  pain.  .  .  .  He 
did  not  take  seriously  the  grief  that  his  departure  brought 
Sabine :  and  he  thought  that  his  short  absence  would  increase 
the  tenderness  which,  perhaps,  she  had  for  him. 

He  ran  to  the  station.  In  spite  of  everything  he  was  a  little 
remorseful.  But  as  soon  as  the  train  had  started  it  was  all  for- 
gotten. There  was  youth  in  his  heart.  Gaily  he  saluted  the  old 
town  with  its  roofs  and  towers  rosy  under  the  sun :  and  with 
the  carelessness  of  those  who  are  departing  he  said  good-bye 
to  those  whom  he  was  leaving,  and  thought  no  more  of  them. 

The  whole  time  that  he  was  at  Diisseldorf  and  Cologne  Sabine 
never  once  recurred  to  his  mind.  Taken  up  from  morning  till 
night  with  rehearsals  and  concerts,  dinners  and  talk,  busied 
with  a  thousand  and  one  new  things  and  the  pride  and  satis- 
faction of  his  success  he  had  no  time  for  recollection.  Once 
only,  on  the  fifth  night  after  he  left  home,  he  woke  suddenly 
after  a  dream  and  knew  that  he  had  been  thinking  of  lier  in 


288  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

his  sleep  and  that  the  thought  of  her  had  wakened  him  up. 
hut  he  could  not  remember  how  he  had  been  thinking  of  her. 
He  was  unhappy  and  feverish.  It  was  not  surprising:  he  had 
been  playing  ai  a  concert  that  evening,  and  when  he  left  the 
hall  lie  had  been  dragged  off  to  a  supper  at  which  he  had  drunk 
several  glasses  of  champagne.  He  could  not  sleep  and  got  up. 
He  was  obsessed  by  a  musical  idea.  He  pretended  that  it  was 
that  which  had  broken  in  upon  his  sleep  and  he  wrote  it  down. 
As  he  read  through  it  he  was  astonished  to  sec  ho\v  sad  it 
was.  There  was  no  sadness  in  Imn  when  he  wrote:  at  least, 
so  he  thought.  But  he  remembered  that  on  other  occasions 
when  he  had  been  .sad  he  had  only  been  able  to  write  joyous 
music,  so  gay  that  it  offended  his  mood.  He  gave  110  more 
thought  to  it.  lie  was  used  to  the  surprises  of  his  mind  world 
without  eA'er  being  able  to  understand  them.  He  went  to  sleep 
at  once,  and  knew  no  more  until  the  next  morning. 

lie  extended  his  stay  by  three  or  four  days.  It  pleased  him 
to  prolong  it,  knowing  lie  could  return  whenever  he  liked:  he 
was  in  no  hurry  to  go  home.  It  was  only  when  he  was  on  the 
way,  in  the  train,  that  the  thought  of  Sabine  came  back  to  him. 
He  had  not  written  to  her.  He  was  even  careless  enough  never 
to  have  taken  the  trouble  to  ask  at  the  post-oflice  for  any  letters 
that  might  have  been  written  to  him.  He  took  a  secret  delight 
in  his  silence:  he  knew  that  at  home  he  was  expected,  that  he 
was  loved.  .  .  „  Loved?  She  had  never  told  him  so:  he  had 
never  told  her  so.  No  doubt  they  knew  it  and  had  no  need  to 
tell  it.  And  yet  there  was  nothing  so  precious  as  the  certainty 
of  such  an  avowal.  Why  had  they  waited  so  long  to  make  it? 
When  they  had  been  on  the  point  of  speaking  always  something 
— some  mischance,  shyness,  embarrassment, — had  hindered  them. 
Why?  Why?  How  much  time  they  had  lost!  ...  He  longed 
to  hear  the  dear  words  from  the  lips  of  the  beloved.  He  longed 
to  say  them  to  her:  he  said  them  aloud  in  the  empty  carriage. 
As  he  neared  the  town  he  was  torn  with  impatience,  a  sort  of 
agony.  .  .  .  Faster!  Faster!  Oh!  To  think  that  in  an  hour 
he  would  see  her  again  !  .  .  . 

It  was  half-past  six  in  the  morning:  when  he  reached  home. 
Nobody  was  up  yet.  Sabiue's  windows  weiv  closed,  lie  went 


YOUTH  2SU 

into  the  yard  on  tiptoe  so  that  she  should  not  hear  him.  He 
chuckled  at  the  thought  of  taking  her  by  surprise.  Me  went 
up  to  his  room.  His  mother  was  asleep.  He  washed  and  brushed 
his  hair  without  making  any  noise.  He  was  hungry :  but  he  was 
afraid  of  waking  Louisa  by  rummaging  in  the  pantry.  He 
heard  footsteps  in  the  yard:  he  opened  his  window  softly  and 
saw  Rosa,  first  up  as  usual,  beginning  to  sweep.  He  called  her 
gently.  She  started  in  glad  surprise  when  she  saw  him:  then 
she  looked  solemn.  He  thought  she  was  still  offended  with  him  : 
but  for  the  moment  he  was  in  a  very  good  temper.  He  went 
down  to  her. 

"  Rosa,  Rosa,"  he  said  gaily,  "  give  me  something  to  eat  or 
I  shall  eat  you!  I  am  dying  of  hunger!" 

Rosa  smiled  and  took  him  to  the  kitchen  on  the  ground  floor. 
She  poured  him  out  a  bowl  of  milk  and  then  could  not  refrain 
from  plying  him  with  a  string  of  questions  about  his  travels 
and  his  concerts.  But  although  he  was  quite  ready  to  answer 
them, —  (in  the  happiness  of  his  return  he  was  almost  glad  to 
hear  IJosa's  chatter  once  more) — Rosa  stopped  suddenly  in  the 
middle  of  her  cross-examination,  her  face  fell,  her  eyes  turned 
away,  and  she  became  sorrowful.  Then  her  chatter  broke  out 
again:  but  soon  it  seemed  that  she  thought  it  out  of  place 
and  once  more  she  stopped  short.  And  lie  noticed  it  then  and 
said  : 

"What  is  the  matter.  Rosa?    Are  you  cross  with  me?" 

She  shook  her  head  violently  in  denial,  and  turning  to- 
wards him  with  her  usual  suddenness  took  his  arm  with  both 
hands : 

"  Oh !  Christophe !  .  .  ."  she  said. 

He  was  alarmed.  He  let  his  piece  of  bread  fall  from  his 
hands. 

"What!     What  is  the  matter?"  he  stammered. 

She  said  again : 

"  Oh  !  Christophe!  .  .  .  Such  an  awful  thing  has  happened !" 

He  ihrust  away  from  the  table.     He  stuttered: 

«  TI_here  ?  "  ' 

She  pointed  to  the  house  on  the  other  side  of  the  yard. 

He  cried : 

"  Sabine !  " 


290  JEAX-CHRISTOPHE 

She  wept : 

"  She  is  dead." 

Christophe  saw  nothing.  He  got  up  :  he  almost  fell :  he  clung 
to  the  table,  upset  the  things  on  it:  he  wished  to  cry  out.  He 
suffered  fearful  agony,  lie  turned  sick. 

Eosa  hastened  to  his  side :  she  was  frightened :  she  held  his 
head  and  wept. 

As  soon  as  he  could  speak  he  said: 

"  It  is  not  true !  " 

He  knew  that  it  was  true.  But  he  wanted  to  deny  it,  he 
wanted  to  pretend  that  it  could  not  be.  When  he  saw  Rosa's 
face  wet  with  tears  he  could  doubt  no  more  and  he  sobbed 
aloud. 

Rosa  raised  her  head: 

"  Christophe !  "  she  said. 

He  hid  his  face  in  his  hands.    She  leaned  towards  him. 

"  Christophe !  .  .  .  Mamma  is  coming !  .  .  ." 

Christophe  got  up. 

"  Xo,  no,"  he  said.     "  She  must  not  see  me." 

She  took  his  hand  and  led  him,  stumbling  and  blinded  by 
his  tears,  to  a  little  woodshed  which  opened  on  to  the  yard. 
She  closed  the  door.  They  were  in  darkness.  He  sat  on  a 
block  of  wood  used  for  chopping  sticks.  She  sat  on  the  fagots. 
Sounds  from  without  were  deadened  and  distant.  There  he 
could  weep  without  fear  of  being  heard.  He  let  himself  go 
and  sobbed  furiously.  Rosa  had  never  seen  him  weep :  she  had 
even  thought  that  he  could  not  weep :  she  knew  only  her  own 
girlish  tears  and  such  despair  in  a  man  filled  her  with  terror 
and  pity.  She  was  filled  with  a  passionate  love  for  Christophe. 
It  was  an  absolutely  unselfish  love:  an  immense  need  of  sacri- 
fice, a  maternal  self-denial,  a  hunger  to  suffer  for  him,  to  take 
his  sorrow  upon  herself.  She  put  her  arm  round  lu's  shoulders. 

"Dear  Christophe,"  she  said,  "do  not  cry!" 

Christophe  turned  from  her. 

"  I  wish  to  die  !  " 

Rosa  clasped  her  hands. 

"Don't  say  that,  Christophe!" 

"  I  wish  to  die.  1  cannot  .  .  .  cannot  live  now.  .  .  .  What 
is  the  good  of  living?" 


YOUTH  291 

"  Christophe,  dear  Christophe !  You  are  not  alone.  You  are 
loved.  .  .  ." 

"  What  is  that  to  me  ?  I  love  nothing  now.  It  is  nothing 
to  me  whether  everything  else  live  or  die.  I  love  nothing:  I 
loved  only  her.  I  loved  only  her !  " 

He  sobbed  louder  than  ever  with  his  face  buried  in  his  hands. 
Eosa  could  find  nothing  to  say.  The  egoism  of  Christophe's 
passion  stabbed  her  to  the  heart.  Now  when  she  thought  her- 
self most  near  to  him,  she  felt  more  isolated  and  more  miserable 
than  ever.  Grief  instead  of  bringing  them  together  thrust  them 
only  the  more  widely  apart.  She  wept  bitterly. 

After  some  time,  Christophe  stopped  weeping  and  asked: 

"How?  .  .  .  How?  .  .  ." 

Eosa  understood. 

"  She  fell  ill  of  influenza  on  the  evening  you  left.  And  she 
was  taken  suddenly.  .  .  ." 

He  groaned. 

"  Dear  God !  .  .  .  Why  did  you  not  write  to  me  ? " 

She  said: 

"  I  did  write.  I  did  not  know  your  address :  you  did  not 
give  us  any.  I  went  and  asked  at  the  theater.  Nobody  knew 
it." 

He  knew  how  timid  she  was,  and  how  much  it  must  have  cost 
her.  He  asked: 

"Did  she  ...  did  she  tell  you  to  do  that?" 

She  shook  her  head : 

"  No.     But  I  thought  .  .  ." 

He  thanked  her  with  a  look.    Eosa's  heart  melted. 

"  My  poor  .  .  .  poor  Christophe !  "  she  said. 

She  flung  her  arms  round  his  neck  and  wept.  Christophe 
felt  the  worth  of  such  pure  tenderness.  He  had  so  much  need 
of  consolation  !  He  kissed  her : 

"  How  kind  you  are,"  he  said.    "  You  loved  her  too  ?  " 

She  broke  away  from  him,  she  threw  him  a  passionate  look, 
did  not  reply,  and  began  to  weep  again. 

That  look  was  a  revelation  to  him.     It  meant: 

"  It  was  not  she  whom  I  loved.  .  .  ." 

Christophe  saw  at  last  what  he  had  not  known — what  for 
months  he  had  not  wished  to  see.  He  saw  that  she  loved  him. 


292  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

"  'Ssh,"  she  said.  "  They  are  calling  me."  They  heard 
Amalia's  voice. 

Rosa  asked : 

"  Do  you  want  to  go  back  to  your  room  ?  " 

He  said: 

"  oS  o.  I  could  not  yet :  I  could  not  bear  to  talk  to  my 
mother.  .  .  .  Later  on.  .  .  ." 

She  said : 

"  Stay  here.     I  will  come  back  soon." 

He  stayed  in  the  dark  woodshed  to  which  only  a  thread  of 
light  penetrated  through  a  small  airhole  filled  with  cobwebs. 
From  the  street  there  came  up  the  cry  of  a  hawker,  against  the 
wall  a  horse  in  a  stable  next  door  was  snorting  and  kicking. 
The  revelation  that  had  just  come  to  Christophe  gave  him  no 
pleasure:  but  it  held  his  attention  for  a  moment.  It  made  plain 
many  things  that  he  had  not  understood.  A  multitude  of  little 
things  that  he  had  disregarded  occurred  to  him  and  were  ex- 
plained. He  was  surprised  to  find  himself  thinking  of  it:  he 
was  ashamed  to  be  turned  aside  even  for  a  moment  from  his 
misery.  But  that  misery  was  so  frightful,  so  irrepressible  that 
the  mistrust  of  .self-preservation,  stronger  than  his  will,  than 
his  courage,  than  his  love,  forced  him  to  turn  awav  from  it, 
seized  on  this  new  idea,  as  the  suicide  drowning  seizes  in  spite 
of  himself  on  the  first  object  which  can  help  him,  not  to  save 
himself,  but  to  keep  himself  for  a  moment  longer  above  the 
water.  And  it  was  because  he  was  suffering  that  he  was  able 
to  feel  what  another  was  suffering — suffering  through  him.  He 
understood  the  tears  that  he  had  brought  to  her  eyes.  He  was 
filled  with  pity  for  Rosa.  He  thought  how  cruel  be  had  been 
to  her— how  cruel  lie  must  still  be.  For  he  did  not  love  her. 
What  good  was  it  for  her  to  love  him?  Poor  girl  !  .  .  .  In  vain 
did  he  tell  himself  that  she  was  good  (she  had  just  proved 
it).  What  Avas  her  goodness  to  him?  What  was  her  life  to 
him?  .  .  . 

lie  thought: 

"  Why  is  it  not  she  who  is  dead,  and  the  other  who  is  alive?  " 

He  thought : 

"She  is  alive:  she  loves  me:  she  can  tell  me  that  to-day,  to- 
morrow, all  my  life :  and  the  other,  the  woman  I  love,  she  is 


YOUTH  29.1 

dead  and  never  told  me  that  she  loved  me:  I  never  have  told 
her  that  I  loved  her:  I  shall  never  hear  her  say  it :  she  will  never 
know  it.  .  .  ." 

And  suddenly  he  remembered  that  last  evening:  he  remem- 
bered that  they  were  just  going  to  talk  when  Rosa  came  and 
prevented  it.  And  he  hated  Rosa.  .  .  . 

The  door  of  the  woodshed  was  opened.  Rosa  called  Cliris- 
tophe  softly,  and  groped  towards  him.  She  took  his  hand,  lie 
felt  an  aversion  in  her  near  presence :  in  vain  did  he  reproach 
himself  for  it :  it  was  stronger  than  himself. 

Rosa  was  silent:  her  great  pity  had  taught  her  silence.  Chris- 
tophe  was  grateful  to  her  for  not  breaking  in  upon  his  grief 
with  useless  words.  And  yet  he  wished  to  know  .  .  .  she  was 
the  only  creature  who  could  talk  to  him  of  her.  lie  asked  in 
a  whisper : 

"  When  did  she  .  .  ." 

(He  dared  not  say:  die.) 

She  replied : 

"  Last  Saturday  week." 

Dimly  he  remembered.     He  said  : 

"At  night?" 

Rosa  looked  at  him  in  astonishment  and  said: 

"  Yes.     At  night.     Between  two  and  three." 

The  sorrowful  melody  came  back  to  him.  He  asked,  trem- 
bling : 

"Did  she  suffer  much?" 

"No,  no.  God  be  thanked,  dear  Christophe:  she  hardly  suf- 
fered at  all.  She  was  so  weak.  She  did  not  struggle  against 
it.  Suddenly  they  saw  that  she  was  lost.  .  .  ." 

"And  she  ...  did  she  know  it?" 

"I  don't  know.     1  think  .  .  ." 

"  Did  she  say  anything  ?  " 

"No.     Nothing.     She  was  sorry  for  herself  like  a  child." 

"  You  were  there?  " 

''  Yes.  For  the  first  two  days  I  was  there  alone,  before  her 
brother  came." 

He  pressed  her  hand  in  gratitude. 

"  Thank  you." 

She  felt  the  blood  rush  to  her  heart. 


294  JEAX-CHRISTOPHE 

After  a  silence  lie  said,  he  murmured  the  question  which  was 
choking  him : 

"  Did  she  say  anything  .  .  .  for  me  ?  " 

Eosa  shook  her  head  sadly.  She  would  have  given  much  to 
be  able  to  let  him  have  the  answer  he  expected :  she  was  almost 
sorry  that  she  could  not  lie  about  it.  She  tried  to  console 
him: 

"  She  was  not  conscious." 

"But  she  did  speak?" 

"  One  could  not  make  out  what  she  said.  It  was  in  a  very 
low  voice." 

"Where  is  the  child?" 

"  Her  brother  took  her  away  with  him  to  the  country." 

"And  she?" 

"  She  is  there  too.     She  was  taken  away  last  Monday  week." 

They  began  to  weep  again. 

Frau  Yogel's  voice  called  Rosa  once  more.  Christophe,  left 
alone  again,  lived  through  those  days  of  death.  A  week,  already 
a  week  ago.  ...  0  God!  What  had  become  of  her?  How 
it  had  rained  that  week !  .  .  .  And  all  that  time  he  was  laugh- 
ing, he  was  happy ! 

In  his  pocket  he  felt  a  little  parcel  wrapped  up  in  soft  paper : 
they  were  silver  buckles  that  he  had  brought  her  for  her  shoes. 
He  remembered  the  evening  when  he  had  placed  his  hand  on 
the  little  stockinged  foot.  Her  little  feet:  where  were  they 
now?  How  cold  they  must  be!  ...  He  thought  the  memory 
of  that  warm  contact  was  the  only  one  that  he  had  of  the 
beloved  creature.  He  had  never  dared  to  touch  her.  to  take  her 
in  his  arms,  to  hold  her  to  his  breast.  She  was  gone  forever, 
and  he  had  never  known  her.  He  knew  nothing  of  her,  neither 
soul  nor  body.  He  had  no  memory  of  her  body,  of  her  life,  of 
her  love.  .  .  .  Her  love?  .  .  .  What  proof  had  he  of  that?  .  .  . 
He  had  not  even  a  letter,  a  token, — nothing.  Where  could  he 
seek  to  hold  her,  in  himself,  or  outside  himself?  .  .  .  Oh! 
Xothing !  There  was  nothing  left  him  but  the  love  he  had  for 
her,  nothing  left  him  but  himself. — And  in  spite  of  all,  his 
desperate  desire  to  snatch  her  from  destruction,  his  need  of 
denying  death,  made  him  cling  to  the  last  piece  of  wreckage, 
in  an  act  of  blind  faith: 


YOUTH 

ft.  .  .  he  son  gia  morto:  e  len  c'albcryo  cangi  resto  in  ie 
vivo,  C'or  tni  vcdi  e  piangi,  se  I'un  ndl'  altro  unianta  si  tras- 
forma." 

".  .  .  I  am  not  dead:  I  have  changed  my  dwelling.  I  live 
still  in  thee  who  art  faithful  to  me.  The  soul  of  the  beloved 
is  merged  in  the  soul  of  the  lover." 

He  had  never  read  these  sublime  words:  hut  they  were  in 
him.  Each  one  of  us  in  turn  climbs  the  Calvary  of  the  age. 
Each  one  of  us  finds  anew  the  agony,  each  one  of  us  iinds  anew 
the  desperate  hope  and  folly  of  the  ages.  Each  one  of  us  follows 
in  the  footsteps  of  those  who  were,  of  those  before  us  who 
struggled  with  death,  denied  death — and  are  dead. 

He  shut  himself  up  in  his  room.  His  shutters  were  closed 
all  day  so  as  not  to  see  the  windows  of  the  house  opposite.  He 
avoided  the  Vogels :  they  were  odious  to  his  sight,  lie  had 
nothing  to  reproach  them  with :  they  were  too  honest,  and  too 
pious  not  to  have  thrust  back  their  feelings  in  the  face  of  death. 
They  knew  Christophe's  grief  and  respected  it,  whatever  they 
might  think  of  it:  they  never  uttered  Sabine's  name  in  his  pres- 
ence. But  they  had  been  her  enemies  when  she  was  alive:  that 
was  enough  to  make  him  their  enemy  now  that  she  was  dead. 

Besides  they  had  not  altered  their  noisy  habits :  and  in  spite 
of  the  sincere  though  passing  pity  that  they  had  felt,  it  was 
obvious  that  at  bottom  they  were  untouched  by  the  misfortune — • 
(it  was  too  natural) — perhaps  even  they  were  secretly  relieved 
by  it.  Christophe  imagined  so  at  least.  Now  that  the  Vogcls' 
intentions  with  regard  to  himself  were  made  plain  he  exag- 
gerated them  in  his  own  mind.  In  reality  they  attached  little 
importance  to  him:  he  set  too  great  store  by  himself.  But 
he  had  no  doubt  that  the  death  of  Sabine,  by  removing  the 
greatest  obstacle  in  the  way  of  his  landlords'  plans,  did  seem  to 
them  to  leave  the  field  clear  for  Rosa.  So  he  detested  her.  That 
they — (the  Yogels,  Louisa,  and  even  Rosa) — should  have  tacitly 
disposed  of  him,  without  consulting  him,  was  enough  in  any 
case  to  make  him  lose  all  affection  for  the  person  whom  he  was 
destined  to  love.  He  shied  whenever  he  thought  an  attempt  was 
made  upon  his  umbrageous  sense  of  liberty.  But  now  it  was 


296  JEAX-CHRISTOPHE 

not  only  a  question  of  himself.  The  rights  which  these  others 
had  assumed  over  him  did  not  only  infringe  upon  his  o\vn  rights 
hut  upon  those  of  the  dead  woman  to  whom  his  heart  was  given. 
So  he  defended  them  doggedly,  although  no  one  was  for  attack- 
ing them.  lie  suspected  Rosa's  goodness.  She  suffered  in  see- 
ing him  suffer  and  would  often  come  and  knock  at  his  door  to 
console  him  and  talk  to  him  about  the  other.  He  did  not  drive 
her  away :  lie  needed  to  talk  of  Sahine  with  some  one  who  had 
known  her:  he  wanted  to  know  the  smallest  of  what  had  hap- 
pened during  her  illness.  But  he  was  not  grateful  to  Rosa:  he 
attributed  ulterior  motives  to  her.  Was  it  not  plain  that  her 
family,  even  Amalia,  permitted  these  visits  and  long  colloquies 
which  she  would  never  have  allowed  if  they  had  not  fallen  in 
with  her  wishes?  Was  not  1'osa  in  league  with  her  family?  He 
could  not  believe  that  her  pity  was  absolutely  sincere  and  free 
of  personal  thoughts. 

And,  no  doubt,  it  was  not.  Rosa  pitied  Christophe  with  all 
her  heart.  She  tried  hard  to  see  Sabine  through  Christophe's 
eyes,  and  through  him  to  love  her:  she  was  angry  with  herself 
for  all  the  unkind  feelings  that  she  had  ever  had  towards  her, 
and  asked  her  pardon  in  her  prayers  at  night.  But  could  she 
forget  that  she  was  alive,  that  she  was  seeing  Christophe  every 
moment  of  the  day,  that  she  loved  him,  that  she  was  no  longer 
afraid  of  the  other,  that  the  other  was  gone,  that  her  memory 
would  also  fade  away  in  its  turn,  that  she  was  left  alone,  that 
one  day  perhaps  .  .  .?  In  the  midst  of  her  sorrow,,  and  the 
sorrow  of  her  friend  more  hers  than  her  own.  could  she  repress 
a  glad  impulse,  an  unreasoning  hope?  For  that  too  she  was 
angry  with  herself.  It  was  only  a  Hash.  It  was  enough.  He 
,^aw  it.  He  threw  her  a  glance  which  froze  her  heart:  she  read 
in  it  hateful  thoughts:  he  hated  her  for  being  alive  while  the 
other  was  dead. 

The  .miller  brought  his  cart  for  Sabine's  little1  furniture. 
Coming  back  from  a  lesson  Christophe  saw  heaped  up  before 
the  door  in  the  street  the  bed,  the  cupboard,  the  mattress,  the 
linen,  all  that  she  had  possessed,  all  that  was  left  of  her.  It 
was  a  dreadful  sight  to  him.  He  rushed  past  it.  In  the  door- 
way he  bumped  into  Bertold.  wiio  stopped  him. 

"  Ah !   my   dear  sir/'   he   said,   shaking  his   hand  effusively, 


YOUTH  297 

"  All !  who  would  have  thought  it  when  we  were  together  ? 
How  happy  we  were!  And  jet  it  was  because  of  that  day, 
because  of  that  cursed  row  on  the  water,  that  she  fell  ill.  Oh! 
well.  It  is  no  use  complaining!  She  is  dead.  Jt  will  be  our 
turn  next.  That  is  life.  .  .  .  And  how  are  you?  I'm  very  well, 
thank  God !  " 

He  was  red  in  the  face,  sweating,  and  smelled  of  wine.  The 
idea  that  he  was  her  brother,  that  he  had  rights  in  her  memory, 
hurt  Christophe.  It  offended  him  to  hear  this  man  talking 
of  his  beloved.  The  miller  on  the  contrary  was  glad  to  iind 
a  friend  with  whom  he  could  talk  of  Sabine:  he  did  not  under- 
stand Christophers  coldness.  He  had  no  idea  of  all  the  sorrow 
that  his  presence,  the  sudden  calling  to  mind  of  the  day  at 
his  farm,  the  happy  memories  that  he  recalled  so  blunderingly, 
the  poor  relics  of  Sabine,  heaped  upon  the  ground,  which  he 
kicked  as  he  talked,  set  stirring  in  Christophers  soul.  He  made 
some  excuse  for  stopping  Bertold's  tongue.  He  went  up  the 
steps:  but  the  other  clung  to  him,  stopped  him.  and  went  on 
with  his  harangue.  At  last  when  the  miller  took  to  telling  him 
of  Sabine's  illness,  with  that  strange  pleasure  which  certain 
people,  and  especially  the  common  people,  take  in  talking  of 
illness,  with  a  plethora  of  painful  details,  Christophe  could 
bear  it  no  longer — (he  took  a  tight  hold  of  himself  so  as  not 
to  cry  out  in  his  sorrow).  He  cut  him  short: 

"Pardon,"  he  said  curtly  and  icily,     "  I  must  leave  you." 

He  left  him  without  another  word. 

His  insensibility  revolted  the  miller.  He  had  guessed  the 
secret  affection  of  his  sister  and  Christophe.  And  that  Chris- 
tophe should  now  show  such  indifference  seemed  monstrous  to 
him:  he  thought  he  had  no  heart. 

Christophe  had  fled  to  his  room:  he  was  choking.  Tniil  the 
removal  was  over  he  never  left  his  room.  He  vo\ved  that  he 
would  never  look  out  of  the  window,  but  he  could  not  help  doing 
so:  and  hiding  in  a  corner  behind  the  curtain  he  followed  the 
departure  of  the  goods  and  chattels  of  ihe  beloved  eagerly  and 
with  profound  sorrow.  When  he  saw  them  disappearing  for- 
ever he  all  but  ran  down  to  the  street  to  cry:  "  No!  no!  Leave 
them  to  me!  Do  not  take  them  from  me!"  He  longed  to 
beg  at  least  for  some  little  thing,  only  one  little  thing,  so  that 


298  JEAN-CHEISTOPHE 

she  should  not  be  altogether  taken  from  him.  But  how  could 
he  ask  such  a  thing  of  the  miller?  It  was  nothing  to  him. 
She  herself  had  noi  known  his  love:  how  dared  he  then  reveal 
it  to  another?.  And  besides,  if  he  had  tried  to  say  a  word  he 
would  have  burst  out  crying.  .  .  .  No.  No.  He  had  to  say 
nothing,  to  watch  all  go,  without  being  able — without  daring  to 
save  one  fragment  from  the  wreck.  .  .  . 

And  when  it  was  all  over,  when  the  house  was  empty,  when 
the  yard  gate  was  closed  after  the  miller,  when  the  wheels  of 
his  cart  moved  on,  shaking  the  windows,  when  they  were  out 
of  hearing,  he  threw  himself  on  the  floor — -not  a  tear  left  in 
him,  not  a  thought  of  suffering,  of  struggling,  frozen,  and  like 
one  dead. 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door.  He  did  not  move.  Another 
knock.  He  had  forgotten  to  lock  the  door.  Eosa  came  in.  She 
cried  out  on  seeing  him  stretched  on  the  floor  and  stopped  in 
terror.  He  raised  his  head  angrily : 

"  What  ?     What  do  you  want  ?    Leave  me !  " 

She  did  not  go :  she  stayed,  hesitating,  leaning  against  the 
door,  and  said  again: 

"Christophe.  .  .  ." 

He  got  up  in  silence:  he  was  ashamed  of  having  been  seen 
so.  He  dusted  himself  with  his  hand  and  asked  harshly : 

"  Well.     What  do  you  want  ?  " 

Eosa  said  shyly : 

"  Forgive  me  .  .  .  Christophe  ...  I  came  in  ...  I  was 
bringing  you  .  .  ." 

He  saw  that  she  had  something  in  her  hand. 

"  See,"  she  said,  holding  it  out  to  him.  "  I  asked  Bertold 
to  give  me  a  little  token  of  her.  I  thought  you  would  like 
it.  .  .  ." 

It  was  a  little  silver  mirror,  the  pocket  mirror  in  which  she 
used  to  look  at  herself  for  hours,  not  so  much  from  coquetry 
as  from  want  of  occupation.  Christophe  took  it,  took  also  the 
hand  which  held  it. 

"Oh!  Eosa!  .  .  ."  he  said. 

He  was  filled  with  her  kindness  and  the  knowledge  of  his 
own  injustice.  On  a  passionate  impulse  he  knelt  to  her  and 
kissed  her  hand. 


YOUTH  299 

"  Forgive  .  .  .  Forgive  .  .  ."  ho  said. 

Rosa  did  not  understand  at  first:  then  she  understood  only 
too  well :  she  blushed,  she  trembled,  she  began  to  weep.  She 
understood  that  he  meant: 

"  Forgive  me  if  I  am  unjust.  .  .  .  Forgive  me  if  I  do  not 
love  you.  .  .  .  Forgive  me  if  I  cannot  ...  if  I  cannot  love 
you,  if  I  can  never  love  you !  .  .  ." 

She  did  not  withdraw  her  hand  from  him :  she  knew  that 
it  was  not  herself  that  he  was  kissing.  And  with  his  cheek 
against  Rosa's  hand,  he  wept  hot  tears,  knowing  that  she  was 
reading  through  him :  there  was  sorrow  and  bitterness  in  being 
unable  to  love  her  and  making  her  suffer. 

They  stayed  so,  both  weeping,  in  the  dim  light  of  the  room. 

At  last  she  withdrew  her  hand.     He  went  on  murmuring: 

"  Forgive !  .  .  ." 

She  laid  her  hand  gently  on  his  hand.  He  rose  to  his  feet. 
They  kissed  in  silence :  they  felt  on  their  lips  the  bitter  savor 
of  their  tears. 

"  We  shall  always  be  friends,"  he  said  softly.  She  bowed  her 
head  and  left  him,  too  sad  to  speak. 

They  thought  that  the  world  is  ill  made.  The  lover  is  un- 
loved. The  beloved  does  not  love.  The  lover  who  is  loved  is 
sooner  or  later  torn  from  his  love.  .  .  .  There  is  suffering. 
There  is  the  bringing  of  suffering.  And  the  most  wretched 
is  not  always  the  one  who  suffers. 

Once  more  Christophe  took  to  avoiding  the  house.  He  could 
not  bear  it.  He  could  not  bear  to  see  the  curtainless  windows, 
the  empty  rooms. 

A  worse  sorrow  awaited  him.  Old  Euler  lost  no  time  in 
reletting  the  ground  floor.  One  day  Christophe  saw  strange 
faces  in  Sabine's  room.  Xew  lives  blotted  out  the  traces  of  the 
life  that  was  gone. 

It  became  impossible  for  him  to  stay  in  his  rooms.  He  passed 
whole  days  outside,  not  coming  back  until  nightfall,  when  it 
was  too  dark  to  see  anything.  Once  more  he  took  to  making 
expeditions  in  the  countrv.  Trresistiblv  he  was  drawn  to  Ber- 
told's  farm.  But  he  never  went  in.  dared  not  go  near  it,  wan- 
dered about  it  at  a  distance.  He  discovered  a  place  on  a  hill 


300  JKAX-CHRISTOPHE 

from  which  lie  could  see  the  house,  the  plain.,  the  river :  it  was 
thither  that  his  steps  usually  turned.  From  thence  he  could 
follow  with  his  eyes  the  ineanderings  of  the  water  down  to  the 
willow  clump  under  which  he  had  seen  the  shadow  of  death  pass 
across  Sabine's  face.  From  thence  he  could  pick  out  the  two 
windows  of  the  rooms  in  which  they  had  waited,  side  by  side, 
so  near,  so  far,  separated  by  a  door — the  door  to  eternity.  From 
thence  he  could  survey  the  cemetery.  He  had  never  been  able 
to  bring  himself  to  enter  it:  from  childhood  he  had  had  a  horror 
of  those  fields  of  decay  and  corruption,  and  refused  to  think  of 
those  whom  he  loved  in  connection  with  them.  But  from  a 
distance  and  seen  from  above,  the  little  graveyard  never  looked 
grim,  it  was  calm,  it  slept  with  the  sun.  .  .  .  Sleep !  .  .  .  She 
loved  to  sleep!  Nothing  would  disturb  her  there.  The  crowing 
cocks  answered  each  other  across  the  plains.  From  the  home- 
stead rose  the  roaring  of  the  mill,  the  clucking  of  the  poultry 
yard,  the  cries  of  children  playing.  He  could  make  out  Sabint/s 
little  girl,  he  could  see  her  running,  he  could  mark  her  laughter. 
Once  he  lay  in  wait  for  her  near  the  gate  of  the  farmyard,  in  a 
turn  of  the  sunk  road  made  by  the  walls:  he  seized  her  as 
she  passed  and  kissed  her.  The  child  was  afraid  and  began 
to  cry.  She  had  almost  forgotten  him  already.  He  asked 
her: 

"Are  you  happy  here?" 

"Yes."    Tt  is  fun.   .   .   ." 

"You   don't  want  to  come  back?" 

"No!" 

He  let  her  go.  The  child's  indifference  plunged  him  in  sorrow. 
Poor  Sabine!  .  .  .  And  yet  it  was  she,  something  of  her.  .  .  . 
So  little!  The  child  \vas  hardly  at  all  like  her  mother:  had 
lived  in  her.  but  was  not  she:  in  that  mysterious  passage  through 
her  being  the  child  had  hardly  retained  more  than  the  faintest 
perfume  of  the  creature  who  was  gone:  inflections  of  her  voice, 
a  pursing  of  the  lips,  a  trick  of  bending  the  head.  The  rest 
of  her  was  another  being  altogether:  and  that  being  mingled 
with  the  being  of  Sabine  was  repulsive  to  Christophe  though 
he  never  admitted  it  to  himself. 

It  was  only  in  himself  thai  dhristophc  could  find  the  image 
of  Sabine.  It  followed  him  everywhere,  hovering  above  him: 


YOUTH  301 

but  he  only  felt  himself  really  to  be  with  her  when  he  was 
alone.  Xowherc  was  she  nearer  to  him  than  in  this  refuge, 
on  the  hill,  far  from  strange  eyes,  in  the  midst  of  the  country 
that  was  so  full  of  the  memory  of  her.  He  would  go  miles  to  it, 
climbing  at  a  run,  his  heart  beating  as  though  he  were  going  to 
a  meeting  with  her:  and  so  it  was  indeed.  When  he  reached 
it  he  would  lie  on  the  ground — the  same  earth  in  which  //a/- 
body was  laid:  he  would  close  his  eyes:  and  the  would  come  to 
him.  He  could  not  see  her  face :  he  could  not  hear  her  voice  • 
he  had  no  need:  she  entered  into  him,  held  him,  he  possessed 
her  utterly.  In  this  state  of  passionate  hallucination  he  would 
lose  the  power  of  thought,  he  would  be  unconscious  of  what 
was  happening:  he  was  unconscious  of  everything  save  that  he 
was  with  her. 

That  state  of  things  did  not  last  long. — To  tell  the  truth 
he  was  only  once  altogether  sincere.  From  the  day  following, 
his  will  had  its  share  in  the  proceedings.  And  from  that  time 
on  Christophe  tried  in  vain  to  bring  it  back  to  life.  It  was 
only  then  that  he  thought  of  evoking  in  himself  the  face  and 
form  of  Sabine:  until  then  he  had  never  thought  of  it.  He 
succeeded  spasmodically  and  he  was  fired  by  it.  But  it  was  only 
at  the  cost  of  hours  of  waiting  and  of  darkness. 

"  Poor  Sabine !  "  he  would  think.  '"  They  have  all  forgotten 
you.  There  is  only  I  who  love  you,  who  keep  your  memory 
alive  forever.  Oh,  my  treasure,  my  precious !  I  have  you,  1 
hold  you,  I  will  never  let  you  go !  .  .  ." 

He  spoke  these  words  because  already  she  was  escaping  him: 
she  was  slipping  from  his  thoughts  like  water  through  his 
fingers.  He  would  return  again  and  again,  faithful  to  the  tryst. 
He  wished  to  think  of  her  and  he  would  close  iiis  eyes.  P>ut 
after  half  an  hour,  or  an  hour,  or  sometimes  two  hours,  he 
would  begin  to  sec  that  he  had  been  thinking  of  nothing.  The 
sounds  of  the  valley,  the  roar  of  the  wind,  the  little  bells  of  tin- 
two  goats  browsing  on  the  bill,  the  noise  of  the  wind  in  the 
little  slender  trees  under  which  he  lav.  were  sucked  up  by  his 
thoughts  soft  and  porous  like  a  sponge.  He  was  angry  with 
his  thoughts:  tliev  tried  to  obey  him,  and  to  lix  the  vanished 
image  to  which  he  was  striving  to  attach  his  life:  but  his 
thoughts  fell  back  weary  and  chastened  and  once  more  with  a 


302  JEAX-CHRISTOPHE 

sigh  of  comfort  abandoned  themselves  to  the  listless  stream  of 
sensations. 

He  shook  off  his  torpor.  He  strode  through  the  country 
hither  and  thither  seeking  Sabine.  He  sought  her  in  the  mirror 
that  once  had  held  her  smile.  He  sought  her  by  the  river  bank 
where  her  hands  had  dipped  in  the  water.  But  the  mirror  and 
the  water  gave  him  only  the  reflection  of  himself.  The  excite- 
ment of  walking,  the  fresh  air,  the  beating  of  his  own  healthy 
blood  awoke  music  in  him  once  more.  He  wished  to  find 
change. 

"  Oh !  Sabine !  .  .  ."  he  sighed. 

He  dedicated  his  songs  to  her:  he  strove  to  call  her  to  life  in 
his  music,  his  love,  and  his  sorrow.  ...  In  vain:  love  and  sor- 
row came  to  life  surely :  but  poor  Sabine  had  no  share  in  them. 
Love  and  sorrow  looked  towards  the  future,  not  towards  the  past. 
Christophe  was  powerless  against  his  youth.  The  sap  of  life 
swelled  up  again  in  him  with  new  vigor.  His  grief,  his  regrets, 
his  chaste  and  ardent  love,  his  baffled  desires,  heightened  the 
fever  that  was  in  him.  In  spite  of  his  sorrow,  his  heart  beat 
in  lively,  sturdy  rhythm :  wild  songs  leaped  forth  in  mad,  in- 
toxicated strains :  everything  in  him  hymned  life  and  even  sad- 
ness took  on  a  festival  shape.  Christophe  was  too  frank  to 
persist  in  self-deception:  and  be  despised  himself.  But  life 
swept  him  headlong:  and  in  his  sadness,  with  death  in  his  heart, 
and  life  in  all  his  limbs,  he  abandoned  himself  to  the  forces 
newborn  in  him.  to  the  absurd,  delicious  joy  of  living,  which 
|  grief,  pity,  despair,  the  aching  wound  of  an  irreparable  loss, 
all  the  torment  of  death,  can  only  sharpen  and  kindle  into  being 
in  the  strong,  as  they  rowel  their  sides  with  furious  spur. 

And  Ohristophe  knew  that,  in  himself,  in  the  secret  hidden 
depths  of  his  soul,  he  had  an  inaccessible  and  inviolable  sanc- 
tuary where  lay  the  shadow  of  Sabine.  That  the  flood  of  life 
could  not  bear  away.  .  .  .  Each  of  us  hears  in  his  soul  as  it 
were  a  little  graveyard  of  those  whom  he  has  loved.  They  sleep 
there,  through  the  years,  untroubled.  But  a  day  eometh. — this 
we  know. — when  the  graves  shall  reopen.  The  dead  issue  from 
the  tomb  and  smile  with  their  pale  lips — loving,  always — on 
the  beloved,  and  the  lover,  in  whose  breast  their  memory  dwells, 
like  the  child  sleeping  in  the  mother's  womb. 


YOUTH  30,3 

III 

ADA 

AFTER  the  wet  summer  the  autumn  was  radiant.  In  the 
orchards  the  trees  were  weighed  down  with  fruit.  The  red 
apples  shone  like  billiard  balls.  Already  some  of  the  trees  were 
taking  on  their  brilliant  garb  of  the  falling  year:  flame  color, 
fruit  color,  color  of  ripe  melon,  of  oranges  and  lemons,  of  good 
cooking,  and  fried  dishes.  Misty  lights  glowed  through  the 
woods:  and  from  the  meadows  there  rose  the  little  pink  flames 
of  the  saffron. 

He  was  going  down  a  hill.  It  was  a  Sunday  afternoon.  He 
was  striding,  almost  running,  gaining  speed  do\vn  the  slope. 
He  was  singing  a  phrase,  the  rhythm  of  which  had  been  ob- 
sessing him  all  through  his  walk.  He  was  red.  disheveled  :  he 
was  walking,  swinging  his  arms,  and  rolling  his  eyes  like  a 
madman,  when  as  he  turned  a  bend  in  the  road  he  came,  suddenly 
on  a  fair  girl  perched  on  a  wall  tugging  witht  all  her  might  at 
a  branch  of  a  tree  from  which  she  was  greedily  plucking  and 
eating  purple  plums.  Their  astonishment  was  mutual.  She 
looked  at  him,  stared,  with  her  mouth  full.  Then  she  burst 
out  laughing.  So  did  he.  She  was  good  to  see,  with  her  round 
face  framed  in  fair  curly  hair,  which  was  like  a  sunlit  cloud 
about  her,  her  full  pink  checks,  her  wide  blue  eyes,  her  rather 
large  nose,  impertinently  turned  up,  her  little  red  mouth  show- 
ing white  teeth— the  canine  little,  strong,  and  projecting — her 
plump  chin,  and  her  full  figure,  large  and  plump,  well  built, 
solidly  put  together.  He  called  out: 

"Good  eating!"  And  was  for  going  on  his  road.  But  she 
called  to  him : 

"Sir!  Sir!  Will  you  be  very  nice?  Help  me  to  tret  down. 
I  can't  .  .  ." 

He  returned  and  asked  her  how  she  had  climbed  up. 

"  With  my  hands  and  feet.  .  .  .  Tt  is  easy  enough  to  get 
up.  .  .  ." 

"  Especially  when  there  are  tempting  plums  hanging  above 
your  head.  .  . 


304  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

"  Yes.  .  .  .  But  when  you  have  eaten  your  courage  goes 
You  can't  find  the  way  to  get  flown." 

He  looked  at  her  on  her  perch.     He  said  : 

"You  are  all  right  there.  Stay  there  quietly.  I'll  come  and 
see  you  to-morrow.  (iood-night !  " 

But  he  did  uot  budge,  and  stood  beneath  her.  She  pretended 
to  be  afraid,  and  begged  him  with  little  glances  not  to  leave 
her.  They  stayed  looking  at  each  other  and  laughing.  She 
showed  him  the  branch  to  which  she  was  clinging  and  asked: 

"Would  yon  like  some?" 

Respect  for  property  had  not  developed  in  Christophe  since 
the  days  of  his  expeditions  with  Otto:  he  accepted  without 
hesitation.  She  amused  herself  with  pelting  him  with  plums. 
When  he  had  ea-ten  she  said  : 

"Xow!  .  .  ." 

He  took  a  wicked  pleasure  in  keeping  her  waiting.  She  grew 
impatient  on  her  wall.  At  last  he  said: 

"Come,  then!"  and  held  his  hand  up  to  her. 

But  ju^t  as  she  was  about  to  jump  down  she  thought  a 
moment. 

"Wait!     We  must  make  provision  first!" 

She  gathered  the  finest  plums  within  reach  and  filled  the 
front  of  her  blouse  with  them. 

"  Carefully  !     Don't  crush  them  !  " 

He  felt  almost  inclined  to  do  so. 

She  lowered  herself  from  the  wall  and  jumped  into  his  arms. 
Although  he  was  sturdy  he  bent  under  her  weight  and  all  but 
dragged  her  down.  Thev  were  of  the  same  height.  Their 
faces  came  together.  He  kissed  her  lips,  moist  and  sweet  with 
the  juice  of  ihe  plums:  and  she  returned  his  kiss  without  more 
ceremony. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  he  asked. 

"  I  don't  know/' 

"Are  you  out  alone?" 

"  Xo.  I  am  with  friends.  But  T  have  lost  them.  ...  Hi ! 
Hi!"  she  called  suddenly  as  loudlv  as  she  could. 

Xo  answer. 

She  did  not  bother  about  it  any  more.  They  began  to  walk, 
at  random,  following  their  noses. 


YOUTH  305 

"  And  you  .  .  .  where  are  you  going  ?  "  said  she. 

"  I  don't  know,  either." 

"  Good.     We'll  go  together." 

She  took  some  plums  from  her  gaping  blouse  and  began  to 
munch  them. 

"You'll  make  yourself  sick,"  lie  said. 

"  Not  1 !     I've  been  eating  them  all  day." 

Through  the  gap  in  her  blouse  he  saw  the  white  of  her 
chemise. 

"  They  are  all  warm  now,"  she  said. 

"  Let  "me  see !  " 

She  held  him  one  and  laughed.  lie  ate  it.  She  watched 
him  out  of  the  corner  of  her  eye  as  she  sucked  at  the  fruit 
like  a  child.  He  did  not  know  how  the  adventure  would  end. 
It  is  probable  that  she  at  least  had  some  suspicion.  She  waited. 

"  Hi !  Hi !  "    Voices  in  the  woods. 

"  Hi !  Hi !  "  she  answered.  "  Ah  !  There  they  are  !  "  she 
said  to  Christophe.  "  Not  a  bad  thing,  either !  " 

But  on  the  contrary  she  was  thinking  that  it  was  rather  a 
pity.  But  speech  was  not  given  to  woman  for  her  to  sav  what 
she  is  thinking.  .  .  .  Thank  God  !  for  there  would  be  an  end  of 
morality  on  earth.  .  .  . 

The  voices  came  near.  Her  friends  were  near  the  road.  She 
leaped  the  ditch,  climbed  the  hedge,  and  hid  behind  the  trees, 
lie  watched  her  in  amazement.  She  signed  to  him  imperiously 
to  come  to  her.  He  followed  her.  She  plunged  into  the  depths 
of  the  wood. 

"Hi!  Hi!"  she  called  once  more  when  they  had  gone  some 
distance.  "You  see,  they  must  look  for  me!"  she  explained 
to  Christophe. 

Her  friends  had  stopped  on  the  road  and  were  listening  for 
her  voice  to  mark  where  it  came  from.  They  answered  her 
and  in  their  turn  entered  the  woods.  But  she  did  m>t  wait  for 
them.  She  turned  about  on  right  and  on  left.  They  bawled 
loudly  after  her.  She  let  them,  and  then  went  and  called  in 
the  opposite  direction.  At  last  they  wearied  of  it,  and,  making 
sure  that  the  best,  way  of  making  her  come  was  to  give  up 
seeking  her,  they  called  : 

"Good-bye!"  and  went  oil'  singing. 


300  JEAN-CHEISTOPHE 

She  was  furious  that  they  should  not  have  bothered  about 
her  any  more  than  that.  She  had  tried  to  be  rid  of  them :  but 
she  had  not  counted  on  their  going  off  so  easily.  Christophe 
looked  rather  foolish :  this  game  of  hide-and-seek  with  a  girl 
whom  he  did  not  know  did  not  exactly  enthrall  him :  and  he 
had  no  thought  of  taking  advantage  of  their  solitude.  Xor 
did  she  think  of  it:  in  her  annoyance  she  forgot  Chris- 
tophe. 

"  Oh !  It's  too  much,"  she  said,  thumping  her  hands  together. 
"They  have  left  me." 

"  But,"  said  Christophe,  "  you  wanted  them  to." 

"  Not  at  all." 

"  You  ran  away." 

"  If  I  ran  away  from  them  that  is  my  affair,  not  theirs. 
They  ought  to  look  for  me.  What  if  I  were  lost?  .  .  ." 

Already  she  was  beginning  to  be  sorry  for  herself  because 
of  what  might  have  happened  if  ...  if  the  opposite  of  what 
actually  had  occurred  had  come  about. 

"  Oh !  "  she  said.  "  I'll  shake  them  !  "  She  turned  back  and 
strode  off. 

As  she  went  she  remembered  Christophe  and  looked  at  him 
once  more. — But  it  was  too  late.  She  began  to  laugh.  The 
little  demon  which  had  been  in  her  the  moment  before  was 
gone.  While  she  was  waiting  for  another  to  come  she  saw 
Christophe  with  the  eyes  of  indifference.  And  then,  she  was 
hungry.  Her  stomach  was  reminding  her  that  it  was  supper- 
time:  she  was  in  a  hurry  to  rejoin  her  friends  at  the  inn.  She 
took  Christophe's  arm,  leaned  on  it  with  all  her  weight,  groaned, 
and  said  that  she  was  exhausted.  That  did  not  keep  her  from 
dragging  Christophe  down  a  slope,  running,  and  shouting,  and 
laughing  like  a  mad  thing. 

They  talked.  She  learned  who  he  was:  she  did  not  know 
his  name,  and  seemed  not  to  be  greatly  impressed  by  his  title 
of  musician.  He  learned  that  she  was  a  shop-girl  from  a  dress- 
maker's in  the  Kaiser strasse  (the  most  fashionable  street  in  the 
town)  :  her  name  was  Adelheid — to  friends,  Ada.  Her  com- 
panions on  the  excursion  were  one  of  her  friends,  who  worked 
at  the  same  place  as  herself,  and  two  nice  young  men,  a  clerk 
at  Weiller's  bank,  and  a  clerk  from  a  big  linen-draper's.  They 


YOUTH  307 

were  turning  their  Sunday  to  account:  they  had  decided  to 
dine  at  the  Brochet  inn,  from  which  there  is  a  fine  view  over 
the  Rhine,  and  then  to  return  by  boat. 

The  others  had  already  established  themselves  at  the  inn 
when  they  arrived.  Ada  made  a  scene  with  her  friends :  she 
complained  of  their  cowardly  desertion  and  presented  Chris- 
tophe  as  her  savior.  They  did  not  listen  to  her  complaints: 
but  they  knew  Christophe,  the  bank-clerk  by  reputation,  the 
clerk  from  having  heard  some  of  his  compositions — (he  thought 
it  a  good  idea  to  hum  an  air  from  one  of  them  immediately 
afterwards) — and  the  respect  which  they  showed  him  made  an 
impression  on  Ada,  the  more  so  as  Myrrha,  the  other  young 
woman — (her  real  name  was  Hansi  or  Johanna) — a  brunette 
with  blinking  eyes,  bumpy  forehead,  hair  screwed  back,  Chinese 
face,  a  little  too  animated,  but  clever  and  not  without  charm, 
in  spite  of  her  goat-like  head  and  her  oily  golden-yellow 
complexion, — at  once  began  to  make  advances  to  their  II of 
Musicus.  They  begged  him  to  be  so  good  as  to  honor  their 
repast  with  his  presence. 

Never  had  he  been  in  such  high  feather :  for  he  was  over- 
whelmed with  attentions,  and  the  two  women,  like  good  friends 
as  they  were,  tried  each  to  rob  the  other  of  him.  Both  courted 
him :  Myrrha  with  ceremonious  manners,  sly  looks,  as  she  rubbed 
her  leg  against  his  under  the  table — Ada,  openly  making  play 
with  her  fine  eyes,  her  pretty  mouth,  and  all  the  seductive 
resources  at  her  command.  Such  coquetry  in  its  almost  coarse- 
ness incommoded  and  distressed  Christophe.  These  two  bold 
young  women  were  a  change  from  the  unkindly  faces  he  was 
accustomed  to  at  home.  Myrrha  interested  him,  he  guessed  her 
to  be  more  intelligent  than  Ada:  but  her  obsequious  manners 
and  her  ambiguous  smile  were  curiously  attractive  and  repulsive 
to  him  at  the  same  time.  She  could  do  nothing  against  Ada's 
radiance  of  life  and  pleasure:  and  she  was  aware  of  it.  When 
she  saw  that  she  had  lost  the  bout,  she  abandoned  the  elTort. 
turned  in  upon  herself,  went  on  smiling,  and  patiently  waited 
for  her  day  to  come.  Ada,  seeing  herself  mistress  of  the  field, 
did  not  seek  to  push  forward  the  advantage  she  had  gained  : 
what  she  had  done  had  been  mainly  to  despite  her  friend :  she 
had  succeeded,  she  was  satisfied.  But  she  had  been  caught  in 


308  JEAX-CHIUSTOPHE 

her  own  game.  She  felt  as  she  looked  into  Christophe's  eyes 
the  passion  that  she  had  kindled  in  him:  and  that  same  passion 
began  to  awake  in  her.  She  was  silent:  she  loft  her  vulgar 
teasing:  they  looked  at  each  other  in  silence:  on  their  lips  they 
had  the  savor  of  their  kiss.  From  time  to  time  hy  fits  and 
starts  they  joined  vociferously  in  the  jokes' of  the  others:  then 
they  relapsed  into  silence,  stealing  glances  at  each  other.  At 
last  they  did  not  even  look  at  each  other,  as  though  they  were 
afraid  of  hetraying  themselves.  Absorbed  in  themselves  they 
brooded  over  their  desire. 

When  the  meal  was  o\er  they  got. ready  to  go.  They  had 
to  go  a  mile  and  a  half  through  the  woods  to  reach  the  pier. 
Ada  got  up  first:  Christophe  followed  her.  They  waited  on 
the  steps  until  the  others  were  ready:  without  speaking,  side 
by  side,  in  the  thick  mist  that  was  hardly  at  all  lit  up  bv  tho 
single  lamp  hanging  by  the  inn  door.— Myrrha  was  dawdling 
by  the  mirror. 

Ada  took  Christophe's  hand  and  led  him  along  the  house  to- 
wards the  garden  into  the  darkness.  Under  a  balcony  from 
which  hung  a  curtain  of  vines  they  hid.  All  about  them  was 
dense  darkness.  They  could  not  even  see  each  other.  The  wind 
stirred  the  tops  of  the  pines,  lie  felt  Ada's  warm  lingers  en- 
twined in  his  and  the  sweet  scent  of  a  heliotrope  flower  that 
she  had  at  her  breast. 

Suddenly  she  dragged  him  to  her:  Christophe's  lips  found 
Ada's  hair,  wet  with  the  mist,  and  kissed  her  eyes,  her  eye- 
brows, her  nose,  her  cheeks,  the  corners  of  her  mouth,  seeking 
her  lips,  and  finding  them,  staying  pressed  to  them. 

The  others  had  gone.     Thev  called: 

"Ada!  .  .  ." 

They  did  not  stir,  they  hardly  breathed,  pressed  close  to  each 
other,  lips  and  bodies. 

They  heard  Myrrha  : 

"'They  have  gone  on/' 

The  footsteps  of  their  companions  died  away  in  the  night. 
They  held  each  other  closer,  in  silence,  stifling  on  their  lips  a 
passionate  murmuring. 

fn  the  distance  a  village  clock  rang  out.  They  broke  apart. 
They  had  to  run  to  the  pier.  Without  a  word  they  set  out, 


YOUTH  30!) 

arms  and  hands  entwined,  keeping  step — a  little  quick,  (inn  step, 
like  hers.  The  road  was  deserted:  no  creature  \v;is  abroad: 
they  could  not  see  ten  yards  ahead  of  them  :  they  went,  serene 
and  sure,  into  the  beloved  night.  They  never  stumbled  over 
the  pebbles  on  the  road.  As  they  were  late  they  took  a  short 
cut.  The  path  led  for  some  way  down  through  vines  and  then 
began  to  ascend  and  wind  up  the  side  of  the  hill.  Through 
the  mist  they  could  hear  the  roar  of  the  river  and  the  heavy 
paddles  of  the  steamer  approaching.  They  left  the  road  and 
ran  across  the  fields.  At  last  they  found  themselves  on  the 
bank  of  the  Rhine  but  still  far  from  the  pier.  Their  serenity 
was  not  disturbed.  Ada  had  forgotten  her  fatigue  of  the  even- 
ing. It  seemed  to  them  that  they  could  have  walked  all  night 
like  that,  on  the  silent  grass,  in  the  hovering  mists,  that  grew 
wetter  and  more  dense  along  the  river  that  was  wrapped  in  a 
whiteness  as  of  the  moon.  The  steamer's  siren  hooted:  the 
invisible  monster  plunged  heavily  away  and  away.  They  said, 
laughing : 

"  We  will  take  the  next." 

By  the  edge  of  the  river,  soft  lapping  waves  broke  at  their 
feet.  At  the  landing  stage  they  were  told: 

"  The  last  boat  has  just  gone." 

Christophers  heart  thumped.  Ada's  hand  grasped  his  arm 
more  tightly. 

"  But,"  she  said,  '"'  there  will  be  another  one  to-morrow." 

A  few  yards  away  in  a  halo  of  mist  was  the  jlickering  light 
of  a  lamp  hung  on  a  post  on  a  terrace  by  the  river.  A  little 
farther  on  were  a  few  lighted  windows — a  little  inn. 

They  went  into  the  tiny  garden.  The'  sand  ground  under 
their  feet.  They  groped  their  way  to  the  steps.  When  they 
entered,  the  lights  were  being  put  out.  Ada.  on  Christophe's 
arm,  asked  for  a  room.  The  room  to  which  thev  were  led 
opened  on  to  the  little  garden.  Christophe  leaned  out  of  the 
window  and  saw  the  phosphorescent  flow  of  the  river,  and  the 
shade  of  the  lamp  on  the  glass  of  which  were  crushed  mosquitoes 
with  large  wings.  The  door  \VMS  closed.  Ada  was  -landing  by 
the  bed  and  smiling,  lie  dared  not  look  at  her.  She  did  not 
look  at  him:  hut  through  her  lashes  she  followed  Christophe's 
every  movement.  The  floor  creaked  with  every  step.  They 


310  JEAN-CHKISTOPHE 

could  hoar  the  least  noise  in  the  house.     They  sat  on  the  bed 
and  embraced  in  silence. 

The  flickering  light  of  the  garden  is  dead.     All  is  dead.  .  .  . 

Night.  .  .  .  The  abyss.  .  .  .  Neither  light  nor  consciousness. 
.  .  .  Being.  The  obscure,  devouring  forces  of  Being.  Joy  all- 
powerful.  Joy  rending.  Joy  which  sucks  down  the  human 
creature  as  the  void  a  stone.  The  sprout  of  desire  sucking  up 
thought.  The  absurd  delicious  la\\  of  the  blind  intoxicated 
worlds  which  roll  at  night.  .  .  . 

...  A  night  which  is  many  nights,  hours  that  are  centuries,, 
records  which  arc  death.  .  .  .  Dreams  shared,  words  spoken 
with  eyes  closed,  tears  and  laughter,  the  happiness  of  loving  in 
the  voice,  of  sharing  the  nothingness  of  sleep,  the  swiftly  pass- 
ing images  flouting  in  the  brain,  the  hallucinations  of  the  roar- 
ing night.  .  .  .  The  Ehine  laps  in  a  little  creek  by  the  house: 
in  the  distance  his  waters  over  the  dams  and  breakwaters  make 
a  sound  as  of  a  gentle  rain  falling  on  sand.  The  hull  of  the 
boat  cracks  and  groans -under  the  weight  of  water.  The  chain 
by  which  it  is  tied  sags  and  grows  taut  with  a  rusty  clattering. 
The  voice  of  the  river  rises:  it  fills  the  room.  The  bed  is  like 
a  boat.  They  are  swept  along  side  by  side  by  a  giddy  current- 
hung  in  mid-air  like  a  soaring  bird.  The  night  grows  ever  more 
dark,  the  void  more  empty.  Ada  weeps,  Christophe  loses  con- 
sciousness :  both  are  swept  down  under  the  flowing  waters  of  the 
night.  .  .  . 

Night.  .  .  .  Death.  .  .  .  Why  wake  to  life  again?  .  .  . 

The  light  of  the  dawning  day  peeps  through  the  dripping 
panes.  The  spark  of  life  glows  once  more  in  their  languorous 
bodies,  lie  awakes.  Ada's  eyes  are  looking  at  him.  A  whole 
life  passes  in  a  few  moments :  days  of  sin,  greatness,  and 
peace.  .  .  . 

"Where  am  1?  And  am  T  two?  Do  I  still  exist?  I  am  no 
longer  conscious  of  being.  All  about  me  is  the  infinite:  I  have 
the  soul  of  a  statue,  with  large  tranquil  eyes,  filled  with  Olym- 
pian peace.  .  .  ." 

They  fall  back  into  the  world  of  sleep.  And  the  familiar 
sounds  of  the  dawn,  the  distant  bells,  a  passing  boat,  oars 
dripping  water,  footsteps  on  the  road,  all  caress  without  dis- 


YOUTH  311 

turbing  their  happy  sleep,  reminding  them  that  they  are  alive, 
and  making  them  delight  in  the  savor  of  their  happiness.  .  .  . 

The  puffing  of  the  steamer  outside  the  window  brought  C'hris- 
tophe  from  his  torpor.  They  had  agreed  to  leave  at  seven  so 
as  to  return  to  the  town  in  time  for  their  usual  occupations. 
He  whispered : 

"Do  you  hear?" 

She  did  not  open  her  eyes;  she  smiled,  she  put  out  her  lips, 
she  tried  to  kiss  him  and  then  let  her  head  fall  back  on  his 
shoulder.  .  .  .  Through  the  window  panes  he  saw  the  funnel 
of  the  steamer  slip  by  against  the  sky,  he  saw  the  empty  deck, 
and  clouds  of  smoke.  Once  more  he  slipped  -  into  dreami- 
ness. .  .  . 

An  hour  passed  without  his  knowing  it.  He  heard  it  strike 
and  started  in  astonishment. 

"  Ada  !  .  .  ."  he  whispered  to  the  girl.  "  Ada !  "  he  said 
again.  "  It's  eight  o'clock." 

Her  eyes  were  still  closed :  she  frowned  and  pouted  pettishly. 

"  Oh !  let  me  sleep !  "  she  said. 

She  sighed  wearily  and  turned  her  back  on  him  and  went  to 
sleep  once  more. 

He  began  to  dream.  His  blood  ran  bravely,  calmly  through 
him.  His  limpid  senses  received  the  smallest  impressions  simply 
and  freshly.  He  rejoiced  in  his  strength  and  youth.  Unwit- 
tingly he  was  proud  of  being  a  man.  He  smiled  in  his  happi- 
ness, and  felt  himself  alone:  alone  as  he  had  always  been,  more 
lonely  even  but  without  sadness,  in  a  divine  solitude.  Xo  more 
fever.  No  more  shadows.  Nature  could  freely  cast  her  reflec- 
tion upon  his  soul  in  its  serenity.  Lying  on  his  back,  facing 
the  window,  his  eyes  gazing  deep  into  the  daxzling  air  with  its 
luminous  mists,  he  smiled : 

"  How  good  it  is  to  live !  .  .  ." 

To  live!  ...  A  boat  passed.  .  .  .  The  thought  suddenly  of 
those  who  were  no  longer  alive,  of  a  boat  gone  by  on  which 
they  were  together:  he — she.  .  .  .  She?  .  .  .  Xot  that  one, 
sleeping  by  his  side. — She.  the  onlv  she,  the  beloved,  the  poor 
little  woman  who  was  dead. — But  is  it  thai  one?  How  came 
she  there?  How  did  thev  come  to  this  room?  He  looks  at 


312  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

her,  hfe  does  not  know  her :  she  is  a  stranger  to  him :  yesterday 
morning  she  did  not  exist  for  him.  What  does  he  know  of  her? 
• — He  knows  that  she  is  not  clever,  lie  knows  that  she  is  not 
good.  He  knows  that  she  is  not  even  beautiful  with  her  face 
spiritless  and  bloated  with  sleep,  her  low  forehead,  her  mouth 
open  in  breathing,  her  swollen  dried  lips  pouting  like  a  fish. 
'  He  knows  that  he  does  not  love  her.  And  he  is  filled  with  a 
bitter  sorrow  when  he  thinks  that  he  kissed  those  strange  lips, 
in  the  first  .moment  with  her,  that  he  has  taken  this  beautiful 
body  for  which  he  cares  nothing  on  the  first  night  of  their  meet- 
ing,— and  that  she  whom  he  loved,  he  watched  her  live  and  die 
by  his  side  and  never  dared  touch  her  hair  with  his  lips,  that 
he  will  never  know  the  perfume  of  her  being.  Xothing  more. 
All  is  crumbled  away.  The  earth  has  taken  all  from  him.  And 
he  never  defended  what  was  his.  .  .  . 

And  while  he  leaned  over  the  innocent  sleeper  and  scanned 
her  face,  and  looked  at  her  with  eyes  of  unkindiiess,  she  felt 
his  eyes  upon  her.  Uneasy  under  his  scrutiny  she  made  a  great 
effort  to  raise  her  heavy  lids  and  to  smile :  and  she  said,  stam- 
mering a  little  like  a  waking  child : 

"  Don't  look  at  me.     I'm  ugly.  .  .  ." 

She  fell  back  at  once,  weighed  down  with  sleep,  smiled  once 
more,  murmured. 

"  Oh !  I'm  so  ...  so  sleepy !  .  .  ."  and  went  off  again  into 
her  dreams. 

He  could  not  help  laughing:  he  kissed  her  childish  lips  more 
tenderly.  He  watched  the  girl  sleeping  for  a  moment  longer, 
and  got  up  quietly.  She  gave  a  comfortable  sigh  when  he  was 
gone.  He  tried  not  to  wake  her  as  he  dressed,  though  there  was 
no  danger  of  that:  and  when  he  had  done  he  sat  in  the  chair 
near  the  window  and  watched  the  steaming  smoking  river 
which  looked  as  though  it  were  covered  with  ice:  and  he  fell  into 
a  brown  study  in  which  there  hovered  music,  pastoral,  melan- 
choly. 

From  time  to  time  she  half  opened  her  eyes  and  looked  at 
him  vaguely,  took  a  second  or  two,  smiled  at  him,  and  passed 
from  one  sleep  to  another.  She  asked  him  the  time. 

"  A  quarter  to  nine." 

Half  asleep  she  pondered: 


YOUTH  313 

"  What !     Can  it  be  a  quarter  to  nine  ?  " 

At  half-past  nine  she  stretched,  sighed,  and  said  that  she  was 
going  to  get  up. 

It  was  ten  o'clock  before  she  stirred.  She  was  petu- 
lant. 

"  Striking  again !  .  .  .  The  clock  is  fast !  .  .  ."  He  laughed 
and  went  and  sat  on  the  bed  by  her  side.  She  put  her  arms 
round  his  neck  and  told  him  her  dreams.  He  did  not  listen 
very  attentively  and  interrupted  her  with  little  love  words.  But 
she  made  him  be  silent  and  went  on  very  seriously,  as  though 
she  were  telling  something  of  the  highest  importance : 

"  She  was  at  dinner :  the  Grand  Duke  was  there :  Myrrha  was 
a  Newfoundland  dog.  .  .  .  Xo,  a  frizzy  sheep  who  waited  at 
table.  .  .  .  Ada  had  discovered  a  method  of  rising  from  the 
earth,  of  walking,  dancing,  and  lying  down  in  the  air.  You 
see  it  was  quite  simple:  you  had  only  to  do  .  .  thus  .  .  . 
thus  .  .  .  and  it  was  done.  .  .  ." 

Christophe  laughed  at  her.  She  laughed  too,  though  a  little 
ruffled  at  his  laughing.  She  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"  All !  you  don't  understand !  .  .  ." 

They  breakfasted  on  the  bed  from  the  same  cup,  with  the 
same  spoon. 

At  last  she  got  up :  she  threw  off  the  bedclothes  and  slipped 
down  from  the  bed.  Then  she  sat  down  to  recover  her  breath 
and  looked  at  her  feet.  Finally  she  clapped  her  hands  and 
told  him  to  go  out:  and  as  he  was  in  no  hurry  about  it  she 
took  him  by  the  shoulders  and  thrust  him  out  of  the  door  and 
then  locked  it. 

After  she  had  dawdled,  looked  over  and  stretched  each  of 
her  handsome  limbs,  she  sang,  as  she  washed,  a  sentimental  Lied 
in  fourteen  couplets,  threw  water  at  Christophe's  face — ho  was 
outside  drumming  on  the  window — and  as  they  left  she  plucked 
the  last  rose  in  the  garden  and  then  they  took  the  steamer. 
The  mist  was  not  yet  gone:  but  the  sun  shone  through  it: 
they  floated  through  a  creamy  light.  Ada  sat  at  the  stern  with 
Christophe :  she  was  sleepy  and  a  little  sulky :  she  grumbled 
about  the  light  in  her  eyes,  and  said  that  she  would  have  a 
headache  all  day.  And  as  Christophe  did  not  take  her  com- 
plaints seriously  enough  she  returned  into  morose  silence.  Her 


314  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

eyes  were  hardly  opened  and  in  them  was  the  funny  gravity  of 
children  who  have  jnst  woke  up.  But  at  the  next  landing-stage 
an  elegant  lady  came  and  sat  not  far  from  her,  and  she  grew 
lively  at  once:  she  talked  eagerly  to  Christophe  about  things 
sentimental  and  distinguished.  She  had  resumed  with  him  the 
ceremonious  Sie. 

Christophe  was  thinking  about  what  she  could  say  to  her 
employer  by  way  of  excuse  for  her  lateness.  She  was  hardly 
at  all  concerned  about  it. 

"  Bah !     It's  not  the  first  time." 

"The  first  time  that  .  .  .  what?" 

"  That  I  have  been  late,"  she  said,  put  out  by  the  question. 

He  dared  not  ask  her  what  had  caused  her  lateness. 

"What  will  you  toll  her?" 

"That  my  mother  is  ill,  dead  .  .  .  how  do  I  know?" 

He  was  hurt  by  her  talking  so  lightly. 

"  I  don't  want  you  to  lie." 

She  took  offense : 

"  First  of  all,  I  never  lie.  .  .  .  And  then,  I  cannot  very  well 
tell  her  .  .  ." 

He  asked  her  half  in  jest,  half  in  earnest: 

"Why  not?" 

She  laughed,  shrugged,  and  said  that  he  was  coarse  and  ill- 
bred,  and  that  she  had  already  asked  him  not  to  use  the  Du 
to  her. 

"  Haven't  I  the  right  ?  " 

"  Certainly  not." 

"After  what  has  happened?" 

"Nothing  has  happened." 

She  looked  at  him  a  little  defiantly  and  laughed :  and  although 
she  was  joking,  be  felt  most  strongly  that  it  would  not  have 
cost  her  much  to  say  it  seriously  and  almost  to  believe  it.  But 
some  pleasant  memory  tickled  her:  for  she  burst  out  laughing 
and  looked  at  Christophe  and  kissed  him  loudly  without  any 
concern  for  the  people  about,  who  did  not  seem  to  be  in  the 
least  surprised  by  it. 

N"ow  on  all  his  excursions  he  was  accompanied  by  shop-girls 
and  clerks :  he  did  not  like  their  vulgarity,  and  used  to  try  to 


YOUTH  315 

lose  them :  but  Ada  out  of  contrariness  was  no  longer  disposed 
for  wandering  in  the  woods.  When  it  rained  or  for  some  other 
reason  they  did  not  leave  the  town  he  would  take  her  to  the 
theater,  or  the  museum,  or  the  Thiergarten:  for  she  insisted 
on  being  seen  with  him.  She  even  wanted  him  to  go  to  church 
with  her;  but  he  was  so  absurdly  sincere  that  he  would  not  set 
loot  inside  a  church  since  he  had  lost  his  belief — (on  some  other 
excuse  he  had  resigned  his  position  as  organist) — and  at  the 
same  time,  unknown  to  himself,  remained  much  too  religious 
not  to  think  Ada's  proposal  sacrilegious. 

He  used  to  go  to  her  rooms  in  the  evening.  Myrrha  would 
be  there,  for  she  lived  in  the  same  house.  Myrrha  was  not  at 
all  resentful  against  him :  she  would  hold  out  her  soft  hand 
caressingly,  and  talk  of  trivial  and  improper  tilings  and  then 
slip  away  discreetly.  The  two  women  had  never  seemed  to  be 
such  friends  as  since  they  had  had  small  reason  for  being  so : 
they  were  alwa}rs  together.  Ada  had  no  secrets  from  Myrrha : 
she  told  her  everything :  Myrrha  listened  to  everything :  they 
seemed  to  be  equally  pleased  with  it  all. 

Christophe  was  ill  at  ease  in  the  company  of  the  two  women. 
Their  friendship,  their  strange  conversations,  their  freedom  of 
manner,  the  crude  way  in  which  Myrrha  especially  viewed  and 
spoke  of  things — (not  so  much  in  his  presence,  however,  as 
when  he  was  not  there,  but  Ada  used  to  repeat  her  sayings  to 
him) — their  indiscreet  and  impertinent  curiosity,  which  was 
forever  turned  upon  subjects  that  were  silly  or  basely  sensual, 
the  whole  equivocal  and  rather  animal  atmosphere-  oppressed 
him  terribly,  though  it  interested  him:  for  he  knew  nothing  like 
it.  He  was  at  sea  in  the  conversations  of  the  t\vo  little  beasts, 
who  talked  of  dress,  and  made  silly  jokes,  and  laughed  in  an 
inept  way  with  their  eyes  shining  with  delight  when  they  were 
off  on  the  track  of  some  spicy  story,  lie  was  more  at  ease  when 
Myrrha  left  them.  When  the  two  women  were  together  it  was 
like  being  in  a  foreign  country  without  knowing  the  language. 
It  was  impossible  to  make  himself  understood:  they  did  not 
even  listen:  they  poked  fun  at  the  foreigner. 

When  he  was  alone  with  Ada  they  went  on  speaking  different 
languages:  but  at  least  they  did  make  some  attempt  to  under- 
stand each  other.  To  tell  the  truth,  the  more  he  understood 


316  JEAN-CHRTSTOPHE 

her,  the  less  he  understood  her.  She  was  the  first  woman  he 
had  known.  For  if  poor  Sabine  was  a  woman  he  had  known, 
he  had  known  nothing  of  her:  she  had  always  remained  for 
him  a  phantom  of  his  heart.  Ada  took  upon  herself  to  make 
him  make  up  for  lost  time.  In  his  turn  he  tried  to  solve  the 
riddle  of  woman :  an  enigma  which  perhaps  is  no  enigma  except 
for  those  who  seek  some  meaning  in  it. 

Ada  was  without  intelligence :  that  was  the  least  of  her  faults. 
Christophe  would  have  commended  her  for  it,  if  she  had  ap- 
proved it  herself.  But  although  she  was  occupied  only  with 
stupidities,  she  claimed  to  have  some  knowledge  of  the  things 
of  the  spirit :  and  she  judged  everything  with  complete  assur- 
ance. She  would  talk  about  music,  and  explain  to  Christophe 
things  which  he  knew  perfectly,  and  would  pronounce  absolute 
judgment  and  sentence.  It  was  useless  to  try  to  convince  her : 
she  had  pretensions  and  susceptibilities  in  everything;  she  gave 
herself  airs,  she  was  obstinate,  vain :  she  would  not — she  could 
not  understand  anything.  Why  would  she  not  accept  that  she 
could  understand  nothing?  He  loved  her  so  much  better  when 
she  was  content  with  being  just  what  she  was,  simply,  with 
her  own  qualities  and  failings,  instead  of  trying  to  impose 
on  others  and  herself ! 

In  fact,  she  was  little  concerned  with  thought.  She  was  con- 
cerned with  eating,  drinking,  singing,  dancing,  crying,  laugh- 
ing, sleeping :  she  wanted  to  be  happy :  and  that  would  have 
been  all  right  if  she  had  succeeded.  But  although  she  had 
every  gift  for  it:  she  was  greedy,  lazy,  sensual,  and  frankly 
egoistic  in  a  way  that  revolted  and  amused  Christophe :  although 
she  had  almost  all  the  vices  which  make  life  pleasant  for  their 
fortunate  possessor,  if  not  for  their  friends — (and  even  then 
does  not  a  happy  face,  at  least  if  it  be  pretty,  shed  happiness 
on  all  those  who  come  near  it?) — in  spite  of  so  many  reasons 
for  being  satisfied  with  life  and  herself  Ada  was  not  even  clever 
enough  for  that.  The  pretty,  robust  girl,  fresh,  hearty,  healthy- 
looking,  endowed  with  abundant  spirits  and  .fierce  appetites, 
was  anxious  about  her  health.  She  bemoaned  her  weakness, 
while  she  ate  enough  for  four.  She  was  always  sorry  for  her- 
self: she  could  not  drag  herself  along,  she  could  not  breathe, 
she  had  a  headache,  feet-ache,  her  eyes  ached,  her  stomach 


YOUTH  317 

ached,  her  soul  ached.  She  was  afraid  of  everything,  and 
madly  superstitious,  and  saw  omens  everywhere :  at  meals  the 
crossing  of  knives  and  forks,  the  number  of  the  guests,  the 
upsetting  of  a  salt-cellar:  then  there  must  be  a  whole  ritual 
to  turn  aside  misfortune.  Out  walking  she  would  count  the 
crows,  and  never  failed  to  watch  which  side  they  flew  to :  she 
would  anxiously  watch  the  road  at  her  feet,  and  when  a  spider 
crossed  her  path  in  the  morning  she  would  cry  out  aloud :  then 
she  would  wish  to  go  home  and  there  would  be  no  other  means 
of  not  interrupting  the  walk  than  to  persuade  her  that  it  was 
after  twelve,  and  so  the  omen  was  one  of  hope  rather  than 
of  evil.  She  was  afraid  of  her  dreams:  she  would  recount  them 
at  length  to  Christophe ;  for  hours  she  would  try  to  recollect 
some  detail  that  she  had  forgotten;  she  never  spared  him  one; 
absurdities  piled  one  on  the  other,  strange  marriages,  deaths, 
dressmakers'  prices,  burlesque,  and  sometimes,  obscene  things. 
He  had  to  listen  to  her  and  give  her  his  advice.  Often  she 
would  be  for  a  whole  day  under  the  obsession  of  her  inept 
fancies.  She  would  find  life  ill-ordered,  she  would  see  things 
and  people  rawly  and  overwhelm  Christophe  with  her  jere- 
miads: and  it  seemed  hardly  worth  while  to  have  broken  away 
from  the  gloomy  middle-class  people  with  whom  he  lived  to 
find  once  more  the  eternal  enemy:  the  "  traurigcr  ungriechischer 
Hypo  clwndrist." 

But  suddenly  in  the  midst  of  her  sulks  and  grumblings,  she 
would  become  gay,  noisy,  exaggerated :  there  was  no  more  deal- 
ing with  her  gaiety  than  with  her  moroscness :  she  would  burst 
out  laughing  for  no  reason  and  seem  as  though  she  were  never 
going  to  stop :  she  would  rush  across  the  fields,  play  mad  tricks 
and  childish  pranks,  take  a  delight  in  doing  silly  things,  in 
mixing  with  the  earth,  and  dirty  things,  and  the  beasts,  and  the 
spiders,  and  worms,  in  teasing  them,  and  hurting  them,  and 
making  them  eat  each  other:  the  cats  eat  the  birds,  the  fowls 
the  worms,  the  ants  the  spiders,  not  from  any  wickedness,  or 
perhaps  from  an  altogether  unconscious  instinct  for  evil,  from 
curiosity,  or  from  having  nothing  better  to  do.  She  seemed  to 
be  driven  always  to  say  stupid  things,  to  repeat  senseless  words 
again  and  again,  to  irritate  Christophe,  to  exasperate  him,  set 
his  nerves  on  edge,  and  make  him  almost  beside  himself.  And 


318  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

her  coquetry  as  soon  as  anybody— no  matter  who — appeared  on 
the  road !  .  .  .  Then  she  would  talk  excitedly,  laugh  noisily, 
make  faces,  draw  attention  to  herself:  she  would  assume  an 
affected  mincing  gait.  Christophe  would  have  a  horrible  pre- 
sentiment that  she  was  going  to  plunge  into  serious  discussion. — 
And,  indeed,  she  would  do  so.  She  would  become  sentimental, 
uncontrolledhr,  just  as  she  did  everything:  she  would  unbosom 
herself  in  a  loud  voice.  Christophe  would  suffer  a7id  long  to 
beat  her.  Least  of  all  could  he  forgive  her  her  lack  of  sin- 
cerity. He  did  not  yet  know  that  sincerity  is  a  gift  as  rare  as 
intelligence  or  beauty  and  that  it  cannot  justly  be  expected  of 
evcrybod%y.  He  could  not  bear  a  lie:  and  Ada  gave  him  lies 
in  full  measure.  She  was  always  lying,  quite  calmly,  in  spite 
of  evidence  to  the  contrary.  She  had  that  astounding  faculty 
for  forgetting  what  is  displeasing  to  them — or  even  what  has 
been  pleasing  to  them — which  those  women  possess  who  live 
from  moment  to  moment. 

And,  in  spite  of  everything,  they  loved  each  other  with  all 
their  hearts.  Ada  was  as  sincere  as  Christophe  in  her  love. 
Their  love  was  none  the  less  true  for  not  being  based  on  in- 
tellectual sympathy:  it  had  nothing  in  common  with  base  pas- 
sion. It  wras  the  beautiful  love  of  youth:  it  was  sensual,  but 
not  vulgar,  because  it  was  altogether  youthful:  it  was  naive, 
almost  chaste,  purged  by  the  ingenuous  ardor  of  pleasure.  Al- 
though Ada  was  not,  by  a  long  way,  so  ignorant  as  Christophe, 
yet  she  had  still  the  divine  privilege  of  youth  of  soul  and 
body,  that  freshness  of  the  senses,  limpid  and  vivid  as  a  run- 
ning stream,  which  almost  gives  the  illusion  of  purity  and 
through  life  is  never  replaced.  Egoistic,  commonplace,  insincere 
in  her  ordinary  life, — love  made  her  simple,  true,  almost  good: 
she  understood  in  love  the  joy  that  is  ij  be  found  in  sel t'-f orget- 
f ulness.  Christophe  saw  this  with  delight:  and  he  would  gladly 
have  died  for  her.  Who  can  tell  all  the  absurd  and  touching- 
illusions  that  a  loving  heart  brings  to  its  love!  And  the 
natural  illusion  of  the  lover  was  magnified  an  hundredfold  in 
Christophe  bv  the  power  of  illusion  which  is  born  in  the  artist. 
Ada's  smile  held  profound  meanings  for  him:  an  affectionate 
word  was  the  proof  of  the  goodness  of  her  heart.  Lie  loved 
in  her  all  that  is  "rood  and  beautiful  in  the  universe.  He  called 


YOUTH  319 

her  his  own,  his  soul,  his  life.     They  wept  together  over  their 
love. 

Pleasure  was  not  the  only  bond  between  them :  there  was  an 
indefinable  poetry  of  memories  and  dreams, — their  own?  or 
those  of  the  men  and  women  who  had  loved  before  them,  who  bad 
been  before  them, — in  them?  .  .  .  Without  a  word,  perbaps 
without  knowing  it,  they  preserved  the  fascination  of  the  first 
moments  of  their  meeting  in  the.  woods,  the  first  days,  the  first 
nights  together:  those  hours  of  sleep  in  each  other's  arms,  still, 
unthinking,  sinking  down  into  a  flood  of  love  and  silent  joy. 
Swift  fancies,  visions,  dumb  thoughts,  titillating,  and  making 
them  go  pale,  and  their  hearts  sink  under  their  desire,  bringing 
all  about  them  a  buzzing  as  of  bees.  A  fine  light,  and  tender. 
.  .  .  Their  hearts  sink  and  beat  no  more,  borne  down  in  excess 
of  sweetness.  Silence,  languor,  and  fever,  the  mysterious  weary 
smile  of  the  earth  quivering  under  the  first  sunlight  of  spring. 
...  So  fresh  a  love  in  two  young  creatures  is  like  an  April 
morning.  Like  April  it  must  pass.  Youth  of  the  heart  is  like 
an  early  feast  of  sunshine. 

Xothing  could  have  brought  Christophe  closer  to  Ada  in  his 
love  than  the  way  in  which  he  was  judged  by  others. 

The  day  after  their  first  meeting  it  was  known  all  over  the 
town.  Ada,  made  no  attempt  to  cover  up  the  adventure,  and 
rather  plumed  herself  on  her  conquest.  Christophe  would  have 
liked  more  discretion:  but  he  felt  that  the  curiosity  of  the 
people  was  upon  him:  and  as  he  did  not  wish  to  seem  to  fly 
from  it.  he  threw  in  his  lot  with  Ada.  The  little  town  bu/zed 
with  tattle.  Christophe's  colleagues  in  the  orchestra  paid  him 
sly  compliments  to  which  he  did  not  reply,  because  lie  would 
not  allow  any  meddling  with  his  affairs.  The  respectable 
people  of  the  town  judged  his  conduct  very  severely.  He  lost 
his  music  lessons  with  certain  families.  With  others,  the  mothers 
thought  that  they  must  now  be  present  at  the  daughters'  lessons, 
watching  with  suspicious  eyes,  as  though  Chrisiophc  were  in- 
tending to  carry  oft  the  precious  darlings.  The  young  ladies 
wen1  supposed  to  know  nothing.  Naturally  they  knew  everv- 
thing :  and  while  they  were  cold  towards  Christophe  for  his 
lack  of  taste,  they  were  longing  to  have  further  details.  It  was 


320  JEAX-CHKlSTOrHE 

only  among  tlie  small  tradespeople,  and  the  shop  people,  that 
Christophe  was  popular:  but  not  for  long:  he  was  just  as  an- 
noyed by  their  approval  as  by  the  condemnation  of  the 
rest :  and  being  unable  to  do  anything  against  that  con- 
demnation, he  took  steps  not  to  keep  their  approval:  there 
was  no  difficulty  about  that.  He  was  furious  with  the  general 
indiscretion. 

The  most  indignant  of  all  with  him  were  Justus  Euler  and 
the  Vogels.  They  took  Christophers  misconduct  as  a  personal 
outrage.  They  had  not  made  any  serious  plans  concerning 
him  :  they  distrusted — especially  Fran  A7ogel — these  artistic  tem- 
peraments. But  as  they  were  naturally  discontented  and  always 
inclined  to  think  themselves  persecuted  by  fate,  they  persuaded 
themselves  that  they  had  counted  on  the  marriage  of  Christophe 
and  Rosa;  as  soon  as  they  were  quite  certain  that  such  a  mar- 
riage would  never  come  to  pass,  they  saw  in  it  the  mark  of 
the  usual  ill  luck.  Logically,  if  fate  were  responsible  for  their 
miscalculation,  Christophe  could  not  be :  but  the  Yogels"  logic 
was  that  which  gave  them  the  greatest  opportunity  for  finding 
reasons  for  being  sorry  for  themselves.  So  they  decided  that  if 
Christophe  had  misconducted  himself  it  was  not  so  much  for 
his  own  pleasure  as  to  give  offense  to  them.  They  were  scan- 
dalized. Very  religious,  moral,  and  oozing  domestic  virtue,  they 
were  of  those  to  whom  the  sins  of  the  flesh  arc  the  most  shame- 
ful, the  most  serious,  almost  the  only  sins,  because  they  are 
the  only  dreadful  sins — (it  is  obvious  that  respectable  people 
are  never  likely  to  be  tempted  to  steal  or  murder). — And  so 
Christophe  seemed  to  them  absolutely  wicked,  and  they  changed 
their  demeanor  towards  him.  They  were  icy  towards  him  and 
turned  away  as  they  passed  him.  Christophe,  who  was  in  no 
particular  need  of  their  conversation,  shrugged  his  shoulders 
at  all  the  fuss.  Tie  pretended  not  to  notice  Amalia's  insolence: 
who,  while  she  affected  contemptuously  to  avoid  him.  did  all 
that  she  could  to  make  him  fall  in  with  her  so  that  she  might 
tell  him  all  that  was  rankling  in  her. 

Christophe  was  only  touched  by  Rosa's  attitude.  The  girl 
condemned  him  more  harshly  even  than  his  family.  Xot  that 
this  new  love  of  Christophe's  seemed  to  her  to  destroy  her  last 
chances  of  being;  loved  bv  him  :  she  knew  that  she  had  no  chance 


YOUTH  321 

left — (although  perhaps  she  went  on  hoping:  she  always 
hoped). — But  she  had  made  an  idol  of  Christopher  and  that 
idol  had  crumbled  away.  It  was  the  worst  sorrow  for  IHT  .  .  . 
yes,  a  sorrow  more  cruel  to  the  innocence  and  honesty  of  her 
heart,  than  being  disdained  and  forgotten  by  him.  Brought  up 
puritanically,  with  a  narrow  code  of  morality,  in  which  she 
believed  passionately,  what  she  had  heard  about  Christophe 
had  not  only  brought  her  to  despair  but  had  broken  her  heart. 
She  had  suffered  already  when  he  was  in  love  with  Sabine: 
she  had  begun  then  to  lose  some  of  her  illusions  about  her  hero. 
That  Christophe  could  love  so  commonplace  a  creature  seemed 
to  her  inexplicable  and  inglorious.  But  at  least  that  love  was 
pure,  and  Sabine  was  not  unworthy  of  it.  And  in  the  end 
death  had  passed  over  it  and  sanctified  it.  ...  But  that  at  once 
Christophe  should  love  another  woman, — and  such  a  woman ! — 
was  base,  and  odious !  She  took  upon  herself  the  defense  of 
the  dead  woman  against  him.  She  could  not  forgive  him  for 
having  forgotten  her.  .  .  .  Alas!  He  was  thinking  of  her 
more  than  she :  but  she  never  thought  that  in  a  passionate  heart 
there  might  be  room  for  two  sentiments  at  once :  she  thought 
it  impossible  to  be  faithful  to  the  past  without  sacrifice  of  the 
present.  Pure  and  cold,  she  had  no  idea  of  life  or  of  Christophe : 
everything  in  her  eyes  was  pure,  narrow,  submissive  to  duty, 
like  herself.  Modest  of  soul,  modest  of  herself,  she  had  only 
one  source  of  pride:  purity:  she  demanded  it  of  herself  and  of 
others.  She  could  not  forgive  Christophe  for  having  so  lowered 
himself,  and  she  would  never  forgive  him. 

Christophc  tried  to  talk  to  her,  though  not  to  explain  himself 
—  (what  could  he  say  to  her?  what  could  he  say  to  a  little 
puritanical  and  naive  girl?). — lie  would  have  liked  to  assure 
her  that  he  was  her  friend,  that  he  wished  for  her  esteem,  and 
had  still  the  right  to  it.  He  wished  to  prevent  her  absurdly 
estranging  herself  from  him. — But  l\osa  avoided  him  in  stern 
silence:  lie  felt  that  she  despised  him. 

He  was  both  sorry  and  angry.  He  felt  that  lie  did  not  deserve 
such  contempt:  and  yet  in  the  end  he  was  howled  over  by  it: 
and  thought  himself  guilty.  Of  all  the  reproaches  cast  against 
him  the  most  bitter  came  from  himself  when  he  thought  of 
Sabine.  He  tormented  himself. 


322  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

"Oil!  God,  how  is  it  possible?  What  sort  of  creature  am 
I?  .  .  ." 

But  he  could  not  resist  the  stream  that  bore  him  on.  He 
thought  that  life  is  criminal:  arid  he  closed  his  eyes  so  as  to 
live  without  seeing  it.  He  had  so  great  a  need  to  live,  and  be 
happy,  and  love,  and  believe!  .  .  .  \o:  there  was  notbing  des- 
picable in  his  love !  He  knew  that  it  was  impossible  to  be  very 
wise,  or  intelligent,  or  even  very  happy  in  his  love  for  Ada: 
but  what  was  there  in  it  that  could  be  called  vile?  Suppose — 
(he  forced  the  idea  on  himself)— that  Ada  were  not  a  woman 
of  any  great  moral  worth,  how  was  the  love  that  he  had  for 
her  the  less  pure  for  that?  Love  is  in  the  lover,  not  in  the 
beloved.  Everything  is  worthy  of  the  lover,  everything  is 
worthy  of  love.  To  the  pure  all  is  pure.  All  is  pure  in  the 
strong  and  the  healthy  of  mind.  Love,  which  adorns  certain 
birds  with  their  loveliest  colors,  calls  forth  from  the  souls  that 
are  true  all  that  is  most  noble  in  them.  The  desire  to  show 
to  the  beloved  only  what  is  worthy  makes  the  lover  take  pleasure 
only  in  those  thoughts  and  actions  which  are  in  harmony  with 
the  beautiful  image  fashioned  by  love.  And  the  waters  of  youth 
in  which  the  soul  is  bathed,  the  blessed  radiance  of  strength 
and  joy,  are  beautiful  and  health-giving,  making  the  heart 
great. 

That  his  friends  misunderstood  him  filled  him  with  bitter- 
ness. But  the  worst  trial  of  all  was  that  his  mother  was  begin- 
ning to  be  unhappy  about  it. 

The  good  creature  was  far  from  sharing  the  narrow  views  of 
the  Yogels.  She  had  seen  real  sorrows  too  near  ever  to  try 
to  invent  others.  Humble,  broken  by  life,  having  received  little 
joy  from  it,  and  having  asked  even  less,  resigned  to  every- 
thing that  happened,  without  even  trying  to  understand  it.  she 
was  careful  not  to  judge  or  censure  others:  she  thought  sin- 
had  no  right.  She  thought  herself  too  stupid  to  pretend  that 
they  were  wrong  whrn  they  did  not  think  as  she  did:  it,  would 
have  seemed  ridiculous  to  trv  to  impose  on  others  the  inflexible 
rules  of  her  morality  and  belief.  Besides  that,  her  morality 
and  her  belief  were  purely  instinctive:  pious  and  pure  in  her- 
self she  closed  her  eyes  to  the  conduct  of  others,  with  the  in- 
dulgence of  her  class  for  certain  faults  and  certain  weaknesses. 


YOUTH 

That  had  heen  one  of  the  complaints  that  her  father-in-law, 
Jean  Michel,  had  lodged  against  her:  she  did  not  sufficiently 
distinguish  between  those  who  were  honorahle  and  those  who 
were  not:  she  was  not  afraid  of  stopping  in  the  street  or  the 
market-place  to  shako  hands'  and  talk  with  young  women,  no- 
torious in  the  neighborhood,  whom  a  respectable  woman  ought 
to  pretend  to  ignore.  She  left  it  to  God  to  distinguish  between 
good  and  evil,  to  punish  or  to  forgive.  From  others  she  asked 
only  a  little  of  that  affectionate  sympathy  which  is  so  necessary 
to  soften  the  ways  of  life.  If  people  were  only  kind  she  asked 
no  more. 

But  since  she  had  lived  with  the  Yogels  a  change  had  come 
about  in  her.  The  disparaging  temper  of  the  family  had  found 
her  an  easier  prey  because  she  was  crushed  and  had  no  strength 
to  resist.  Amalia  had  taken  her  in  hand:  and  from  morning 
to  night  when  they  were  working  together  alone,  and  Amalia 
did  all  the  talking,  Louisa,  broken  and  passive,  unconsciously 
assumed  the  habit  of  judging  and  criticising  everything.  Frau 
Vogel  did  not  fail  to  tell  her  what  she  thought  of  Christophers 
conduct.  Louisa's  calmness  irritated  her.  She  thought  it.  in- 
decent of  Louisa  to  be  so  little  concerned  about  what  put  him 
beyond  the  pale:  she  was  not  satisfied  until  she  had  upset  her 
altogether.  Christophe  saw  it.  Louisa  dared  not  reproach  him: 
but  every  day  she  made  little  timid  remarks,  uneasy,  insistent: 
and  when  he  lost  patience  and  replied  sharply,  she  said  no  more: 
but  still  he  could  see  the  trouble  in  her  eyes :  and  when  he  came 
home  sometimes  he  could  see  that  she  had  been  weeping.  He 
knew  his  mother  too  well  not  to  be  absolutely  certain  that  her 
uneasiness  did  not  come  from  herself. — And  he  knew  well  whence 
it  came. 

lie  determined  to  make  an  end  of  it.  One  evening  when 
Louisa  Avas  unable  to  hold  back  her  tears  and  had  got  up  from 
the  table  in  the  middle  of  supper  without  Christophe  being  able 
to  discover  what  was  the  matter,  he  rushed  downstairs  four 
steps  at  a  time  and  knocked  at  the  Yogels'  door.  He  was  boiling 
with  rage.  He  was  not  only  angry  about  Frau  Yogel's  treat- 
ment of  his  mother:  lie  had  to  avenge  himself  for  her  having 
turned  Kosa  against  him,  for  her  bickering  against  Sabine.  for 
all  that  he  had  had  to  put  up  with  at  her  hands  for  months.  Tor 


324  JEAN-CHTvISTOPHE 

months  he  had  borne  his  pent-up  feelings  against  her  and 
now  made  haste  to  let  them  loose. 

He  burst  in  on  Frau  Vogel  and  in  a  vroice  that  he  tried  to 
keep  calm,  though  it  was  trembling  with  fury,  lie  asked  her 
what  she  had  told  his  mother  to  bring  her  to  such  a  state. 

Amalia  took  it  very  badly :  she  replied  that  she  would  say 
what  she  pleased,  and  was  responsible  to  no  one  for  her  actions — 
to  him  least  of  all.  And  seizing  the  opportunity  to  deliver  the 
speech  which  she  had  prepared,  she  added  that  if  Louisa  was 
unhappy  he  had  to  go  no  further  for  the  cause  of  it  than  his 
own  conduct,  which  was  a  shame  to  himself  and  a  scandal  to 
everybody  else. 

Christophe  was  only  waiting  for  her  onslaught  to  strike  out. 
He  shouted  angrily  that  his  conduct  was  his  own  affair,  that 
he  did  not  care  a  rap  whether  it  pleased  Frau  Vogel  or  not, 
that  if  she  wished  to  complain  of  it  she  must  do  so  to  him,  and 
that  she  could  say  to  him  whatever  she  liked :  that  rested  with 
her,  but  he  forbade  her — (did  she  hear?) — forbade  her  to  say 
anything  to  his  mother :  it  was  cowardly  and  mean  so  to  attack 
a  poor  sick  old  woman. 

Frau  Yogel  cried  loudly.  Never  had  any  one  dared  to  speak 
to  her  in  such  a  manner.  She  said  that  she  was  not  to  be  lectured 
by  a  rapscallion, — and  in  her  own  house,  too ! — And  she  treated 
him  with  abuse. 

The  others  came  running  up  on  the  noise  of  the  quarrel, — 
except  Yogel,  who  fled  from  anything  that  might  upset  his 
health.  Old  Euler  was  called  to  witness  by  the  indignant 
Amalia  arid  sternly  bade  Christophe  in  future  to  refrain  from 
speaking  to  or  visiting  them.  He  said  that  they  did  not  need 
him  to  tell  them  what  they  ought  to  do,  that  tbey  did  their 
duty  and  would  always  do  it. 

Christophe  declared  that  he  would  go  and  would  never  again 
fet  foot  in  their  house.  However,  he  did  not  go  until  he  had 
relieved  his  feelings  by  telling  them  what  he  had  still  to  say 
about  their  famous  Duty,  which  had  become  to  him  a  personal 
enemy.  He  said  that  their  Duty  was  the  sort  of  thing  to  make 
him  love  vice.  Tt  was  people  like  them  who  discouraged  good, 
by  insisting  on  making  it  unpleasant.  Tt  was  their  fault  that 
so  many  find  delight  by  contrast  among  those  who  are  dishonest, 


YOUTH  325 

but  amiable  and  laughter-loving.  It  was  a  profanation  of  the 
name  of  duty  to  apply  it  to  everything,  to  the  most  stupid  tasks, 
to  trivial  things,  with  a  stiff  and  arrogant  severity  which  ends 
by  darkening  and  poisoning  life.  Duty,  he  said,  was  exceptional : 
it  should  be  kept  for  moments  of  real  sacrifice,  and  not  used 
to  lend  the  lover  of  its  name  to  ill-humor  and  the  desire  to 
be  disagreeable  to  others.  There  was  no  reason,  because  they 
were  stupid  enough  or  ungracious  enough  to  be  sad,  to  want 
everybody  else  to  be  so  too  and  to  impose  on  everybody  their 
decrepit  way  of  living.  .  .  .  The  first  of  all  virtues  is  joy.  Vir- 
tue must  be  happy,  free,  and  unconstrained.  He  who  does 
good  must  give  pleasure  to  himself.  But  this  perpetual  upstart 
Duty,  this  pedagogic  tyranny,  this  peevishness,  this  futile  dis- 
cussion, this  acrid,  puerile  quibbling,  this  ungraciousness,  this 
charmless  life,  without  politeness,  without  silence,  this  mean- 
spirited  pessimism,  which  lets  slip  nothing  that  can  make  exist- 
ence poorer  than  it  is,  this  vainglorious  unintelligence,  which 
finds  it  easier  to  despise  others  than  to  understand  them,  all 
this  middle-class  morality,  without  greatness,  without  large- 
ness, without  happiness,  without  beauty,  all  these  things  are 
odious  and  hurtful :  they  make  vice  appear  more  human  than 
virtue. 

So  thought  Christopher  and  in  his  desire  to  hurt  those  who 
had  wounded  him,  he  did  not  see  that  he  was  being  as  unjust 
as  those  of  whom  he  spoke. 

Xo  doubt  these  unfortunate  people  were  almost  as  he  saw 
them.  But  it  was  not  their  fault:  it  was  the  fault  of  their 
ungracious  life,  which  had  made  their  faces,  their  doings,  and 
their  thoughts  ungracious.  They  had  suffered  the  deformation 
of  misery — not  that  great  misery  which  swoops  down  and  slays 
or  forges  anew — but  the  misery  of  ever  recurring  ill-fortune, 
that  small  misery  which  trickles  down  drop  by  drop  from  the 
first  day  to  the  last.  .  .  .  Sad,  indeed !  For  beneath  these 
rough  exteriors  what  treasures  in  reserve  are  there,  of  upright- 
ness, of  kindness,  of  silent  heroism!  .  .  .  The  whole  strength  of 
a  people,  all  the  sap  of  the  future. 

Christophe  was  not  wrong  in  thinking  duty  exceptional.  But 
love  is  so  no  less.  Everything  is  exceptional.  Everything  that 
is  of  worth  has  no  worse  enemy — not  the  evil  (the  vices  are  of 


326  JEAN-CHKISTOPHE 

worth) — but  the  habitual.  The  mortal  enemy  of  the  soul  is 
the  daily  wear  and  tear. 

Ada  was  beginning  to  weary  of  it.  She  was  not  clever  enough 
to  find  new  food  for  her  love  in  an  abundant  nature  like  that 
of  Christophe.  Her  senses  and  her  vanity  had  extracted  from 
it  all  the  pleasure  they  could  find  in  it.  There  was  left  her 
only  the  pleasure  of  destroying  it.  She  had  that  secret  instinct 
common  to  so  many  women,  even  good  women,,  to  so  many 
men,  even  clever  men,  who  are  not  creative  either  of  art,  or  of 
children,  or  of  pure  action, — no  matter  what:  of  life — and  yet 
have  too  much  life  in  apathy  and  resignation  to  bear  with  their 
uselessness.  They  desire  others  to  be  as  useless  as  themselves 
and  do  their  best  to  make  them  so.  Sometimes  they  do  so 
in  spite  of  themselves :  and  when  they  become  aware  of  their 
criminal  desire  they  hotly  thrust  it  back.  But  often  they  hug 
it  to  themselves :  and  they  set  themselves  according  to  their 
strength — some  modestly  in  their  own  intimate  circle — others 
largely  with  vast  audiences — to  destroy  everything  that  has  life, 
everything  that  loves  life,  everything  that  deserves  life.  The 
critic  who  takes  upon  himself  to  diminish  the  stature  of 
great  men  and  great  thoughts — and  the  girl  who  amuses 
herself  with  dragging  down  her  lovers,  are  both  mischievous 
beasts  of  the  same  kind. — But  the  second  is  the  pleasanter  of 
the  two. 

Ada  then  would  have  liked  to  corrupt  Christophe  a  little,  to 
humiliate  him.  In  truth,  she  was  not  strong-  enough.  More 
intelligence  was  needed,  even  in  corruption.  She  felt  that : 
and  it  was  not  the  least  of  her  rankling  feelings  against  Chris- 
tophe  that  her  love  could  do  him  no  harm.  She  did  not  admit 
the  desire  that  was  in  her  to  do  him  harm :  perhaps  she  would 
have  done  him  none  if  she  had  been  able.  But  it  annoyed  her 
that  she  could  not  do  it.  It  is  to  fail  in  love  for  a  woman 
not  to  leave  her  the  illusion  of  her  power  for  good  or  evil  over 
her  lover:  to  do  that  must  inevitably  be  to  impel  her  irresistibly 
to  the  test  of  it.  Christophe  paid  no  attention  to  it.  When 
Ada  asked  him  jokingly: 

"Would  you  leave  your  music  for  me?" 

(Although  she  had  no  wish  for  him  to  do  so.) 

He  replied  frankly : 


YOUTH 

"No,  my  dear:  neither  you  nor  anybody  else  can  do  anything 
against  that.  I  shall  always  make  music." 

"And  you  say  you  love?"  cried  she,  put  out. 

She  hated  his  music — the  more  so  because  she  did  not  under- 
stand it,  and  it  was  impossible  for  her  to  find  a  means  of  coming 
to  grips  with  this  invisible  enemy  and  so  to  wound  Christophe 
in  his  passion.  If  she  tried  to  talk  of  it  contemptuously,  or 
scornfully  to  judge  Christophe's  compositions,  he  would 
shout  with  laughter;  and  in  spite  of  her  exasperation  Ada 
would  relapse  into  silence :  for  she  saw  that  she  was  being 
ridiculous. 

But  if  there  was  nothing  to  be  done  in  that  direction,  she 
had  discovered  another  weak  spot  in  rhristophe,  one  more  easy 
of  access:  his  moral  faith.  In  spite  of  his  squabble  with  the 
Yogels,  and  in  spite  of  the  intoxication  of  his  adolescence,  Chris- 
tophe had  preserved  an  instinctive  modesty,  a  need  of  purity, 
of  which  he  was  entirely  unconscious.  At  first  it  struck  Ada, 
attracted  and  charmed  her,  then  made  her  impatient  and  irri- 
table, and  finally,  being  the  woman  she  was,  she  detested  it.  She 
did  not  make  a  frontal  attack.  She  would  ask  insidiously. 

"  Do  you  love  me  ?  " 

"  Of  course  !  " 

"How  much  do  you  love  me?" 

"  As  much  as  it  is  possible  to  love." 

"  That  is  not  much  .  .  .  after  all !  ...  What  would  you  do 
for  me  ?  " 

"  Whatever  you  like." 

"  Would  you  do  something  dishonest." 

"  That  would  be  a  queer  way  of  loving." 

"That  is  not  what  I  asked/    Would  you?" 

"  It  is  not  necessary." 

"But  if  I  wished  it?" 

"  You  would  be  wrong." 

"Perhaps.  .  .  .  Would  you  do  it?" 

He  tried  to  kiss  her.     But  she  thrust  him  away. 

"Would  you  do  it?     Yes  or  no?" 

"  Xo,  my  dear." 

She  turned  her  back  on  him  and  was  furious. 

"You  do  not  love  me.     You  do  not  know  what  love  is/' 


328  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

"  That  is  quite  possible,"  he  said  good-humoredly.  He  knew 
that,  like  anybody  else,  he  was  capable  in  a  moment  of  passion 
of  committing  some  folly,  perhaps  something  dishonest,  and — 
who  knows? — even  more:  but  he  would  have  thought  shame  of 
himself  if  he  had  boasted  of  it  in  cold  blood,  and  certainly  it 
would  be  dangerous  to  confess  it  to  Ada.  Some  instinct  warned 
him  that  the  beloved  foe  was  lying  in  ambush,  and  taking  stock 
of  his  smallest  remark :  he  would  not  give  her  any  weapon 
against  him. 

She  would  return  to  the  charge  again,  and  ask  him : 

"  Do  you  love  me  because  vou  love  me,  or  because  I  love 

you?" 

"  Because  I  love  you." 

"  Then  if  I  did  not  love  you,  you  would  still  love  me  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  And  if  I  loved  some  one  else  you  would  still  love  me  ?  " 

"  Ah !  I  don't  know  about  that.  ...  I  don't  think  so.  ... 
In  any  case  you  would  be  the  last  person  to  whom  I  should  say 
so." 

"  How  would  it  be  changed  ?  " 

"  Many  things  would  be  changed.  Myself,  perhaps.  You, 
certainly." 

"And  if  I  changed,  what  would  it  matter?" 

"  All  the  difference  in  the  world.  I  love  you  as  you  are.  If 
you  become  another  creature  I  can't  promise  to  love  you." 

"  You  do  not  love,  you  do  not  love !  What  is  the  use  of 
all  this  quibbling?'  You  love  or  you  do  not  love.  If  you 
love  me  you  ought  to  love  me  just  as  I  am,  whatever  I  do, 
always." 

"  That  would  be  to  love  you  like  an  animal." 

"  I  want  to  be  loved  like  that." 

"  Then  you  have  made  a  mistake,"  said  he  jokingly.  "  I  am 
not  the  sort  of  man  you  want.  I  would  like  to  be,  but  I  cannot. 
And  I  will  not." 

"  You  are  very  proud  of  your  intelligence !  You  love  your 
intelligence  more  than  you  do  me." 

"  But  I  love  you,  you  wretch,  more  than  you  love  yourself. 
The  more  beautiful  and  the  more  good  you  are,  the  more  I  love 
you." 


YOUTH  329 

"You  arc  a  schoolmaster,"  she  said  with 'asperity. 

"  What  would  you  ?  I  love  what  is  beautiful.  Anything  ugly 
disgusts  me." 

"  Even  in  me  ?  " 

"  Especially  in  you." 

She  drummed  angrily  with  her  foot. 

"  I  will  not  be  judged." 

"  Then  complain  of  what  I  judge  you  to  be,  and  of  what 
I  love  in  you,"  said  he  tenderly  to  appease  her. 

She  let  him  take  her  in  his  arms,  and  deigned  to  smile,  and 
let  him  kiss  her.  But  in  a  moment  when  he  thought  she  had 
forgotten  she  asked  uneasily : 

"  What  do  you  think  ugly  in  me  ?  " 

He  would  not  tell  her:  he  replied  cowardly: 

"  I  don't  think  anything  ugly  in  you." 

She  thought  for  a  moment,  smiled,  and  said: 

"  Just  a  moment,  Christli :  vou  say  that  you  do  not  like 
lying?" 

"  I  despise  it." 

"  You  are  right,"  she  said.  "  I  despise  it  too.  I  am  of  a 
good  conscience.  I  never  lie." 

He  stared  at  her:  she  was  sincere.  Her  unconsciousness  dis- 
armed him. 

"  Then,"  she  went  on,  putting  her  arms  about  his  neck,  "  why 
would  you  be  cross  with  me  if  I  loved  some  one  else  and  told 
you  so  ? " 

"  Don't  tease  me." 

"  I'm  not  teasing :  I  am  not  saying  that  I  do  love  some  one 
else :  I  am  saying  that  I  do  not.  .  .  .  But  if  I  did  love  some  one 
later  on  .  .  ." 

"  Well,  don't  lot  us  think  of  it." 

"  But  I  want  to  think  of  it.  ...  You  would  not  be  angry 
with  me?  You  could  not  be  angry  with  me?" 

"  I  should  not  be  angry  with  you.  I  should  leave  you.  That 
is  all." 

"Leave  me?     Why?     If  I  still  loved  you.  ...?" 

"  While  you  loved  some  one  else?" 

"  Of  course.     It  happens  sometimes." 

"  Well,  it  will  not  happen  with  us." 


330  JEAN-CKRISTOPHE 

"  Why  ?  '•' 

"  Because  as  soon  as  you  love  some  one  else,  I  shall  love  3*011 
no  longer,  my  dear,  never,  never  again." 

"  But  just  now  you  said  perhaps.  .  .  .  Ah !  you  see  you  do 
not  love  me !  " 

"  Well  tli en :  all  the  hotter  for  you." 

"Because  .  .  .?" 

"Because  if  I  J^ved  you  when  you  loved  some  one  else  it 
might  turn  out  badly  for  you,  me,  and  him." 

"Then!  .  .  .  Now  you  are  mad.  Then  1  am  condemned  to 
stay  with  you  all  my  life  ?  " 

"  Be  calm.  You  are  free.  You  shall  leave  me  when  you 
like.  Only  it  will  not  he  an  re-coir:  it  will  be  good-bye." 

"  But  ii'  I  still  love  you  ?  " 

"  When  people  love,  they  sacrifice  themselves  to  each  other." 

"  Well,  then  .  .  .  sacrifice  yourself !  " 

He  could  not  help  laughing  at  her  egoism :  and  she  laughed 
too. 

"  The  sacrifice  of  one  only,"  he  said,  "  means  the  love  of  one 
only." 

"  Xot  at  all.  It  means  the  love  of  both.  1  shall  not  love 
you  much  longer  if  you  do  not  sacrifice  yourself  for  me.  And 
think,  Christli,  how  much  you  will  love  me.  when  you  have 
sacrificed  yourself,  and  how  happy  you  will  be." 

They  laughed  and  were  glad  to  have  a  change  from  the 
seriousness  of  the  disagreement. 

He  laughed  and  looked  at  her.  At  heart,  as  she  said,  she 
had  no  desire  to  leave  Christophe  at  present:  if  he  irritated 
her  and  often  bored  her  she  knew  ihe  worth  of  such  devotion 
as  his:  and  she  loved  no  one  else.  She  talked  so  for  fun,  partly 
because  she  knew  he  disliked  it.  partly  because  she  took  pleasure 
in  playing  with  equivocal  and  unclean  thoughts  like  a  child 
which  delights  to  mess  about  with  dirty  water.  He  knew  this. 
He  did  not  mind.  Rut  he  was  tired  of  these  unwholesome  dis- 
cussions, of  the  silent  struggle  against  this  uncertain  and  uneasy 
creature  whom  he  loved,  who  perhaps  loved  him:  he  was  tired 
from  the  eil'ort  that  he  had  to  make  to  deceive  himself  about 
her,  sometimes  tired  almost  to  tears.  He  would  think:  "  Why, 
why  is  she  like  this?  Why  are  people  like  this?  How  second- 


YOUTH  331 

rate  life  is!"  .  .  .  At  the  same  time  he  would  smile  as  he 
saw  her  pretty  face  above  him,  her  blue  eyes,  her  flower-like 
complexion,  her  laughing,  chattering  lips,  foolish  a  little,  half 
open  to  reveal  the  brilliance  of  her  tongue  and  her  white  teeth. 
Their  lips  would  almost  touch :  and  he  would  look  at  her  as 
from  a  distance,  a  great  distance,  as  from  another  world :  he 
would  see  her  going  farther  and  farther  from  him,  vanishing 
in  a  mist.  .  .  .  And  then  he  would  lose  sight  of  her.  He  could 
hear  her  no  more.  He  would  fall  into  a  sort  of  smiling  oblivion 
in  which  he  thought  of  his  music,  his  dreams,  a  thousand  things 
foreign  to  Ada.  .  .  .  Ah !  beautiful  music !  ...  so  sad,  so  mor- 
tally sad !  and  yet  kind,  loving.  .  .  .  Ah !  how  good  it  is !  ... 
It  is  that,  it  is  that.  .  .  .  Nothing  else  is  true.  .  .  . 

She  would  shake  his  arm.     A  voice  would  cry : 

"  Eh,  what's  the  matter  with  you  ?  You  are  mad,  quite  mad. 
Why  do  you  look  at  me  like  that?  Why  don't  you  answer?" 

Once  more  he  would  see  the  eyes  looking  at  him.  Who  was 
it  ?  ...  Ah !  yes.  .  .  .  He  would  sigh. 

She  would  watch  him.  She  would  try  to  discover  what  he 
was  thinking  of.  She  did  not  understand :  but  she  felt  that  it 
was  useless:  that  she  could  not  keep  hold  of  him,  that  there 
was  always  a  door  by  which  he  could  escape.  She  would  conceal 
her  irritation. 

"Why  are  you  crying?"  she  asked  him  once  as  he  returned 
from  one  of  his  strange  journeys  into  another  life. 

He  drew  his  hands  across  his  eyes.  He  felt  that  they  were 
wet. 

"  I  do  not  know,"  lie  said. 

"Why  don't  you  answer?  Three  times  you  have  said  the 
same  thing." 

"What  do  you  want?"  he  asked  gently. 

She  went  back  to  her  absurd  discussions.  He  waved  his  hand 
wearily. 

"Yes,"  she  said.  ''I've  done.  Only  a  word  more!'  And 
off  she  started  again. 

Christophe  shook  himself  angrily. 

"Will  you  keep  your  dirtiness  to  yourself!" 

"  1  was  only  joking." 

"  Find  cleaner  subjects,  then !  " 


332  JEAX-CHRISTOPHE 

"  Tell  me  why,  then.     Tell  me  why  you  don't  like  it." 

"  Why  ?  You  can't  argue  as  to  why  a  dump-heap  smells.  It 
does  smell,  and  that  is  all !  I  hold  my  nose  and  go  away." 

He  went  away,  furious :  and  he  strode  along  taking  in  great 
breaths  of  the  cold  air. 

But  she  would  begin  again,  once,  twice,  ten  times.  She 
would  bring  forward  every  possible  subject  that  could  shock 
him  and  offend  his  conscience. 

He  thought  it  was  only  a  morbid  jest  of  a  neurasthenic  girl, 
amusing  herself  by  annoying  him.  He  would  shrug  his  shoul- 
ders or  pretend  not  to  hear  her :  he  would  not  take  her  seriously. 
But  sometimes  he  would  long  to  throw  her  out  of  the  window : 
for  neurasthenia  and  the  neurasthenics  were  very  little  to  his 
taste.  .  .  . 

But  ten  minutes  away  from  her  were  enough  to  make  him 
forget  everything  that  had  annoyed  him.  He  would  return  to 
Ada  with  a  fresh  store  of  hopes  and  new  illusions.  He  loved 
her.  Love  is  a  perpetual  act  of  faith.  Whether  God  exist  or 
no  is  a  small  matter :  we  believe,  because  we  believe.  We  love 
because  we  love :  there  is  no  need  of  reasons !  .  .  . 

After  Christophe's  quarrel  with  the  Vogels  it  became  im- 
possible for  them  to  stay  in  the  house,  and  Louisa  had  to  seek 
another  lodging  for  herself  and  her  son. 

One  day  Christophe's  younger  brother  Ernest,  of  whom  they 
had  not  heard  for  a  long  time,  suddenly  turned  up.  lie  was 
out  of  work,  having  been  dismissed  in  turn  from  all  the  situa- 
tions he  had  procured:  his  purse  was  empty  and  his  health 
ruined :  and  so  he  had  thought  it  would  be  as  well  to  re-establish 
himself  in  his  mother's  house. 

Ernest  was  not  on  bad  terms  with  either  of  his  brothers: 
they  thought  very  little  of  him  and  he  knew  it:  but  lie  did  not 
bear  any  grudge  against  them,  for  he  did  not  care.  They  had 
no  ill-feeling  against  him.  It  was  not  worth  the  trouble, 
Everything  they  said  to  him  slipped  oil'  his  back  without  leav- 
ing a  mark.  He  just  smiled  with  his  sly  eyes,  tried  to  look 
contrite,  thought  of  something  else,  agreed,  thanked  them,  and 
in  the  end  always  managed  to  extort  money  from  one  or  other 
of  them.  In  spite  of  himself  Christophe  was  fond  of  the  pleas- 


YOUTH  333 

ant  mortal  who,  like  himself,  and  more  than  himself,  resembled 
their  father  Melchior  in  feature.  Tall  and  strong  like  Chris- 
tophe,  he  had  regular  features,  a  frank  expression,  a  straight 
nose,  a  laughing  mouth,  fine  teeth,  and  endearing  manners. 
When  even  Christophe  saw  him  he  was  disarmed  and  could  not 
deliver  half  the  reproaches  that  he  had  prepared:  in  his  heart 
he  had  a  sort  of  motherly  indulgence  for  the  handsome  boy 
who  was  of  his  blood,  and  physically  at  all  events  did  him  credit. 
He  did  not  believe  him  to  be  bad:  and  Ernest  was  not  a  fool. 
Without  culture,  he  was  not  without  brains:  he  was  even  not 
incapable  of  taking  an  interest  in  the  things  of  the  mind.  He 
enjoyed  listening  to  music :  and  without  understanding  his 
brother's  compositions  he  would  listen  to  them  with  interest. 
Christophe,  who  did  not  receive  too  much  sympathy  from  his 
family,  had  been  glad  to  see  him  at  some  of  his  concerts. 

But  Ernest's  chief  talent  was  the  knowledge  that  he  pos- 
sessed of  the  character  of  his  two  brothers,  and  his  skill  in 
making  use  of  his  knowledge.  It  was  no  use  Christophe  know- 
ing Ernest's  egoism  and  indifference :  it  was  no  use  his  seeing 
that  Ernest  never  thought  of  his  mother  or  himself  except 
when  he  had  need  of  them :  he  was  always  taken  in  by  his 
affectionate  ways  and  very  rarely  did  he  refuse  him  anything. 
He  much  preferred  him  to  his  other  brother  Rodolphe,  who 
was  orderly  and  correct,  assiduous  in  his  business,  strictly  moral, 
never  asked  for  money,  and  never  gave  any  either,  visited  his 
mother  regularly  eveiy  Sunday,  stayed  an  hour,  and  only  talked 
about  himself,  boasting  about  himself,  his  firm,  and  everything 
that  concerned  him,  never  asking  about  the  others,  and  taking 
no  interest  in  them,  and  going  away  when  the  hour  was  up, 
quite  satisfied  with  having  done  his  duty.  Christophe  could 
not  bear  him.  He  always  arranged  to  be  out  when  Rodolphe 
came.  Hodolphe  was  jealous  of  him:  lie  despised  artists,  and 
Christophe's  success  really  hurt  him,  though  lie  did  not  fail 
to  turn  his  small  fame  to  account  in  the1  commercial  circles  in 
which  he  moved:  but  he  never  said  a  word  about  it  either  to 
his  mother  or  to  Christophe:  he  pretended  to  ignore  it.  On 
the  other  hand,  he  never  ignored  the  least  of  the  unpleasant 
things  that  happened  to  Christophe.  Christophe  despised  such 
pettiness,  and  pretended  not  to  notice  it :  but  it  would  really 


334  JEAX-CHRISTOPHE 

have  hurt  him  to  know,  though  ho  never  thought  ahout  it,  that 
much  of  the  unpleasant  information  that  Rodolphe  had  ahout 
him  came  from  Ernest.  The  young  rascal  fed  the  differences 
between  Christophe  and  Rodolphe:  no  doubt  he  recognized  Chris- 
tophe's  superiority  and  perhaps  even  sympathized  a  little  ironi- 
cally with  his  candor.  But  he  took  good  care  to  turn  it  to 
account:  and  while  he  despised  Rodolphe's  ill-feeling  he  ex- 
ploited it  shamefully.  He  flattered  his  vanity  and  jealousy, 
accepted  his  rebukes  deferentially  and  kept  him  primed  with 
the  scandalous  gossip  of  the  town,  especially  with  everything 
concerning  Christophe,- — of  which  he  was  always  marvelously 
informed.  So  he  attained  his  ends,  and  Rodolphe,  in  spite  of 
his  avarice,  allowed  Ernest  to  despoil  him  just  as  Christophe 
did. 

So  Ernest  made  use  and  a  mock  of  them  both,  impartially. 
And  so  both  of  them  loved  him. 

In  spite  of  his  tricks  Ernest  was  in  a  pitiful  condition 
when  he  turned  up  at  his  mother's  house.  He  had  come 
from  Munich,  where  he  had  found  and,  as  usual,  almost  im- 
mediately lost  a  situation.  He  had  had  to  travel  the  best 
part  oC  the  way  on  foot,  through  storms  of  rain,  sleeping- 
God  knows  where.  lie  was  covered  with  mud,  ragged,  look- 
ing like  a  beggar,  and  coughing  miserably.  Louisa  was  up- 
set and  Christophe  ran  to  him  in  alarm  when  they  saw  him 
come  in.  Ernest,  whose  tears  flowed  easily,  did  not  fail  to 
make  use  of  the  effect  he  had  produced:  and  there  was  a 
general  reconciliation:  all  three  wept  in  each  other's  arms. 

Christophe  gave  up  his  room:  they  warmed  the  bed,  and  laid 
the  invalid  in  it,  who  seemed  to  be  on  the  point  of  death. 
Louisa  and  Christophe  sat  by  his  bedside  and  took  it  in  turns 
to  watch  bv  him.  Thev  called  in  a  doctor,  procured  medicines, 
made  a  good  lire  in  the  room,  and  gave  him  special  food. 

Then  they  had  to  clothe  him  from  head  to  foot:  linen,  shoes, 
clothes,  everything  new.  Krnest  left  himself  in  their  hands. 
Louisa  and  Chrislophe  sweated  to  sqiiee/e  the  money  from  their 
expenditure.  They  were  very  straitened  at  the  moment:  the 
removal,  the  new  lodgings,  which  were  dearer  though  just  as 
uncomfortable,  fewer  lessons  for  Christophe  and  more  expenses. 
They  could  just  make  both  ends  meet.  They  managed 


YOUTH  a;{a 

somehow.  No  doubt.  Christophe  could  have  applied  to 
Kodolphe,  who  was  more  in  a  position  ID  help  Krnest, 
but  he  would  not  :  he  made  it  a  point  of  honor  to  help  his 
brother  alone.  He  thought  himself  obliged  to  do  so  a>  the 
eldest,— and  because  he  was  Christophe.  Hot  with  shame  lie 
had  to  aeeept,  to  declare  his  willingness  to  accept  an  oll'er  \\hich 
he  had  indignantly  rejected  a  fortnight  before,  a  proposd  from 
an  agent  of  an  unknown  wealthy  amateur  who  wanted  to 
buy  a  musical  composition  for  publication  under  his  own  name. 
Louisa  took  work  out,  mendillg  linen.  They  hid  their  saerilice 
from  each  other:  they  lied  about  the  money  they  brought 
home. 

When  Ernest  was  convalescent  and  sitting  huddled  up  by 
the  lire,  he  confessed  one  day  between  his  Ills  of  coughing  that 
he  had  a  few  debts. — They  were  paid.  No  one  reproached  him. 
That  would  not  have  been  kind  to  an  invalid  ami  a  prodigal 
son  who  had  repented  and  returned  home.  l''or  Krnesl  seemed 
to  have  been  changed  by  adversity  and  sickness.  With  tears 
in  his  eyes  he  spoke  of  his  past  misdeeds:  and  Louisa  kissed 
him  and  (old  him  to  think  no  more  of  them,  lie  was  fond: 
lie  had  always  been  able  to  get  round  his  mother  by  his  demon- 
strations of  affection:  Christophe  had  once  been  a  lit  lie  jealous 
of  him.  Now  he  thought  il  natural  that  the  younge.-l,  and  the 
weakest  son  should  be  the  most  lo\cd.  In  spile  of  the  small 
difference  in  their  ages  he  regarded  him  almost  as  a  son  rather 
than  as  a  brother.  Krnest  showed  great  respect  for  him:  some- 
times he  would  allude  to  the  burdens  that  Christophc  \\as  I  a  I.  in;.1' 
upon  himself,  and  to  his  sacrifice  of  monev:  but  Chri.-lophe 
would  not  let  him  go  on,  and  Krnesl  would  .-01 
with  showing  his  gratitude  in  his  eyes  hiimblv  and  alb 
lie  would  argue  with  the  advice  thai  Chri.-lophc  ga\e 
he  would  seem  disposed  to  change  his.  wav  of  I 
work  seriously  as  soon  as  he  was  well  again. 

He  recovered:  but  had  a  long  com  ale-cen<  ,•.  'I  lie  doctor 
declared  that  his  health,  which  h<-  had  abu-ed.  nee. led  fo  he 
fostered.  So  lie  slaved  on  in  his  mother'-  hou.-e,  -hanng 
Christophe's  bed.  eating  hearlilv  the  lire, id  !hal  hi.-,  brother 
earned,  and  the  little  daintv  dishe-  that  Loiii-a  prepared  for 
lie  never  spoke  of  going.  Loui.-a  and  Chn.-tophe  never 


336  JEAN-CHEISTOPHE 

mentioned  it  either.  The}'  were  too  happy  to  have  found  again 
the  son  and  the  brother  they  loved. 

Little  by  little  in  the  long  evenings  that  he  spent  with  Ernest 
Christophe  began  to  talk  intimately  to  him.  He  needed  to 
confide  in  somebody.  Ernest  was  clever:  he  had  a  quick  mind 
and  understood — or  seemed  to  understand — on  a  hint  only. 
There  was  pleasure  in  talking  to  him.  And  yet  Christophe 
dared  not  tell  him  about  what  lay  nearest  to  his  heart:  his 
love.  He  was  kept  back  by  a  sort  of  modesty.  Ernest.,  who 
knew  all  about  it,  never  let  it  appear  that  he  knew. 

One  day  when  Ernest  was  quite  well  again  he  went  in  the 
sunny  afternoon  and  lounged  along  the  Rhine.  As  he  passed 
a  noisy  inn  a  little  way  out  of  the  town,  where  there  were 
drinking  and  dancing  on  Sundays,  he  saw  Christophe  sitting 
with  Ada  and  Myrrha,  who  were  making  a  great  noise.  Chris- 
tophe saw  him  too,  and  blushed.  Ernest  was  discreet  and  passed 
on  without  acknowledging  him. 

Christophe  was  much  embarrassed  by  the  encounter :  it  made 
him  more  keenly  conscious  of  the  company  in  which  he  was : 
it  hurt  him  that  his  brother  should  have  seen  him  then :  not 
only  because  it  made  him  lose  the  right  of  judging  Ernest's 
conduct,  but  because  he  had  a  very  lofty,  very  naive,  and  rather 
archaic  notion  of  his  duties  as  an  elder  brother  which  would 
have  seemed  absurd  to  many  people:  he  thought  that  in  failing 
in  that  duty,  as  he  was  doing,  he  was  lowered  in  his  own  eyes. 

In  the  evening  when  they  were  together  in  their  room,  he 
waited  for  Ernest  to  allude  to  what  had  happened.  But  Ernest 
prudently  said  nothing  and  waited  also.  Then  while  they  were 
undressing  Christophe  decided  to  speak  about  his  love.  He  was 
so  ill  at  ease  that  he  dared  not  look  at  Ernest :  and  in  his  shy- 
ness he  assumed  a  gruff  way  of  speaking.  Ernest  did  not  help 
him  out:  he  was  silent  and  did  not  look  at  him,  though  he 
watched  him  all  the  same:  and  he  missed  none  of  the  humor 
of  Christophe's  awkwardness  and  clumsy  words.  Christophe 
hardly  dared  pronounce  Ada's  name:  and  the  portrait  that  he 
drew  of  her  would  have  done  just  as  well  for  any  woman  who 
was  loved.  But  he  spoke  of  his  love:  little  by  little  he  was 
carried  away  by  the  flood  of  tenderness  that  filled  his  heart: 
he  said  how  good  it  was  to  love,  how  wretched  he  had  been  before 


YOUTH  337 

he  had  found  that  light  in  the  darkness,  and  that  life  was 
nothing  without  a  dear,  deep-seated  love.  His  brother  listened 
gravely:  he  replied  tactfully,  and  asked  no  questions:  but  a 
warm  handshake  showed  that  he  was  of  Christophe's  way  of 
thinking.  They  exchanged  ideas  concerning  love  and  life. 
Christophe  was  happy  at  being  so  well  understood.  They  ex- 
changed a  brotherly  embrace  before  they  went  to  sleep. 

Christophe  grew  accustomed  to  confiding  his  love  to  Ernest, 
though  always  shyly  and  reservedly.  Ernest's  discretion  re- 
assured him.  -He  let  him  know  his  uneasiness  about  Ada :  but 
he  never  blamed  her :  he  blamed  himself :  and  with  tears  in 
his  eyes  he  would  declare  that  he  could  not  live  if  he  were  to 
lose  her. 

He  did  not  forget  to  tell  Ada  about  Ernest:  he  praised  his 
wit  and  his  good  looks. 

Ernest  never  approached  Christophe  with  a  request  to  be 
introduced  to  Ada :  but  he  would  shut  himself  up  in  his  room 
and  sadly  refuse  to  go  out,  saying  that  he  did  not  know  any- 
body. Christophe  would  think  ill  of  himself  on  Sundays  for 
going  on  his  excursions  with  Ada,  while  his  brother  stayed 
at  home.  And  yet  he  hated  not  to  be  alone  witli  his  beloved: 
he  accused  himself  of  selfishness  and  proposed  that  Ernest 
should  come  with  them. 

The  introduction  took  place  at  Ada's  door,  on  the  landing. 
Ernest  and  Ada  bowed  politely.  Ada  came  out,  followed  by 
her  inseparable  Myrrha,  who  when  she  saw  Ernest  gave  a  little 
cry  of  surprise.  Ernest  smiled,  went  up  to  Myrrha,  and 
kissed  her :  she  seemed  to  take  it  as  a  matter  of  course. 

"What!  You  know  each  other?"  asked  Christophe  in  aston- 
ishment. 

"  Why,  yes  !  "  said  Myrrha,  laughing. 

"  Since  when  ?  " 

"Oh,  a  long  time!  " 

"And  you  knew?"  asked  Christophe.  turning  to  Ada.  "Why 
did  you  not  tell  me?" 

"  Oo  you  think  T  know  all  Myrrha's  lovers?  "  said  Ada.  shrug- 
ging her  shoulders. 

Myrrha  took  up  the  word  and  pretended  in  fun  to  be  angry. 
Christophe  could  not  find  out  any  more  about  it.  He  was 


338  ,7  EAN-CHKISTOl  MI  K 

depressed.  It  seemed  to  him  that  Ernest  and  Myrrha  and  Ada 
had  been  lacking  in  honesty,  although  indeed  he  could  not  have 
brought  any  lie  up  against  them:  but  it  was  difficult  to  believe 
that  Myrrha,  who  had  no  secrets  from  Ada,  had  made  a  mys- 
tery of  this,  and  that  Ernest  and  Ada  were  not  already  ac- 
quainted with  each  other.  He  watched  them.  But  they  only 
exchanged  a  few  trivial  words  and  Ernest  only  paid  attention 
to  Myrrha  all  the  rest  of  the  day.  Ada  only  spoke  to  Chris- 
tophe:  and  she  was  much  more  amiable  to  him  than  usual. 

From  that  time  on  Ernest  always  joined  them.  Christophe 
could  have  done  without  him  :  but  he  dared  not  say  so.  He 
had  no  other  motive  for  wanting  to  leave  his  brother  out  than 
his  shame  in  having  him  for  boon  companion.  He  had  no 
suspicion  of  him.  Ernest  gave  him  no  cause  for  it:  he  seemed 
to  be  in  love  with  Myrrha  and  was  always  reserved  and  polite 
with  Ada,  and  even  affected  to  avoid  her  in  a  way  that  was  a 
litUe  out  of  place:  it  was  as  though  he  wished  to  show  his 
brother's  mistress  a  little  of  the  respect  he  showed  to  himself. 
Ada  was  not  surprised  by  it  and  was  none  the  less  careful. 

They  went  on  long  excursions  together.  The  two  brothers 
would  walk  on  in  front.  Ada  and  Myrrha,  laughing  and  whis- 
pering, would  follow  a  few  yards  behind.  They  would  stop 
in  the  middle  of  the  road  and  talk.  Christophe  and  Ernest 
would  stop  and  wait  for  them.  Christophe  would  lose  patience 
and  go  on:  but  soon  he  would  turn  back  annoyed  and  irritated, 
by  hearing  Ernest  talking  and  laughing  with  the  two  young 
women,  lie  would  want  to  know  what  thev  were  saying:  but 
when  they  came  up  with  him  their  conversation  would  stop. 

"What  are  you  three  always  plotting  together?'1  he  would 
ask. 

The\'  would  reply  with  some  joke.  They  had  a  secret  under- 
standing like  thieves  at  a  fair. 

Christophe  had  a  sharp  quarrel  with  Ada.  They  had  been 
cross  with  each  other  all  dav.  Strange  to  sav,  Ada  had  not 
assumed  her  air  of  oU'ended  dignity,  to  which  she  usually 
resorted  in  such  cases,  so  as  to  avenge  herself,  bv  making  her- 
self as  intolerably  tiresome  as  usual.  Now  she  simply  pre- 
tended to  ignore  Christophe's  existence  and  she  was  in  excellent 


YOUTH  339 

spirits  with  the  other  two.  It  was  as  though  in  her  heart  she 
was  not  put  out  at  all  by  the  quarrel. 

Christophe,  on  the  other  hand,  longed  to  make  peace:  he 
was  more  in  love  than  ever.  His  tenderness  was  now  mingled 
with  a  feeling  of  gratitude  for  all  the  good  things  love  had 
hrought  him,  and  regret  for  the  hours  he  had  wasted  in  stupid 
argument  and  angry  thoughts — and  the  unreasoning  fear,  the 
mysterious  idea  that  their  love  was  Hearing  its  end.  Sadly  he 
looked  at  Ada's  pretty  face  and  she  pretended  not  to  sec  him 
while  she  was  laughing  with  the  others:  and  the  sight  of  her 
woke  in  him  so  many  dear  memories,  of  great  love,  of  sincere 
intimacy. — Her  face  had  sometimes — it  had  now — so  much  good- 
ness in  it,  a  smile  so  pure,  that  Christophe  asked  himself  why 
things  were  not  better  between  them,  why  they  spoiled  their 
happiness  with  their  whimsies,  why  she  would  insist  on  for- 
getting their  bright  hours,  and  denying  and  combating  all  that 
was  good  and  honest  in  her — what  strange  satisfaction  she 
could  find  in  spoiling,  and  smudging,  if  only  in  thought,  the 
purity  of  their  love.  He  was  conscious  of  an  immense  need 
of  believing  in  the  object  of  his  love,  and  he  tried  once  more 
to  bring  back  his  illusions.  He  accused  himself  of  injustice: 
he  was  remorseful  for  the  thoughts  that  he  attributed  to  her., 
and  of  his  lack  of  charity. 

He  went  to  her  and  tried  to  talk  to  her:  she  answered  him 
with  a  few  curt  words:  she  had  no  desire  for  a  reconciliation 
with  him.  He  insisted:  he  begged  her  to  listen  to  him  for  a 
moment  away  from  the  others.  She  followed  him  ungraciously. 
When  they  were  a  few  yards  away  so  that  neither  Myrrha  nor 
Ernest  could  see  them,  he  took  her  hands  and  begged  her 
pardon,  and  knelt  at  her  feet  in  the  dead  leaves  of  the  wood. 
He  told  her  that  he  could  not  go  on  living  so  at  loggerheads 
with  her:  that  he  found  no  pleasure  in  the  walk,  or  the  line 
day:  that  he  could  enjoy  nothing,  and  could  not  even  breathe, 
knowing  that  she  detested  him:  he  weeded  her  love.  Yes:  he 
was  often  unjust,  violent,  disagreeable:  he  begged  her  to  forgive 
him:  it  was  the  fault  of  his  love.,  he  could  not  bear  anything 
second-rate  in  her,  nothing  that  was  altogether  unworthy  of 
her  and  their  memories  of  their  clear  past,  lie  reminded  her 
of  it  all,  of  their  first  meeting,  their  iirst  days  together:  he 


340  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

said  that  he  loved  her  just  as  much,  that  he  would  always  love 
her,  that  she  should  not  go  away  from  him !  She  was  every- 
thing to  him.  .  .  . 

Ada  listened  to  him,  smiling,  uneasy,  almost  softened.  She 
looked  at  him  with  kind  eyes,  eyes  that  said  that  they  loved 
each  other,  and  that  she  was  no  longer  angry.  They  kissed, 
and  holding  each  other  close  they  went  into  the  leafless  woods. 
She  thought  Christophe  good  and  gentle,  and  was  grateful  to 
him  for  his  tender  words :  but  she  did  not  relinquish  the  naughty 
whims  that  were  in  her  mind.  But  she  hesitated,  she  did  not 
cling  to  them  so  tightly :  and  yet  she  did  not  abandon  what  she 
had  planned  to  do.  Why?  Who  can  say?  .  .  .  Because  she 
had  vowed  what  she  would  do? — Who  knows?  Perhaps  she 
thought  it  more  entertaining  to  deceive  her  lover  that  day,  to 
prove  to  him,  to  prove  to  herself  her  freedom.  She  had  no 
thought  of  losing  him :  she  did  not  wish  for  that.  She  thought 
herself  more  sure  of  him  than  ever. 

They  reached  a  clearing  in  the  forest.  There  were  two 
paths.  Christophe  took  one.  Ernest  declared  that  the  other 
led  more  quickly  to  the  top  of  the  hill  whither  they  were  going. 
Ada  agreed  with  him.  Christophe,  who  knew  the  way,  having 
often  been  there,  maintained  that  they  were  wrong.  They  did 
not  yield.  Then  they  agreed  to  try  it :  and  each  wagered  that 
lie  would  arrive  first.  Ada  went  with  Ernest.  Myrrlia  accom- 
panied Christophe :  she  pretended  that  she  was  sure  that  he 
was  right :  and  she  added,  "  As  usual/'  Christophe  had  taken 
the  game  seriously:  and  as  he  never  liked  to  lose,  he  walked 
quickly,  too  quickly  for  Myrrha's  liking,  for  she  was  in  much 
less  of  a  hurry  than  he. 

"  Don't  be  in  a  hurry,  my  friend,"  she  said,  in  her  quiet, 
ironic  voice,  "  we  shall  get  there  first." 

He  was  a  little  sorry. 

"  True,"  he  said,  "  1  am  going  a  little  too  fast :  there  is  no 
need." 

He  slackened  his  pace. 

"But  I  know  them."  he  went  on.  "I  am  sure  they  will 
run  so  as  to  be  there  before  us." 

Myrrha  burst  out  laughing. 

"  Oh !  no/'  she  said.    "  Oh !  no :  don't  you  worry  about  that." 


YOUTH  341 

She  hung  on  his  arm  and  pressed  close  to  him.  She  was 
a  little  shorter  than  Christophe,  and  as  they  walked  she  raised 
her  soft  eyes  to  his.  She  was  really  pretty  and  alluring.  lie 
hardly  recognized  her:  the  change  was  extraordinary.  Usually 
her  face  was  rather  pale  and  puffy :  but  the  smallest  excitement, 
a  merry  thought,  or  the  desire  to  please,  was  enough  to  make 
her  worn  expression  vanish,  and  her  cheeks  go  pink,  and  the 
little  wrinkles  in  her  eyelids  round  and  below  her  eyes  dis- 
appear, and  her  eyes  flash,  and  her  whole  face  take  on  a  youth, 
a  life,  a  spiritual  quality  that  never  was  in  Ada's.  Christophe 
was  surprised  by  this  metamorphosis,  and  turned  his  eyes  away 
from  hers:  he  was  a  little  uneasy  at  being  alone  with  her.  She 
embarrassed  him  and  prevented  him  from  dreaming  as  he 
pleased:  he  did  not  listen  to  what  she  said,  he  did  not  answer 
her,  or  if  he  did  it  was  only  at  random  :  he  was  thinking — 
he  wished  to  think  only  of  Ada.  lie  thought  of  the  kindness 
in  her  eyes,  her  smile,  her  kiss:  and  his  heart  was  filled  with 
love.  Myrrha  wanted  to  make  him  admire  the  beauty  of  the 
trees  with  their  little  branches  against  the  clear  sky.  .  .  .  Yes : 
it  was  all  beautiful:  the  clouds  were  gone.  Ada  had  returned 
to  him,  he  had  succeeded  in  breaking  the  ice  that  lay  between 
them:  they  loved  once  more:  near  or  far,  they  were  one.  He 
sighed  with  relief:  how  light  the  air  was!  Ada  had  come  back 
to  him.  .  .  .  Everything  brought  her  to  mind.  ...  It  was  a 
little  damj):  would  she  not  be  cold?  .  .  .  The  lovely  trees  were 
powdered  with  hoar-frost :  what  a  pity  she  should  not  see  them  ! 
.  .  .  But  he  remembered  the  wager,  and  hurried  on :  he  was 
concerned  only  with  not  losing  the  way.  lie  shouted  joyfully 
as  they  reached  the  goal : 

"  We  are  first !  " 

He  waved  his  hat  gleefully.     Myrrha  watched  him  and  smiled. 

The  place  where  they  stood  was  a  high,  steep  rock  in  the 
middle  of  the  woods.  From  this  flat  summit  with  its  fringe 
of  nut-trees  and  little  stunted  oaks  they  could  see,  over  the 
wooded  slopes,  the  tops  of  the  pines  bathed  in  a  purple  mist, 
and  the  long  ribbon  of  the  Hhine  in  the  blue  valley.  Not  a  bird 
called.  Not  a  voice.  Not  a  breath  of  air.  A  still,  culm  winter's 
day,  its  chilliness  faintly  wanned  by  the  pale  beams  of  a  mistv 
sun.  Now  and  then  in  the  distance  there  came  the  sharp 


342  J  EAX-CHRISTOPHK 

whistle  of  a  train  in  the  valley.  Christophe  stood  at  the  edge 
of  the  rock  and  looked  down  at  the  countryside.  Myrrh  a  watched 
Christophe. 

He  turned  to  her  amiably: 

"Well!  The  lazy  things.  I  told  them  so!  ...  Well:  we 
must  wait  for  them.  .  .  ." 

lie  lay  stretched  out  in  the  sun  on  the  cracked  earth. 

"  Yes.     Let  us  wait  .  .  ."  said  Myrrha,  taking  off  her  hat. 

In  her  voice  there  was  something  so  quizzical  that  he  raised 
his  head  and  .looked  at  her. 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked  quietly. 

"  What  did  you  say  ?  " 

"  I  said:  Let  us  wait.     It  was  no  use  making  me  run  so  fast." 

"  True." 

They  waited  lying  on  the  rough  ground.  Myrrha  hummed  a 
tune.  Christophe  took  it  up  for  a  few  phrases.  But  he  stopped 
every  now  and  then  to  listen. 

"  I  think  I  can  hear  them." 

Myrrha   went   on  singing. 

"  .Do  stop  for  a  moment.'7 

Myrrha  stopped. 

"  Xo.      It   is   nothing." 

She  went  on  with  her  song. 

Christophe  could  not  stay  still. 

"Perhaps  they  have  lost  their  way." 

"'Lost?     They  could  not.     Ernest  knoAvs  all  the  paths/7 

A  fantastic  idea  passed   through   Christophe's  mind. 

"  Perhaps  they  arrived  first,  and  went  away  before  we  came!  " 

Myrrha  was  lying  on  her  hack  and  looking  at  the  sun.  She 
was  sei/.ed  \vith  a  wild  burst  of  laughter  in  ihe  middle  of  her 
song  and  all  but  choked.  Christophe  insisted.  lie  wanted  to 
go  down  to  (he  station,  saying  that  their  friends  would  be  there 
already.  Myrrha  at  last  made  up  her  mind  to  move. 

"  You  would  he  ci-riaiii  to  lose  them  !  .  .  .  'There  was  never 
anv  talk  about  the;  station.  We  were  to  meet  here."1 

fie  sat  down  by  her  side.  She  was  amused  !>v  his  eagerness. 
He  was  conscious  of  the  irony  in  her  gaze  as  she  looked  at 
him.  He  began  to  he  seriously  troubled — to  be  anxious  about 
them  :  he  did  not  suspect  them.  He  got  up  once  more.  He 


YOUTH  343 

spoke  of  going  down  into  the  woods  again  and  looking  for  them, 
calling  to  them.  Myrrha  gave  a  little  chuckle :  she  took  from 
her  pocket  a  needle,  scissors,  and  thread :  and  she  calmly  undid 
and  sewed  in  again  the  feathers  in  her  hat:  she  seemed  to  have 
established  herself  for  the  day. 

"  No,  no,  silly/'  she  said.  "  If  they  wanted  to  come  do  you 
think  they  would  not  come  of  their  own  accord?" 

There  was  a  catch  at  his  heart.  He  turned  towards  her : 
she  did  not  look  at  him :  she  was  busy  with  her  work.  He  went 
up  to  her. 

"  Myrrha  !  "  he  said. 

"  Eh  ?  "  she  replied  without  stopping.  He  knelt  now  to  look 
more  nearly  at  her. 

"  Myrrha  !  "  he  repeated. 

"  Well  ? "  she  asked,  raising  her  eyes  from  her  work  and 
looking  at  him  with  a  smile.  "  What  is  it?  " 

She  had  a  mocking  expression  as  she  saw  his  downcast 
face. 

"  Myrrha !  "  he  asked,  choking,  "  tell  me  what  you  think  .  .  ." 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders,  smiled,  and  went  on  working. 

He  caught  her  hands  and  took  away  the  hat  at  which  she  was 
sewing. 

"  Leave  off,  leave  off,  and  tell  me.  .  .  ." 

She  looked  squarely  at  him  and  waited.  She  saw  that  Chris- 
tophe's  lips  were  trembling. 

"  You  think,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice,  "  that  Ernest  and 
Ada  .  .  .?" 

She  smiled. 

"  Oh !  well !  " 

He  started  back  angrily. 

"No!  No!  It  is  impossible!  You  don't  think  that!  .  .  . 
No!  No!" 

She  put  her  hands  on  his  shoulders  and  rocked  with  laughter. 

''How  dense  you  are,  how  dense,  my  dear!" 

He  shook  her  violently. 

"Don't  laugh!  Why  do  you  laugh?  You  would  not  laugh 
if  it  were  true.  You  love  Ernest.  .  .  ." 

She  went  on  laughing  and  drew  him  to  her  and  kissed  him. 
In  spite  of  himself  he  returned  her  kiss.  But  when  he  felt  her 


344  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

lips  on  his,  her  lips,  still  warm  with  his  brother's  kisses,  he 
flung  her  away  from  him  and  held  her  face  away  from  his 
own :  he  asked : 

'-  You  knew  it  ?     It  was  arranged  between  you  ?  " 

She  said  "  Yes,"  and  laughed. 

Christophe  did  not  cry  out,  he  made  no  movement  of  anger. 
He  opened  his  mouth  as  though  lie  could  not  breathe:  he  closed 
his  eyes  and  clutched  at  his  breast  with  his  hands:  his  heart 
was  bursting.  Then  he  lay  down  on  the  ground  with  his  face 
buried  in  his  hands  and  he  was  shaken  by  a  crisis  of  disgust 
and  despair  like  a  child.  • 

Myrrha,  who  was  not  very  soft-hearted,  was  sorry  for  him : 
involuntarily  she  was  filled  with  motherly  compassion,  and 
leaned  over  him,  and  spoke  affectionately  to  him,  and  tried  to 
make  him  sniff  at  her  smelling-bottle.  But  he  thrust  her  away 
in  horror  and  got  up  so  sharply  that  she  was  afraid.  He  had 
neither  strength  nor  desire  for  revenge.  He  looked  at  her  with 
bis  face  twisted  with  grief. 

"  You  drab,"  he  said  in  despair.  "  You  do  not  know  the 
harm  you  have  done.  .  .  ." 

She  tried  to  hold  him  back.  He  fled  through  the  woods, 
spitting  out  his  disgust  with  such  ignominy,  with  such  muddy 
hearts,  with  such  incestuous  sharing  as  that  to  which  they  had 
tried  to  bring  him.  He  wept,  he  trembled:  he  sobbed  with  dis- 
gust. He  was  filled  with  horror,  of  them  all,  of  himself,  of 
his  body  and  soul.  A  storm  of  contempt  broke  loose  in  him: 
it  had  long  been  brewing:  sooner  or  later  there  had  to  come 
the  reaction  against  the  base  thoughts,  the  degrading  com- 
promises, the  stale  and  pestilential  atmosphere  in  which  he  had 
been  living  for  months:  but  the  need  of  loving,  of  deceiving 
himself  about  the  woman  he  loved,  had  postponed  the  crisis 
as  long  as  possible.  Suddenly  it  burst  upon  him:  and  it  was 
better  so.  There  was  a  great  gust  of  wind  of  a  biting  purity, 
an  icy  brce/e  which  swept  away  the  miasma.  Disgust  in  one 
swoop  had  killed  his  love  for  Ada. 

If  Ada  thought  more  (irmly  to  establish  her  domination  over 
Christophe  by  such  an  act,  that  proved  once  more  her  gross 
inappreciation  of  her  lover.  Jealousy  which  binds  souls  that 
are  besmirched  could  only  revolt  a  nature  like  Christophe's, 


YOUTH  345 

young,  proud,  and  pure.  But  what  he  could  not  forgive,  what 
he  never  would  forgive,  was  that  the  betrayal  was  not  the  out- 
come of  passion  in  Ada,  hardly  even  of  one  of  those  absurd 
and  degrading  though  often  irresistible  caprice's  to  which  the 
reason  of  a  woman  is  sometimes  hard  put  to  it  not  to  surrender. 
No — he  understood  now, — it  was  in  her  a  secret  desire  to  de- 
grade him,  to  humiliate  him,  to  punish  him  for  his  moral 
resistance,  for  his  inimical  faith,  to  lower  him  to  the  common 
level,  to  bring  him  to  her  feet,  to  prove  to  herself  her  own 
power  for  evil.  And  he  asked  himself  with  horror :  what  is 
this  impulse  towards  dirtiness,  which  is  in  the  majority  of 
human  beings — this  desire  to  besmirch  the  purity  of  themselves 
and  others, — these  swinish  souls,  who  take  a  delight  in  rolling 
in  filth,  and  are  happy  when  not  one  inch  of  their  skins  is  left 
clean!  .  .  . 

Ada  waited  two  days  for  Christophe  to  return  to  her.  Then 
she  began  to  be  anxious,  and  sent  him  a  tender  note  in  which 
she  made  no  allusion  to  what  had  happened.  Christophe  did 
not  even  reply.  He  hated  Ada  so  profoundly  that  no  words 
could  express  his  hatred.  He  had  cut  her  out  of  his  life.  She 
no  longer  existed  for  him. 

Christophe  was  free  of  Ada,  but  he  was  not  free  of  himself. 
In  vain  did  he  try  to  return  into  illusion  and  to  take  up  again 
the  calm  and  chaste  strength  of  the  past.  We  cannot  return 
to  the  past.  We  have  to  go  onward :  it  is  useless  to  turn  back, 
save  only  to  see  the  places  by  which  we  have  passed,  the  distant 
smoke  from  the  roofs  under  which  we  have  slept,  dying  away 
on  the  horizon  in  the  mists  of  memory.  But  nothing  so  dis- 
tances us  from  the  soul  that  we  had  as  a  few  months  of 
passion.  The  road  takes  a  sudden  turn :  the  country  is  changed  : 
it  is  as  though  we  were  saying  good-bye  for  the  last  time  to 
all  that  we  are  leaving  behind. 

Christophe  could  not  yield  to  it.  He  held  out  his  arms  to 
the  past:  he  strove  desperately  to  bring  to  life  again  the  soul 
that  had  been  his,  lonelv  and  resigned.  Hut.  it  was  gone. 
1'assion  itself  is  not  so  dangerous  as  the  ruins  that  it  heaps  up 
and  leaves  behind.  In  vain  did  Christophe  not  love,  in  vain — 
for  a  moment — did  he  despise  love  :  he  bore  the  marks,  of  its 


346  JEAX-CHRISTOPHE 

talons:  his  whole  being  was  steeped  in  it:  there  was  in  his 
heart  a  void  which  must  be  filled.  With  that  terrible  need  of 
tenderness  and  pleasure  which  devours  men  and  women  when 
they  have  once  tasted  it,  some  other  passion  was  needed,  were 
it  only  the  contrary  passion,  the  passion  of  contempt,  of  proud 
purity,  of  faith  in  virtue. — They  were  not  enough,  they  were 
not  enough  to  stay  his  hunger :  they  were  only  the  food  of  a 
moment.  His  life  consisted  of  a  succession  of  violent  reactions — 
leaps  from  one  extreme  to  the  oilier.  Sometimes  he  would 
bend  his  passion  to  rules  inhumanly  ascetic :  not  eating,  drink- 
ing water,  wearing  himself  out  with  walking,  heavy  tasks,  and 
so  not  sleeping,  denying  himself  every  sort  of  pleasure.  Some- 
times he  would  persuade  himself  that  strength  is  the  true 
morality  for  people  like  himself:  and  he  would  plunge  into  the 
quest  of  joy.  In  either  case  he  was  unhappy.  He  could  no 
longer  be  alone.  He  could  no  longer  not  be  alone. 

The  only  thing  that  could  have  saved  him  would  have  been 
to  find  a  true  friendship, — Eosa's  perhaps:  he  could  have  taken 
refuge  in  that.  But  the  rupture  was  complete  between  the 
two  families.  They  no  longer  met.  Only  once  had  Christophe 
seen  Bosa.  She  was  just  coming  out  from  Mass.  He  had 
hesitated  to  bow  to  her :  and  when  she  saw  him  she  had  made 
a  movement  towards  him :  but  when  he  had  tried  to  go  to  her 
through  the  stream  of  the  devout  walking  down  the  steps,  she 
had  turned  her  eyes  away :  and  when  he  approached  her  she 
bowed  coldly  and  passed  on.  In  the  girl's  heart  he  felt  intense, 
icy  contempt.  And  he  did  not  feel  that  she  still  loved  him 
and  would  have  liked  to  tell  him  so:  but  she  had  come  to  think 
of  her  love  as  a  fault  and  foolishness :  she  thought  Christophe 
bad  and  corrupt,  and  further  from  her  than  ever.  So  they 
were  lost  to  each  otber  forever.  And  perhaps  it  was  as  well 
for  both  of  them.  In  spite  of  her  goodness,  she  was  not  near 
enough  to  life  to  be  able  to  understand  him.  In  spite  of  his 
need  of  affection  and  respect  he  would  have  stifled  in  a  com- 
monplace and  confined  existence,  without  joy.  without  sorrow, 
without  air.  They  would  both  have  suffered.  The  unfortunate 
occurrence  which  cut  them  apart  was,  when  all  was  told,  per- 
haps, fortunate  as  often  happens — as  always  happens — to  those 
who  are  strong  and  endure. 


YOUTH  347 

But  at  the  moment  it  was  a  great  sorrow  and  a  great  mis- 
fortune for  them.  Especially  for  Christophe.  Such  virtuous 
intolerance,  such  narrowness  of  soul,  which  sometimes  seems 
to  deprive  those  who  have  the  most  of  them  of  all  intelligence, 
and  those  who  are  most  good  of  kindness,  irritated  him,,  hurt 
him,  and  flung  him  back  in  protest  into  a  freer  life. 

During  his  loafing  with  Ada  in  the  beer  gardens  of  the 
neighborhood  he  had  made  acquaintance  with  several  good  fel- 
lows— Bohemians,  whose  carelessness  and  freedom  of  manners 
had  not  been  altogether  distasteful  to  him.  One  of  them,  Friede- 
mann,  a  musician  like  himself,  an  organist,  a  man  of  thirty, 
was  not  without  intelligence,  and  was  good  at  his  work,  but 
he  was  incurably  lazy  and  rather  than  make  the  slightest  effort 
to  be  more  than  mediocre,  he  would  have  died  of  hunger,  though 
not,  perhaps,  of  thirst.  He  comforted  himself  in  his  indolence 
by  speaking  ill  of  those  who  lived  energetically,  God  knows 
why :  and  his  sallies,  rather  heavy  for  the  most  part,  generally 
made  people  laugh.  Having  more  liberty  than  his  companions, 
he  was  not  afraid, — though  timidly,  and  with  winks  and  nods 
and  suggestive  remarks, — to  sneer  at  those  who  held  positions : 
he  was  even  capable  of  not  having  ready-made  opinions  about 
music,  and  of  having  a  sly  fling  at  the  forged  reputations  of 
the  great  men  of  the  day.  He  had  no  mercy  upon  women 
either:  when  he  was  making  his  jokes  he  loved  to  repeat  the 
old  saying  of  some  misogynist  monk  about  them,  and  Chris- 
tophe enjoyed  its  bitterness  just  then  more  than  anybody : 

"  Fcmina  mors  aniinae." 

In  his  state  of  upheaval  Christophe  found  some  distraction 
in  talking  to  Friedemann.  He  judged  him.  he  could  not  long 
take  pleasure  in  this  vulgar  bantering  wit:  his  mockery  and 
perpetual  denial  became  irritating  before  long  and  he  felt  the 
impotence  of  it  all :  but  it  did  soothe  his  exasperation  with  the 
self-sufficient  stupidity  of  the  Philistines.  While  he  heartily 
despised  his  companion.  Christophe  could  not  do  without  him. 
They  were  continually  seen  together  sitting  with  the  unclassed 
and  doubtful  people  of  Friedemann's  acquaintance,  who  were 
even  more  worthless  than  himself.  They  used  to  play,  and 
harangue,  and  drink  the  whole  evening.  Christophe  would 
suddenly  wake  up  in  the  midst  of  the  dreadful  smell  of  food 


348  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

and  tobacco:  lie  would  look  at  the  people  about  him  with  strange 
eyes:  ho  would  not  recognize  them:  he  would  think  in 
agony : 

"Where  am  1?  Who  arc  these'  people?  What  have  I  to  do 
with  them  ?  " 

Their  remarks  and  their  laughter  would  make  him  sick.  But 
he  could  not  bring  himself  to  leave  them:  he  was  afraid  of 
going  home  and  of  being  left  alone  face  to  face  with  his  soul, 
his  desires,  and  remorse.  lie  was  going  to  the  dogs :  he  knew 
it:  he  was  doing  it  deliberately, — with  cruel  clarity  he  saw  in 
Frieclemann  the  degraded  image  of  what  he  was — of  what  he 
would  be  one  day:  and  he  was  passing  through  a  phase  of 
such  disheartenedness  and  disgust  that  instead  of  being  brought 
to  himself  by  such  a  menace,  it  actually  brought  him  low. 

He  would  have  gone  to  the  dogs,  if  he  could.  Fortunately, 
like  all  creatures  of  his  kind,  he  had  a  spring,  a  succor  against 
destruction  which  others  do  not  possess:  his  strength,  his  in- 
stinct for  life,  his  instinct  against  letting  himself  perish,  an 
instinct  more  intelligent  than  his  intelligence,  and  stronger  than 
his  will.  And  also,  unknown  to  himself,  he  had  the  strange 
curiosity  of  the  artist,  that  passionate,  impersonal  quality,  which 
is  in  every  creature  really  endowed  with  creative  power.  In 
vain  did  he  love,  suffer,  give  himself  utterly  to  all  his  passions: 
he  saw  them.  They  were  in  him  but  they  were  not  himself. 
A  myriad  of  little  souls  moved  obscurely  in  him  towards  a  fixed 
point  unknown,  yet  certain,  just  like  the  planetary  worlds 
which  are  drawn  through  space  into  a  mysterious  abyss.  That 
perpetual  state  of  unconscious  action  and  reaction  was  shown 
especially  in  those  giddy  moments  when  sleep  came  over  his 
daily  life,  and  from  the  depths  of  sleep  and  the  night  rose  the 
multiform  face  of  Being  with  its  sphinx-like  gaze.  For  a  year 
Christophe  had  been  obsessed  with  dreams  in  which  in  a  second 
of  time  he  felt  clearly  with  perfect  illusion  that  he  icas  at  one 
and  the  same  time  several  different  creatures,  often  far  removed 
from  each  other  bv  countries,  worlds,  centuries.  In  his  waking 
state  Christophe  was  still  under  his  hallucination  and  uneasi- 
ness, though  he  could  not  remember  what  had  caused  it.  It 
was  like  the  weariness  left  by  some  fixed  idea  that  is  gone, 
though  traces  of  it  are  left  and  there  is  no  understanding  it. 


YOUTH  349 

But  while  his  soul  was  so  troublously  strn "idling  through  the 
network  of  the  days,  another  soul,  eager  and  serene,  was  watch- 
ing all  his  desperate  efforts.  He  did  not  sec  il  :  hut  ii  east 
over  him  the  reflection  of  its  hidden  light.  That  sou!  was  joy- 
ously greedy  to  feel  everything,  to  suffer  everything,  to  observe 
and  understand  men,  women,  the  earth,  life,  desires,  passions, 
thoughts,  even  those  that  were  torturing,  even  those  that  were 
mediocre,  even  those  that  were  vile:  and  it  was  enough  to  lend 
them  a  little  of  its  light,  to  save  Christophe  from  destruction. 
Tt  made  him  feel — he  did  not  know  how — that  he  was  not 
altogether  alone.  That  love  of  being  and  of  knowing  everything, 
that  second  soul,  raised  a  rampart  against  his  destroying  pas- 
sions. 

But  if  it  was  enough  to  keep  his  head  above  water,  it  did 
not  allow  him  to  climb  out  of  it  unaided.  He  could  not  succeed 
in  seeing  clearly  into  himself,  and  mastering  himself,  and  re- 
gaining possession  of  himself.  Work  was  impossible  for  him. 
He  was  passing  through  an  intellectual  crisis:  the  most  fruitful 
of  his  life:  all  his  future  life  was  germinating  in  it:  but  that 
inner  wealth  for  the  time  being  only  showed  itself  in  extrava- 
gance: and  the  immediate  effect  of  such  superabundance  was 
not  different  from  that  of  the  flattest  sterility.  Christophe  was 
submerged  by  his  life.  All  his  powers  had  shot  up  and  grown 
too  fast,  all  at  once,  suddenly.  Only  his  will  had  not  grown 
with  them:  and  it  was  dismayed  by  such  a  throng  of  monsters. 
His  personality  was  cracking  in  every  part.  Of  this  earth- 
quake,' this  inner  cataclysm,  others  saw  nothing.  Christophe 
himself  could  see  only  his  impotence  to  will,  to  create,  to  be. 
Desires,  instincts,  thoughts  issued  one  after  another  like  clouds 
of  sulphur  from  the  fissures  of  a  volcano:  and  he  was  forever 
asking  himself:  "And  now.  what  will  come  out?  What  will 
become  of  me?  Will  it  alwavs  be  so?  or  is  this  the  end  of  all? 
Shall  T  be  nothing,  always?  " 

And  now  there  sprang  up  in  him  his  hereditary  fires,  the 
vices  of  those  who  had  gone  before  him. —  He  got  drunk.  He 
would  return  home  smelling  of  wine,  laughing,  in  a  state  of 
collapse. 

Poor  Louisa  would  look  at  him,  sigh,  say  nothing,  and  pray. 

But  one  evening  when  he  was  coming  out  of  an  inn  bv  the 


350  JEAX-CHRISTOPHE 

gates  of  the  town  he  saw,  a  few  yards  in  front  of  him  on  the 
road,  the  droll  shadow  of  his  uncle  Gottfried,  with  his  pack 
on  his  back.  The  little  man  had  not  been  home  for  months, 
and  his  periods  of  absence  were  growing  longer  and  longer. 
Christophe  hailed  him  gleefully.  Gottfried,  bending  under 
his  load,  turned  round :  he  looked  at  Christophe,  who  was  mak- 
ing extravagant  gestures,  and  sat  down  on  a  milestone  to  wait 
for  him.  Christophe  came  up  to  him  with  a  beaming  face, 
skipping  along,  and  shook  his  uncle's  hand  with  great  demon- 
strations of  affection.  Gottfried  took  a  long  look  at  him  and 
then  he  said : 

"  Good-day,  Melchior." 

Christophe  thought  his  uncle  had  made  a  mistake,  and  burst 
out  laughing. 

"The  poor  man  is  breaking  up,"  he  thought;  "he  is  losing 
his  memory." 

Indeed,  Gottfried  did  look  old,  shriveled,  shrunken,  and  dried : 
his  breathing  came  short  and  painfully.  Christophe  went  on 
talking.  Gottfried  took  his  pack  on  his  shoulders  again  and 
went  on  in  silence.  They  went  home  together,  Christophe 
gesticulating  and  talking  at  the  top  of  his  voice,  Gottfried 
coughing  and  saying  nothing.  And  when  Christophe  questioned 
him,  Gottfried  still  called  him  Melchior.  And  then  Christophe 
asked  him : 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  calling  me  Melchior  ?  My  name  is 
Christophe,  you  know.  Have  you  forgotten  my  name  ?  " 

Gottfried  did  not  stop.  He  raised  his  eyes  toward  Christophe 
and  looked  at  him,  shook  his  head,  and  said  coldly : 

"  Xo.     You  are  Melchior:  I  know  you." 

Christophe  stopped  dumfounded.  Gottfried  trotted  along: 
Christophe  followed  him  without  a  word.  He  was  sobered. 
As  they  passed  the  door  of  a  cafe  he  went  up  to  the  dark  panes 
of  glass,  in  which  the  gas-jets  of  the  entrance  and  the  empty 
streets  were  reflected,  and  he  looked  at  himself:  he  recognized 
Melchior.  He  went  home  crushed. 

He  spent  the  night — a  night  of  anguish — in  examining  him- 
self, in  soul-searching.  He  understood  now.  Yes:  he  recog- 
nized the  instincts  and  vices  that  had  come  to  light  in  him: 
they  horrified  him.  He  thought  of  that  dark  watching  by  the 


YOUTH  351 

body  of  Melchior,  of  all  that  he  had  sworn  to  do,  and,  surveying 
his  life  since  then,  he  knew  that  he  had  failed  to  keep  his  vows. 
What  had  he  done  in  the  year?  What  had  he  done  for  his 
God,  for  his  art,  for  his  soul?  What  had  he  done  for  eternity? 
There  was  not  a  day  that  had  not  been  wasted,  botched,  be- 
smirched. Xot  a  single  piece  of  work,  not  a  thought,  not  an 
effort  of  enduring  quality.  A  chaos  of  desires  destructive  of 
each  other.  Wind,  dust,  nothing.  .  .  .  What  did  his  intentions 
avail  him?  He  had  fulfilled  none  of  them.  He  had  done 
exactly  the  opposite  of  what  he  had  intended.  He  had  become 
what  he  had  no  wish  to  be :  that  was  the  balance-sheet  of  his 
life. 

He  did  not  go  to  bed.  About  six  in  the  morning  it  was  still 
dark, — he  heard  Gottfried  getting  ready  to  depart. — For  Gott- 
fried had  had  no  intentions  of  staying  on.  As  he  was  passing 
the  town  he  had  come  as  usual  to  embrace  his  sister  and  nephew : 
but  he  had  announced  that  he  would  go  on  next  morning. 

Christophe  went  downstairs.  Gottfried  saw  his  pale  face  and 
his  eyes  hollow  with  a  night  of  torment.  He  smiled  fondly 
at  him  and  asked  him  to  go  a  little  of  the  way  with  him.  They 
set  out  together  before  dawn.  They  had  no  need  to  talk :  they 
understood  each  other.  As  they  passed  the  cemetery  Gottfried 
said: 

"  Shall  we  go  in  ?  " 

When  he  came  to  the  place  he  never  failed  to  pay  a  visit  to 
Jean  Michel  and  Melchior.  Christophe  had  not  been  there  for 
a  year.  Gottfried  knelt  by  Melchior's  grave  and  said : 

"  Let  us  pray  that  they  may  sleep  well  and  not  come  to 
torment  us." 

His  thought  was  a  mixture  of  strange  superstitions  and 
sound  sense:  sometimes  it  surprised  Christophe:  but  now  it  was 
only  too  clear  to  him.  They  said  no  more  until  they  left  the 
cemetery. 

When  they  had  closed  the  creaking  gate,  and  were  walking 
along  the  wall  through  the  cold  fields,  waking  from  slum- 
ber, by  the  little  path  which  led  them  under  the  cypress 
trees  from  which  the  snow  was  dropping.  Christophe  began  to 
weep. 

"  Oh  !  uncle/'  he  said,  "  how  wretched  i  am  !  " 


352  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

He  dared  not  speak  of  his  experience  in  love,  from  an 
odd  fear  of  embarrassing  or  hurting  Gottfried:  but  he 
spoke  of  his  shame,  his  mediocrity,  his  cowardice,  his  broken 
vows. 

"What  am  I  to  do,  uncle?  I  have  tried,  i  have  struggled: 
and  after  a  year  I  am  no  further  on  than  before.  Worse :  I 
have  gone  back.  1  am  good  for  nothing.  I  am  good  for  noth- 
ing! I  have  ruined  my  life.  I  am  perjured!  .  .  ." 

They  were  walking  up  the  hill  above  the  town.  Gottfried 
said  kindly : 

"  Xot  for  the  last  time,  my  boy.  We  do  not  do  what  we 
will  to  do.  We  will  and  we  live:  two  tilings.  You  must  be 
comforted.  The  great  thing  is,  you  see,  never  to  give  up  willing 
and  living.  The  rest  does  not  depend  on  us." 

Christophe  repeated  desperately : 

"I  have  perjured  myself." 

"Do  you  hear?"  said  Gottfried. 

(The  cocks  were  crowing  in  all  the  countryside.) 

"  They,  too,  are  crowing  for  another  who  is  perjured.  They 
crow  for  every  one  of  us,  every  morning." 

"A  day  will  come,"  said  Christophe  bitterly,  "when  they  will 
no  longer  crow  for  me.  ...  A  day  to  which  there  is  no  to- 
morrow. And  what  shall  I  have  made  of  my  life?" 

"  There  is  always  a  to-morrow,"  said  Gottfried. 

"'But  what  can  one  do,  if  willing  is  no  use?" 

"Watch  and  pray." 

"  I  do  not  believe." 

Gottfried  smiled. 

"  You  would  not  be  alive  if  you  did  not  believe.  Every  one 
believes.  Pray." 

"Pray  to  what?" 

Gottfried  pointed  to  the  sun  appearing  on  the  horizon,  red 
and  frozen. 

"Be  reverent  before  the  dawning  day.  Do  not  think  of  what 
will  be  in  a  year,  or  in  ten  years.  Think  of  to-day.  Leave 
your  theories.  All  theories,  you  see.  even  those  of  virtue,  are 
bad,  foolish,  mischievous.  Do  not  abuse  life.  Live  in  to-day. 
Be  reverent  towards  each  day.  Love  it,  respect  it,  do  not  sully 
it,  do  not  hinder  it  from  coming  to  Iknvcr.  Love  it  even  when 


YOUTH  363 

it  is  gray  and  sad  like  to-day.  Do  not  be  anxious.  See.  It 
is  winter  now.  Everything  is  asleep.  The  good  earth  will 
awake  again.  You  have  only  to  be  good  and  patient  like  the 
earth.  Be  reverent.  Wait.  If  you  are  good,  all  will  go  well. 
If  you  are  not,  if  you  are  weak,  if  you  do  not  succeed,  well, 
you  must  be  happy  in  that.  No  doubt  it  is  the  best  you  can 
do.  So,  then,  why  will?  Why  be  angry  because  of  what  you 
cannot  do?  We  all  have  to  do  what  we  can.  .  .  .  /l/.s  ich  hum." 

"  It  is  not  enough,"  said  Christophe,  making  a  face. 

Gottfried  laughed  pleasantly. 

"  It  is  more  than  anybody  docs.  You  are  a  vain  fellow.  You 
want  to  be  a  hero.  That  is  why  you  do  such  silly  things.  .  .  . 
A  hero!  ...  I  don't  quite  know  what  that  is:  but,  you  see, 
I  imagine  that  a  hero  is  a  man  who  does  what  he  can.  The 
others  do  not  do  it." 

"Oh!"  sighed  Christophe.  "Then  what  is  the  good  of 
living?  It  is  not  worth  while.  And  yet  there  are  people  who 
say :  '  He  who  wills  can  !'"... 

Gottfried  laughed  again  softly. 

"Yes?  ...  Oh !  well,  they  are  liars,  my  friend.  Or  they 
do  not  will  anything  much.  .  .  ." 

They  had  reached  the  top  of  the  hill.  They  embraced  affec- 
tionately. The  little  peddler  went  on,  treading  wearily.  Chris- 
tophe stayed  there,  lost  in  thought,  and  watched  him  go.  He 
repeated  his  uncle's  saying: 

"  Ah  icJi  kann  (The  best  I  can)." 

And  he  smiled,  thinking: 

"  Yes.  .   .  .  All  the  same.  ...  It  is  enough." 

He  returned  to  the  town.  The  frozen  snow  crackled  under 
his  feet.  The  bitter  winter  wind  made  the  bare  brandies 
of  the  stunted  trees  on  the  hill  shiver.  It  reddened  his  checks, 
and  made  his  skin  tingle,  and  set  his  blood  racing.  The  red 
roofs  of  the  town  below  were  smiling  under  the  brilliant,  cold 
sun.  The  air  was  strong  and  harsh.  The  frozen  earth  seemed 
to  rejoice  in  bitter  gladness.  And  Christophers  heart  was  like 
that.  He  thought: 

"  I,  too,  shall  wake  again." 

There  were  still  tears  in  his  eyes.  He  dried  them  with 
the  back  of  his  band,  and  laughed  to  see  the  sun  dipping  down 


354  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

behind  a  veil  of  mist.  The  clouds,  heavy  with  snow,  were  float- 
ing over  the  town,  lashed  by  the  squall.  He  laughed  at  them. 
The  wind  blew  icily.  .  .  . 

"  Blow,  blow !  .  .  .  Do   what  you  will  with  me.     Bear  me 
with  you!  ...  I  know  now  where  I  am  going." 


REVOLT 


SHIFTING  SANDS 

FREE  !  He  felt  that  he  was  free !  .  .  .  Free  of  others  and  of 
himself!  The  network  of  passion  in  which  he  had  been  en- 
meshed for  more  than  a  year  had  suddenly  been  burst  asunder. 
How?  He  did  not  know.  The  lilaments  had  given  before  the 
growth  of  his  being.  It  was  one  of  those  crises  of  growth  in 
which  robust  natures  tear  away  the  dead  casing  of  the  year  that 
is  past,  the  old  soul  in  which  they  are  cramped  and  stilled. 

Christophe  breathed  deeply,  without  understanding  what  had 
happened.  An  icy  whirlwind  was  rushing  through  the  great 
gate  of  the  town  as  he  returned  from  taking  (iottfried  on  his 
way.  The  people  were  walking  with  heads  lowered  against  the 
storm.  Girls  going  to  their  work  were  si  niggling  against  the 
wind  that  blew  against  their  skirts:  they  stopped  every  now  and 
then  to  breathe,  with  their  nose  and  cheeks  red,  and  they  looked 
exasperated,  and  as  though  they  wanted  to  cry.  He  thought 
of  that  other  torment  through  which  he  had  passed.  He  looked 
at  the  wintry  sky,  the  town  covered  with  snow,  the  people 
struggling  along  past  him:  he  looked  about  him,  into  himself: 
he  was  no  longer  bound.  He  was  alone!  .  .  .  Alone!  How 
happy  to  be  alone,  to  be  his  own!  What  joy  to  have1  escaped 
from  his  bonds/ from  his  torturing  memories,  from  the  hallu- 
cinations of  faces  that  he  loved  or  detested!  What  joy  at 
last  to  live,  without  being  the  prey  of  life,  to  have  become  his 
own  master!  .  .  . 

He  went  home  white  with  snow.  He  shook  himself  gaily  like 
a  dog.  As  he  passed  his  mother,  who  was  sweeping  the  passage, 
he  lifted  her  up.  giving  little  inarticulate  cries  of  aiVection 
such  as  one  makes  to  a  tinv  child.  1'oor  old  Louisa  struggled 
in  her  son's  arms:  she  was  wet  with  the  melting  snow:  and  she 
called  him,  with  a  jolly  laugh,  a  great  gaby. 

357 


358  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

He  went  up  to  his  room  three  steps  at  a  time. — He  could 
hardly  see  himself  in  his  little  mirror  it  was  so  dark.  But 
liis  heart  was  glad.  His  room  was  low  and  narrow  and  it  was 
difficult  to  move  in  it,  but  it  was  like  a  kingdom  to  him.  He 
locked  the  door  and  laughed  with  pleasure.  At  last  he  was 
finding  himself !  How  long  he  had  been  gone  astray !  He  was 
eager  to  plunge  into  thought  like  a  bather  into  water.  It  was 
like  a  great  lake  afar  off  melting  into  the  mists  of  blue  and 
gold.  After  a  night  of  fever  and  oppressive  heat  he  stood  by 
the  edge  of  it,  with  his  legs  bathed  in  the  freshness  of  the  water, 
his  body  kissed  by  the  wind  of  a  summer  morning.  He  plunged 
in  and  swam :  he  knew  not  whither  he  was  going,  and  did 
not  care :  it  was  joy  to  swim  whithersoever  he  listed.  He  was 
silent,  then  he  laughed,  and  listened  for  the  thousand  thousand 
sounds  of  his  soul :  it  swarmed  with  life.  He  could  make  out 
nothing :  his  head  was  swimming :  he  felt  only  a  bewildering 
happiness.  He  was  glad  to  feel  in  himself  such  unknown  forces : 
and  indolently  postponing  putting  his  powers  to  the  test  he 
sank  back  into  the  intoxication  of  pride  in  the  inward  flowering, 
which,  held  back  for  months,  now  burst  forth  like  a  sudden 
spring. 

His  mother  called  him  to  breakfast.  He  went  down :  he 
was  giddy  and  light-headed  as  though  he  had  spent  a  day  in 
the  open  air :  but  there  was  such  a  radiance  of  joy  in  him  that 
Louisa  asked  what  was  the  inatter.  He  made  no  reply :  he 
seized  her  by  the  waist  and  forced  her  to  dance  with  him  round 
the  table  on  which  the  tureen  was  steaming.  Out  of  breath 
Louisa  cried  that  he  was  mad :  then  she  clasped  her  hands. 

"  Dear  God ! "  she  said  anxiously.  "  Sure,  he  is  in  love 
again !  " 

Christophe  roared  with  laughter.  He  hurled  his  napkin  into 
the  air. 

"In  love?  .  .  ."  he  cried.  "Oh!  Lord!  .  .  .  but  no!  I've 
had  enough!  You  can  be  easy  on  that  score.  That  is  done, 
done,  forever!  .  .  .  Ouf!" 

He  drank  a  glassful  of  water. 

Louisa  looked  at  him,  reassured,  wagged  her  head,  and  smiled. 

"  That's  a  drunkard's  pledge,"  she  said.  "  It  won't  last  until 
to-night." 


EEVOLT  359 

"  Then  the  day  is  clear  gain,"  he  replied  good-humoredly. 

"  Oh,  yes ! "  she  said.  "  But  what  has  made  you  so 
happy  ?  " 

"  I  am  happy.     That  is  all." 

Sitting  opposite  her  with  his  elbows  on  the  table  he  tried  to 
tell  her  all  that  he  was  going  to  do.  She  listened  with  kindly 
skepticism  and  gently  pointed  out  that  his  soup  was  going  cold. 
He  knew  that  she  did  not  hear  what  he  was  saying :  but  he  did 
not  care:  he  was  talking  for  his  own  satisfaction. 

They  looked  at  each  other  smiling:  he  talking:  she  hardly 
listening.  Although  she  was  proud  of  her  son  she  attached  no 
great  importance  to  his  artistic  projects :  she  was  thinking : 
"He  is  happy:  that  matters  most." — AYhile  he  was  growing 
more  and  more  excited  with  his  discourse  he  watched  his 
mother's  dear  face,  with  her  black  shawl  tightly  tied  round 
her  head,  her  white  hair,  her  young  eyes  that  devoured  him 
lovingly,  her  sweet  and  tranquil  kindliness.  He  knew  exactly 
what  she  was  thinking.  He  said  to  her  jokingly : 

"It  is  all  one  to  you,  eh?  You  don't  care  about  what  I'm 
telling  you?  " 

She  protested  weakly : 

"Oh,  no!     Oh,  no!" 

He  kissed  her. 

"  Oh,  yes !  Oh,  yes !  You  need  not  defend  yourself.  You 
are  right.  Only  love  me.  There  is  no  need  to  understand  me — 
either  for  you  or  for  anybody  else.  I  do  not  need  anybody 
or  anything  now:  I  have  everything  in  myself.  .  .  ." 

"Oh!"  said  Louisa.  '  "Another  maggot  in  his  brain!  .  .  . 
But  if  he  must  have  one  I  prefer  this  to  the  other." 

What  sweet  happiness  to  float  on  the  surface  of  the  lake  of  his 
thoughts!  .  .  .  Lying  in  the  bottom  of  a  boat  witli  his  body 
bathed  in  sun,  his  face  kissed  by  the  light  fresh  wind  that 
skims  over  the  face  of  the  waters,  he  goes  to  sleep :  lie  is  swung 
by  threads  from  the  sky.  TTnder  his  body  lying  at  full  length, 
under  the  rocking  boat  he  feels  the  deep,  swelling  water:  his 
hand  dips  into  it.  He  rises:  and  with  his  c-liin  on  the  edge 
of  the  boat  he  watches  the  water  flowing  by  as  he  did  when 
he  was  a  child.  He  sees  the  reflection  of  strange  creatures 


3GO  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

darting  by  like  lightning.  .  .  .  More,  and  yet  more.  .  .  .  They 
are  never  the  same.  He  laughs  at  the  fantastic  spectacle  that 
is  unfolded  within  him:  he  laughs  at  his  own  thoughts:  he  has 
no  need  to  catch  and  hold  them.  Select?  Why  select  among 
so  man}'  thousands  of  dreams?  There  is  plenty  of  time!  .  .  . 
Later  on!  ...  He  has  only  to  throw  out  a  line  at  will  to  draw 
in  the  monsters  whom  he  sees  gleaming  in  the  water.  He  lets 
them  pass.  .  .  .  Later  on !  ... 

The  boat  floats  on  at  the  whim  of  the  warm  wind  and.  the 
insentient  stream.  All  is  soft,  sun,  and  silence. 

At  last  languidly  he  throws  out  his  line.  Leaning  out  over 
the  lapping  water  he  follows  it  with  his  eyes  until  it  disappears. 
After  a  few  moments  of  torpor  he  draws  it  in  slowly:  as  he 
draws  it  in  it  becomes  heavier:  just  as  he  is  about  to  fish  it 
out  of  the  water  he  stops  to  take  breath.  He  knows  that  he 
has  his  prey :  he  does  not  know  what  it  is :  he  prolongs  the 
pleasure  of  expectancy. 

At  last  he  makes  up  his  mind:  fish  with  gleaming,  .many- 
colored  scales  appear  from  the  water :  they  writhe  like  a  nest 
of  snakes.  He  looks  at  them  curiously,  he  stirs  them  with  his 
finger:  but  hardly  has  he  drawn  them  from  the  water  than 
their  colors  fade  and  they  slip  between  his  fingers.  He  throws 
them  back  into  the  water  and  begins  to  fish  for  others.  He 
is  more  eager  to  see  one  after  another  all  the  dreams  stirring 
in  him  than  to  catch  at  any  one  of  them:  they  all  seem  more 
beautiful  to  him  when  they  are  freely  swimming  in  the  trans- 
parent lake.  .  .  . 

He  caught  all  kinds  of  them,  each  more  extravagant  than 
the  last.  Ideas  bad  been  heaped  up  in  him  for  months  and 
he  had  not  drawn  upon  them,  so  that  he  was  bursting  with 
riches.  But  it  was  all  higgledy-piggledy:  his  mind  was  a  Babel, 
an  old  Jew's  curiosity  shop  in  wbich  there  were  piled  up  in 
the  one  room  ran1  treasures,  precious  stud's,,  scrap-iron,  and 
rags.  He  could  not  distinguish  their  values:  everything  amused 
him.  There  were  thrilling  chords,  colors  which  rang  like  bells, 
harmonies  which  buzzed  like  bees,  melodies  smiling  like  lovers' 
lips.  There  were  visions  of  the  country,  faces,  passions,  souls, 
characters,  literary  ideas,  metaphysical  ideas.  There  were  great 


REVOLT  P,fil 

projects,  vast  and  impossible,  tetralogies,  decalogies,  pretending 
to  depict  everything  in  music,  covering  whole  worlds.  And, 
most  often  there  were  obscure,  flashing  sensations,  called  forth 
by  a  trifle,  the  sound  of  a  voice,  a  man  or  a  woman  passing  in 
the  street,  the  pattering  of  rain.  An  inward  rhythm.— Many 
of  these  projects  advanced  no  further  than  their  title:  most 
of  them  were  never  more  than  a  note  or  two:  it  was  enough. 
Like  all  very  young  people,  he  thought  he  had  created  what  he 
dreamed  of  creating. 

But  he  was  too  keenly  alive  to  be  satisfied  for  long  with  such 
fantasies.  He  wearied  of  an  illusory  possession:  he  wished  to 
seize  his  dreams. — How  to  begin?  They  seemed  to  him  all 
equally  important.  He  turned  and  turned  them :  he  rejected 
them,  he  took  them  up  again.  .  .  .  No,  he  never  took  them  up 
again:  they  were  no  longer  the  same,  they  were  never  to  be 
caught  twice:  they  were  always  changing:  they  changed  hi  his 
hands,  under  his  eyes,  while  he  was  watching  them.  lie  must 
make  haste :  he  could  not :  he  was  appalled  by  the  slowness 
with  which  he  worked.  He  would  have  liked  to  do  everything 
in  one  day,  and  he  found  it  horribly  difficult  to  complete  the 
smallest  thing.  His  dreams  were  passing  and  he  was  passing 
himself:  while  he  was  doing  one  thing  it  worried  him  not  to 
be  doing  another.  It  was  as  though  it  was  enough  to  have 
chosen  one  of  his  fine  subjects  for  it  to  lose  all  interest  for 
him.  And  so  all  his  riches  availed  him  nothing.  His  thoughts 
had  life  only  on  condition  that  he  did  not  tamper  with 
them:  everything  that  he  succeeded  in  doing  was  still-born. 
It  was  the  torment  of  Tantalus:  within  reach  were  fruits  that 
became  stones  as  soon  as  he  plucked  them:  near  his  lips  was 
a  clear  stream  which  sank  away  whenever  he  bent  down  to 
drink. 

To  slake  his  thirst  he  tried  to  sip  at  the  springs  that  lie  had 
conquered,  his  old  compositions.  .  .  .  Loathsome  in  taste!  At 
the  first  gulp  he  spat  it  out  again,  cursing.  What!  That  tepid 
water,  that  insipid  music,  was  that  his  music? — lie  read  through 
all  his  compositions:  he  was  horrified:  he  understood  not  a 
note  of  them,  he  could  not  even  understand  how  he  bad  come 
to  write  them.  He  blushed.  Once  after  reading  through  a 


362  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

page  more  foolish  than  the  rest  he  turned  round  to  make  sure 
that  there  was  nobody  in  the  room,  and  then  he  went  and  hid 
his  face  in  his  pillow  like  a  child  ashamed.  Sometimes  they 
seemed  to  him  so  preposterously  silly  that  they  were  quite  funny, 
and  he  forgot  that  they  were  his  own.  .  .  . 

"  What  an  idiot !  "  he  would  cry,  rocking  with  laughter. 

But  nothing  touched  him  more  than  those  compositions  in 
which  he  had  set  out  to  express  his  own  passionate  feelings:  the 
sorrows  and  joys  of  love.  Then  he  would  bound  in  his  chair 
as  though  a  fly  had  stung  him :  he  would  thump  on  the  table, 
beat  his  head,  and  roar  angrily :  he  would  coarsely  apostrophize 
himself :  he  would  vow  himself  to  be  a  swine,  trebly  a  scoundrel, 
a  clod,  and  a  clown — a  whole  litany  of  denunciation.  In  the 
end  he  would  go  and  stand  before  his  mirror,  red  with  shouting, 
and  then  he  would  take  hold  of  his  chin  and  say : 

"  Look,  look,  you  scurvy  knave,  look  at  the  ass-face  that  is 
yours !  I'll  teach  you  to  lie,  you  blackguard !  Water,  sir, 
water." 

He  would  plunge  his  face  into  his  basin,  and  hold  it  under 
water  until  he  was  like  to  choke.  When  he  drew  himself  up, 
scarlet,  with  his  eyes  starting  from  his  head,  snorting  like  a 
seal,  he  would  rush  to  his  table,  without  bothering  to  sponge 
aAvay  the  water  trickling  down  him:  he  would  seize  the  un- 
happy compositions,  angrily  tear  them  in  pieces,  growling : 

" :  There,   you   beast!  .  .  .  There,   there,   there!  .  .  ." 

Then  he  would  recover. 

What  exasperated  him  most  in  his  compositions  was  their  un- 
truth. Xot  a  spark  of  feeling  in  them.  A  phraseology  got 
by  heart,  a  schoolboy's  rhetoric:  he  spoke  of  love  like  a  blind 
man  of  color :  lie  spoke  of  it  from  hearsay,  only  repeating  the 
current  platitudes.  And  it  was  not  only  love:  it  was  the  same 
with  all  the  passions,  which  had  been  used  for  themes  and 
declamations. — And  yet  he  had  always  tried  to  be  sincere. — 
But  it  is  not  enough  to  wish  to  be  sincere :  it  is  necessary  to 
have  the  power  to  be  so :  and  how  can  a  man  be  so  when  as 
yet  he  knows  nothing  of  life?  What  had  revealed  the  falseness 
of  his  work,  what  had  suddenly  digged  a  pit  between  himself 
and  his  past  was  the  experience  which  he  had  had  during  the 
last  six  months  of  life.  He  had  left  fantasy :  there  was  now 


REVOLT  363 

in  him  a  real  standard  to  which  he  could  bring  all  the  thoughts 
for  judgment  as  to  their  truth  or  untruth. 

The  disgust  which  his  old  work,  written  without  passion, 
roused  in  him,  made  him  decide  with  his  usual  exaggeration 
that  he  would  write  no  more  until  he  was  forced  to  write  by 
some  passionate  need :  and  leaving  the  pursuit  of  his  ideas  at 
that,  he  swore  that  he  would  renounce  music  forever,  unless 
creation  were  imposed  upon  him  in  a  thunderclap. 

He  made  this  resolve  because  he  knew  quite  well  that  the 
storm  was  coming. 

Thunder  falls  when  it  will,  and  where  it  will.  But  there 
are  peaks  which  attract  it.  Certain  places — certain  souls — 
breed  storms :  they  create  them,  or  draw  them  from  all  points 
of  the  horizon:  and  certain  ages  of  life,  like  certain  months 
of  the  year,  are  so  saturated  with  electricity,  that  thunderstorms 
are  produced  in  them, — if  not  at  will — at  any  rate  when  they 
are  expected. 

The  whole  being  of  a  man  is  taut  for  it.  Often  the  storm 
lies  brooding  for  days  and  days.  The  pale  sky  is  hung  with 
burning,  fleec}'  clouds.  Xo  wind  stirs.  The  still  air  ferments, 
and  seems  to  boil.  The  earth  lies  in  a  stupor:  no  sound  comes 
from  it.  The  brain  hums  feverishly:  all  nature  awaits  the 
explosion  of  the  gathering  forces,  the  thud  of  the  hammer  which 
is  slowly  rising  to  fall  back  suddenly  on  the  anvil  of  the  clouds. 
Dark,  warm  shadows  pass:  a  fiery  wind  rises  through  the  body, 
the  nerves  quiver  like  leaves.  .  .  .  Then  silence  falls  again. 
The  sky  goes  on  gathering  thunder. 

In  such  expectancy  there  is  voluptuous  anguish.  In  spite 
of  the  discomfort  that  weighs  so  heavily  upon  you.  you  feel 
in  your  veins  the  fire  which  is  consuming  the  universe.  The 
soul  surfeited  boils  in  the  furnace,  like  wine  in  a  vat.  Thou- 
sands of  germs  of  life  and  death  are  in  labor  in  it.  What  will 
issue  from  it?  The  soul  knows  not.  Like  a  woman  with  child, 
it  is  silent:  it  gazes  in  upon  itself:  it  listens  anxiously  for  the 
stirring  in  its  womb,  and  thinks:  "What  will  be  born  of 
me  ? "  .  .  . 

Sometimes  such  waiting  is  in  vain.  The  storm  passes  without 
breaking :  but  you  wake  heavy,  cheated,  enervated,  disheartened. 


364  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

But  it  is  only  postponed  :  the  storm  will  break :  if  not  to-day, 
then  to-morrow :  the  longer  it  is  delayed,  the  more  violent  will 
it  be,  ... 

Xow  it  comes !  .  .  .  The  elouds  have  come  up  from  all  corners 
of  the  soul.  Thick  masses,  blue  and  black,  torn  by  the  frantic 
darting  of  the  lightning:  they  advance  heavily,  drunkenly, 
darkening  the  soul's  horizon,  blotting  out  light.  An  hour  of 
madness !  .  .  .  The  exasperated  Elements,  let  loose  from  the 
cage  in  which  they  are  held  bound  by  the  Laws  which  hold 
the  balance  between  the  mind  and  the  existence  of  things, 
reign,  formless  and  colossal,  in  the  night  of  consciousness.  The 
soul  is  in  agony.  There  is  no  longer  the  will  to  live.  There 
is  only  longing  for  the  end,  for  the  deliverance  of  death.  .  .  . 

And  suddenly  there  is  lightning ! 

Christophe  shouted  for  joy. 

Joy,  furious  joy,  the  sun  that  lights  up  all  that  is  and  will 
be,  the  godlike  joy  of  creation!  There  is  no  joy  but  in  crea- 
tion. There  are  no  living  beings  but  those  who  create.  All 
the  rest  are  shadows,  hovering  over  the  earth,  strangers  to  life. 
All  the  jovs  of  life  are  the  joys  of  creation:  love,  genius,  action, 
— quickened  by  flames  issuing  from  one  and  the  same  lire. 
Even  those  who  cannot  find  a  place  by  the  great  fireside:  the 
ambitious,  the  egoists,  the  sterile  sensualists,— try  to  gain 
warmth  in  the  pale  reflections  of  its  light. 

To  create  in  the  region  of  the  body,  or  in  the  region  of  the 
mind,  is  to  issue  from  the  prison  of  the  body:  it  is  to  ride  upon 
the  storm  of  life:  it  is  to  be  lie  who  Is.  To  create  is  to  triumph 
over  death. 

Wretched  is  the  sterile  creature,  that  man  or  that  woman 
who  remains  nlone  and  lost  upon  the  earth,  scanning  their 
withered  bodies,  and  the  sight  of  themselves  from  which  no  flame 
of  life  will  ever  lenp!  Wretched  is  the  soul  that  does  not  feel 
its  own  fruitful  ness,  and  know  itself  to  be  big  with  life  and 
love,  as  a  tree  with  blo.-som  in  the  spring!  The  \vorld  may  heap 
honors  and  benefits  upon  such  a  soul :  if  does  but  crown  a  corpse. 

When  Christophe  was  struck  bv  the  flash  of  lightning,  an 
electric  fluid  coursed  through  his  body:  he  trembled  under  the 


REVOLT  365 

shock.  It  was  as  though  on  the  high  seas,  in  the  dark  night, 
he  had  suddenly  sighted  land.  Or  it  was  as  though  in  a  crowd 
he  had  gazed  into  two  eyes  saluting  him.  Often  it  would  happen 
to  him  after  hours  of  prostration  when  his  mind  was  leaping 
desperately  through  the  void.  But  more  often  still  it  came 
in  moments  when  he  was  thinking  of  something  else,  talking 
to  his  mother,  or  walking  through  the  streets.  If  he  were  in 
the  street  a  certain  human  respect  kept  him  from  too  loudly 
demonstrating  his  joy.  But  if  he  were  at  home  nothing  could 
keep  him  back.  He  would  stamp.  He  would  sound  a  blare 
of  triumph:  his  mother  knew  that  well,  and  she  had  come  to 
know  what  it  meant.  She  used  to  tell  Christophe  that  he  w-as 
like  a  hen  that  has  laid  an  egg. 

He  was  permeated  with  his  musical  imagination.  Sometimes 
it  took  shape  in  an  isolated  phrase  complete  in  itself:  more  often 
it  would  appear  as  a  nebula  enveloping  a  whole  work:  the 
structure  of  the  work,  its  general  lines,  could  be  perceived 
through  a  veil,  torn  asunder  here  and  there  by  dazzling  phrases 
which  stood  out  from  the  darkness  with  the  clarity  of  sculp- 
ture. It  was  only  a  flash:  sometimes  others  would  come  in 
quick  succession:  each  lit  up  other  corners  of  the  night.  But 
usually,  the  capricious  force  having  onee  shown  itself  un- 
expectedly, would  disappear  again  for  several  days  into  its 
mysterious  retreats,  leaving  behind  it  a  luminous  ray. 

This  delight  in  inspiration  was  so  vivid  that  Christophe 
was  disgusted  by  everything  else.  The  experienced  artist  knows 
that  inspiration  is  rare  and  that  intelligence  is  left  to  com- 
plete the  work  of  intuition:  he  puts  his  idea,  under  the  press 
and  squeezes  out  of  them  the  last  drop  of  the  divine  juices  that 
are  in  them — (and  if  need  be  sometimes  he  does  not  shrink 
from  diluting  them  with  clear  water). — Christophe  was  too 
young  and  too  sure  of  himself  not  to  despise1  such  contemptible 
practices.  He  dreamed  impossibly  of  producing  nothing  that 
was  not  absolutely  spontaneous.  If  lie  had  not  been  deliberately 
blind  he  would  eertainlv  have  seen  the  absurditv  of  his  aims. 
No  doubt  lie  \vas  at  that  time  in  a  period  of  inward  abundance 
in  which  there  was  no  gap.  no  chink,  through  which  boredom 
or  emptiness  could  creep.  Everything  served  as  an  excuse-  {<• 
his  inexhaustible  fecundity:  everything  that  his  eyes  saw  o: 


366  JEAN-CHEISTOPHE 

his  ears  heard,  everything  with  which  he  came  in  contact  in 
his  daily  life :  every  look,  every  word,  brought  forth  a  crop  of 
dreams.  In  the  boundless  heaven  of  his  thoughts  he  saw  circling 
millions  of  milky  stars,  rivers  of  living  light. — And  yet,  even 
then,  there  were  moments  when  everything  was  suddenly  blotted 
out.  And  although  the  night  could  not  endure,  although  he 
had  hardly  time  to  suffer  from  these  long  silences  of  his  soul, 
he  did  not  escape  a  secret  terror  of  that  unknown  power  which 
came  upon  him,  left  him,  came  again,  and  disappeared.  .  .  . 
How  long,  this  time?  Would  it  ever  come  again? — His  pride 
rejected  that  thought  and  said:  "This  force  is  myself.  When 
it  ceases  to  be,  I  shall  cease  to  be:  1  shall  kill  myself." — He 
never  ceased  to  tremble :  but  it  was  only  another  delight. 

But,  if,  for  the  moment,  there  was  no  danger  of  the  spring 
running  dry,  Christophe  was  able  already  to  perceive  that  it 
was  never  enough  to  fertilize  a  complete  work.  Ideas  almost 
always  appeared  rawly:  he  had  painfully  to  dig  them  out  of 
the  ore.  And  always  they  appeared  without  any  sort  of  se- 
quence, and  by  fits  and  starts:  to  unite  them  he  had  to  bring 
to  bear  on  them  an  clement  of  reflection  and  deliberation  and 
cold  will,  which  fashioned  them  into  new  form.  Christophe 
was  too  much  of  an  artist  not  to  do  so :  but  he  would  not  accept 
it:  he  forced  himself  to  believe  that  he  did  no  more  than  tran- 
scribe what  was  within  himself,  while  he  was  always  compelled 
more  or  less  to  transform  it  so  as  to  make  it  intelligible. — 
More  than  that:  sometimes  he  would  absolutely  forge  a  mean- 
ing for  it.  However  violently  the  musical  idea  might  come 
upon  him  it  would  often  have  been  impossible  for  him  to  say 
what  it  meant.  It  would  come  surging  up  from  the  depths  of 
life,  from  far  beyond  the  limits  of  consciousness:  and  in  that 
absolutely  pure  Force,  which  eluded  common  rhythms,  con- 
sciousness could  never  recogni/c  in  it  any  of  the  motives  which 
stirred  in  it,  none  of  the  human  feelings  which  it  defines  and 
classifies:  joys,  sorrows,  they  were  all  merged  in  one  single 
passion  which  was  unintelligible,  because  it  was  above  the  in- 
telligence. And  yet.  whether  it  understood  or  no.  the  intelli- 
gence needed  to  give  a  name  to  this  form,  to  bind  it  down  to 
one  or  other  of  the  structures  of  logic,  which  man  is  forever 
building  mdefatigrablv  in  the  hive  of  his  brain. 


EEYOLT  367 

So  Christophe  convinced  himself — lie  wished  to  do  so — that 
the  obscure  power  that  moved  him  had  an  exact  meaning,  and 
that  its  meaning  was  in  accordance  with  his  will.  His  free 
instinct,  risen  from  the  unconscious  depths,  was  willy-nilly 
forced  to  plod  on  under  the  yoke  of  reason  with  perfectly  clear 
ideas  which  had  nothing  at  all  in  common  with  it.  And  work 
so  produced  was  no  more  than  a  lying  juxtaposition  of  one 
of  those  great  subjects  that  Christophe's  mind  had  marked 
out  for  itself,  and  those  wild  forces  which  had  an  altogether 
different  meaning  unknown  to  himself. 

He  groped  his  way,  head  down,  borne  on  by  the  contradic- 
tory forces  warring  in  him,  and  hurling  into  his  incoherent 
works  a  fiery  and  strong  quality  of  life  which  he  could 
not  express,  though  he  was  joyously  and  proudly  conscious 
of  it. 

.The  consciousness  of  his  new  vigor  made  him  able  for  the 
first  time  to  envisage  squarely  everything  about  him,  everything 
that  he  had  been  taught  to  honor,  every  tiling  that  he  had  re- 
spected without  question:  and  he  judged  it  all  with  insolent 
freedom.  The  veil  was  rent:  he  saw  the  German  lie. 

Every  race,  every  art  has  its  hvpocrisv.  The  world  is  fed 
with  a  little  truth  and  many  lies.  The  human  mind  is  feeble: 
pure  truth  agrees  with  it  but  ill:  its  religion,  its  morality,  its 
states,  its  poets,  its  artists,  must  all  be  presented  to  it  swathed 
in  lies.  These  lies  arc  adapted  to  the  mind  of  each  race:  they 
vary  from  one  to  the  other:  it  is  they  that  make  it  so  diHicult 
for  nations  to  understand  each  other,  and  so  easy  for  them 
to  despise  each  other.  Truth  is  the  same  for  all  of  us:  but 
every  nation  has  its  own  lie,  which  it  calls  its  idealism:  even- 
creature  therein  breathes  it  from  birth  to  deatli :  it  lias  become 
a  condition  of  life:  there  are  onlv  a  few  men  of  genius  wbo  can 
break  free  from  it  through  heroic  moments  of  crisis,  when 
they  are  alone  in  the  free  world  of  their  thoughts. 

It  was  a  trivial  thing  which  suddenly  revealed  to  Christophe 
the  lie  of  German  art.  It  was  not  because  it  bad  not  always 
been  visible  that  he  had  not  seen  it:  he  was  not  near  it.  he 
had  not  recoiled  from  it.  Xow  the  mountain  appeared  to  his 
gaze  because  he  had  moved  away  from  it. 


368  JEAN-CHRTSTOPHE 

He  was  at  a  concert  of  the  Stadtisclie  Townlialle.  The 
conceTt  was  given  in  a  large  hall  occupied  by  ten  or  twelve 
rows  of  little  tables — about  two  or  three  hundred  of  them. 
At  the  end  of  the  room  was  a  stage  where  the  orchestra  was 
sitting.  All  round  Christophc  were  officers  dressed  up  in  their 
long,  dark  coats, — with  broad,  shaven  faces,  red,  serious,  and 
commonplace:  women  talking  and  laughing  noisily,  ostenta- 
tiously at  their  ease:  jolly  little  girls  smiling  and  showing  all 
their  teeth:  and  large  men  hidden  behind  their  beards  and 
spectacles,  looking  like  kindly  spiders  with  round  eyes.  They 
got  up  with  every  fresh  glass  to  drink  a  toast:  they  did  this 
almost  religiously:  their  faces,  their  voices  changed:  it  was  as 
though  they  were  saying  Mass:  they  offered  each  other  the 
libations,  they  drank  of  the  chalice  with  a  mixture  of  solemnity 
and  buffoonery.  The  music  was  drowned  under  the  conversation 
and  the  clinking  of  glasses.  And  yet  everybody  was  trying  to 
talk  and  cat  quietly.  The  II err  Konzcrtrneixtcr,  a  tall,  bent  old 
man,  with  a  white  beard  hanging  like  a  tail  from  his  chin, 
and  a  long  aquiline  nose,  with  spectacles,  looked  like  a  phil- 
ologist.—All  these  types  were  familiar  to  Christophe.  But  on 
that  day  he  had  an  inclination — he  did  not  know  why — to 
see  them  as  caricatures.  There  are  days  like  that  when, 
for  no  apparent  reason,  the  grotesque  in  people  and  things 
which  in  ordinary  life  passes  unnoticed,  suddenly  leaps  into 
view. 

The  programme  of  the  music  included  the  Egmonl  overture, 
a  valse  of  Waldteufel,  TannliiiutC'r'x  Pilgrimage  to  Home,  the 
overture  to  the  Merry  UVr&s  of  Nicolai,  the  religious  march  of 
Atlialic,  and  a  fantasy  on  the  Norlli  Slat:  The  orchestra  played 
the  Beethoven  overture  correctly,  and  the  valse  deliciously.  Dur- 
ing the  Pi!f/r/nifif/e  of  Tannliiiiixer,  the  uncorking  of  bottles 
was  heard.  A  big  man  sitting  at  the  table  next  to  Ohristophe 
beat  time  to  the  Merry  ll'nvx  by  imitating  Falstaff.  A  stout 
old  lady,  in  a  pale  blue  dress,  with  a  white  belt,  golden  pince- 
nez  on  her  flat  nose,  red  arms,  and  an  enormous  waist,  sang 
in  a  loud  voice  I/icder  of  Schumann  and  Brahms.  She  raised 
her  eyebrows,  made  eyes  at  the  wings,  smiled  with  a  smile  that 
seemed  to  curdle  on  her  moon-face,  made  exaggerated  gestures 
which  must  certainly  have  called  to  mind  the  cafe-concert  but 


REVOLT  HfiO 

for  the  majestic  honesty  which  shone  in  her:  this  mother  of  a 
family  played  the  part  of  the  giddy  girl,  youth,  passion :  and 
Schumann's  poetry  had  a  faint  smack  of  the  nursery.  The 
audience  was  in  ecstasies. — But  they  grew  solemn  and  attentive 
when  there  appeared  the  Choral  Society  of  the  Germans  of 
the  South  (S iidd cuts cli en  Manner  Liedertafel),  who  alternately 
cooed  and  roared  part  songs  full  of  feeling.  There  were  forty, 
and  they  sang  four  parts :  it  seemed  as  though  they  had  set 
themselves  to  free  their  execution  of  every  trace  of  style  that 
could  properly  he  called  choral :  a  hotch-potch  of  little  melodious 
effects,  little  timid  puling  shades  of  sound,  dying  pianissimos, 
with  sudden  swelling,  roaring  crcscendos,  like  some  one  heating 
on  an  empty  box :  no  breadth  or  balance,  a  mawkish  style :  it  was 
like  Bottom : 

"  Let  me  play  the  lion.  I  will  roar  you  as  gently  as  any 
sucking  dove.  I  will  roar  you  as  it  were  a  nightingale." 

Christophc  listened  from  the  beginning  with  growing  amaze- 
ment. There  was  nothing  new  in  it  all  to  him.  He  knew 
these  concerts,  the  orchestra,  the  audience.  But  suddenly  it 
all  seemed  to  him  false.  All  of  it:  even  to  what  he  most  loved, 
the  Egmont  overture,  in  which  the  pompous  disorder  and  cor- 
rect agitation  hurt  him  in  that  hour  like  a  want  of  frankness. 
jS^o  doubt  it  Avas  not  Beethoven  or  Schumann  that  lie  heard, 
but  their  absurd  interpreters,  their  cud-chewing  audience  whose 
crass  stupidity  was  spread  about  their  Avorks  like  a  heavy  mist.— 
Xo  matter,  there  Avas  in  the  Avorks,  even  the  most  beautiful  of 
them,  a  disturbing  quality  Avhich  Christophe  had  never  before 
felt. — What  was  it?  He  dared  not  analyze  it,  deeming  it  a 
sacrilege  to  question  his  beloved  masters.  But  in  vain  did  he 
shut  his  eyes  to  it:  he  had  seen  it.  And,  in  spite  of  himself. 
he  Avent  on  seeing  it:  like  the  Vcrgognosa  at  Pisa  he  looked 
betAvccn  his  fingers. 

He  saw  German  art  stripped.  All  of  them — the  great  and 
the  idiots— laid  bare  their  souls  with  a  complacent  tenderness. 
Emotion  overflowed,  moral  nobility  trickled  down,  their  hearts 
melted  in  distracted  effusions:  the  sluice  gates  were  opened  to 
the  fearful  German  tender-heartedness:  it  Aveakened  the  energy 
of  the  stronger,  it  drowned  the  weaker  under  its  grayish  waters: 
:'t  was  a  flood:  in  the  depths  of  it  slept  German  thought.  And 


370  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

what  thoughts  were  those  of  a  Mendelssohn,  a  Brahms,  a  Schu- 
mann, and,  following  them,  the  whole  legion  of  little  writers 
of  affected  and  tearful  Liedcr!  Built  on  sand.  Never  rock. 
Wet  and  shapeless  clay. — It  was  all  so  foolish,  so  childish  often, 
that  Christophe  could  not  believe  that  it  never  occurred  to  the 
audience.  He  looked  about  him :  but  he  saw  only  gaping  faces, 
convinced  in  advance  of  the  beauties  they  were  hearing  and 
the  pleasure  that  they  ought  to  find  in  it.  How  could  they 
admit  their  own  right  to  judge  for  themselves?  They  were 
filled  with  respect  for  these  hallowed  names.  What  did  they 
not  respect?  They  were  respectful  before  their  programmes, 
before  their  glasses,  before  themselves.  It  was  clear  that  men- 
tally they  dubbed  everything  excellent  that  remotely  or  nearly 
concerned  them. 

Christophe  passed  in  review  the  audience  and  the  music  al- 
ternately: the  music  reflected  the  audience,  the  audience  re- 
flected the  music.  Christophe  felt  laughter  overcoming  him 
and  he  made  faces.  However,  he  controlled  himself.  But  when 
the  Germans  of  the  South  came  and  solemnly  sang  the  Con- 
fession that  reminded  him  of  the  blushes  of  a  girl  in  love, 
Christophe  could  not  contain  himself.  He  shouted  with  laugh- 
ter. Indignant  cries  of  "  Ssh !  "  were  raised.  His  neighbors 
looked  at  him,  scared:  their  honest,  scandalized  faces  filled  him 
with  joy:  he  laughed  louder  than  ever,  he  laughed,  he  laughed 
until  he  cried.  Suddenly  the  audience  grew  angry.  They  cried: 
"Put  him  out!"  He  got  up,  and  went,  shrugging  his  shoul- 
ders, shaking  with  suppressed  laughter.  His  departure  caused 
a  scandal.  It  was  the  beginning  of  hostilities  between  Chris- 
tophe and  his  birthplace. 

After  that  experience  Christophe  shut  himself  up  and  set 
himself  to  read  once  more  the  works  of  the  "hallowed"  musi- 
cians. He  was  appalled  to  find  that  certain  of  the  masters 
whom  he  loved  most  had  lied.  He  tried  hard  to  doubt  it  at 
first,  to  believe  that  he  was  mistaken. — But  no,  there  was  no 
way  out  of  it.  He  was  staggered  by  the  conglomeration  of 
mediocrity  and  untruth  which  constitutes  the  artistic  treasure 
of  a  great  people.  How  many  pages  could  bear  examination! 

From  that  time  on  he  could  begin  to  read  other  works,  other 


EEVOLT  371 

masters,  who  were  dear  to  him,  only  with  a  fluttering  heart. 
.  .  .  Alas!  There  was  some  spell  cast  upon  him:  always  there 
was  the  same  discomfiture.  With  some  of  them  his  heart  was 
rent:  it  was  as  though  he  had  lost  a  dear  friend,  as  if  he  had 
suddenly  seen  that  a  friend  in  whom  he  had  reposed  entire 
confidence  had  heen  deceiving  him  for  years.  He  wept  for  it. 
He  did  not  sleep  at  night :  he  could  not  escape  his  torment. 
He  blamed  himself:  perhaps  he  had  lost  his  judgment?  Per- 
haps he  had  become  altogether  an  idiot? — Xo,  no.  More  than 
ever  he  saw  the  radiant  beauty  of  the  day  and  with  more  fresh- 
ness and  love  than  ever  he  felt  the  generous  abundance  of  life : 
his  heart  was  not  deceiving  him.  .  .  . 

But  for  a  long  time  he  dared  not  approach  those  who  were 
the  best  for  him,  the  purest,  the  Holy  of  Holies.  He  trembled 
at  the  thought  of  bringing  his  faith  in  them  to  the  test.  But 
how  resist  the  pitiless  instinct  of  a  brave  and  truthful  soul, 
which  will  go  on  to  the  end,  and  see  things  as  they  are.  whatever 
suffering  may  be  got  in  doing  so? — So  he  opened  the  sacred 
works,  he  called  upon  the  last  reserve,  the  imperial  guard.  .  .  . 
At  the  first  glance  he  saw  that  they  were  no  more  immaculate 
than  the  others.  He  had  not  the  courage  to  go  on.  Every  now 
and  then  he  stopped  and  closed  the  book:  like  the  son  of  Xoah, 
he  threw  his  cloak  about  his  father's  nakedness.  .  .  . 

Then  he  was  prostrate  in  the  midst  of  all  these  ruins.  He 
would  rather  have  lost  an  arm,  than  have  tampered  with  his 
blessed  illusions.  In  his  heart  he  mourned.  But  there  was  so 
much  sap  in  him,  so  much  reserve  of  life,  that  his  confidence 
in  art  was  not  shaken.  With  a  young  man's  naive  presump- 
tion he  began  life  again  as  though  no  one  had  ever  lived  it 
before  him.  Intoxicated  by  his  new  strength,  he  felt — not  with- 
out reason,  perhaps— that  with  a  very  few  exceptions  there  is 
almost  no  relation  between  living  passion  and  the  expression 
which  art  has  striven  to  give  to  it.  But  he  was  mistaken  in 
thinking  himself  more  happy  or  more  true  when  lie  expressed 
it.  As  he  was  filled  with  passion  it  was  easy  for  him  to  dis- 
cover it  at  the  back  of  what  he  had  written:  but  no  one  else 
would  have  recognized  it  through  tin1  imperfect  vocabulary 
with  which  he  designated  its  variations.  Many  artists  whom 
he  condemned  were  in  the  same  case.  They  had  had,  and  had 


372  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

translated  profound  emotions :  but  the  secret  of  their  language 
had  died  with  them. 

Christophe  was  no  psychologist :  he  was  not  bothered  with 
all  these  arguments :  what  was  dead  for  him  had  always  been 
so.  lie  revised  his  judgment  of  the  past  with  all  the  confident 
and  fierce  injustice  of  youth.  He  stripped  the  noblest  souls, 
and  had  no  pity  for  their  foibles.  There  were  the  rich  melan- 
choly, the  distinguished  fantasy,  the  kindly  thinking  emptiness 
of  Mendelssohn.  There  were  the  bead-stringing  and  the  affecta- 
tion of  Weber,  bis  dryness  of  heart,  his  cerebral  emotion.  There 
was  Liszt,  the  noble  priest,  the  circus  rider,  neo-classical  and 
vagabond,  a  mixture  in  equal  doses  of  real  and  false  nobility, 
of  serene  idealism  and  disgusting  virtuosity.  Schubert,  swal- 
lowed up  by  his  sentimentality,  drowned  at  the  bottom  of 
leagues  of  stale,  transparent  water.  The  men  of  the  heroic 
ages,  the  demi-gods,  the  Prophets,  the  Fathers  of  the  Church, 
were  not  spared.  Even  the  great  Sebastian,  the  man  of  ages, 
who  bore  in  himself  the  past  and  the  future, — Bach, — was  not 
free  of  untruth,  of  fashionable  folly,  of  school-chattering.  The 
man  who  had  seen  God,  the  man  who  lived  in  God,  seemed 
sometimes  to  Christophe  to  have  had  an  insipid  and  sugared 
religion,  a  Jesuitical  style,  rococo.  In  his  cantatas  there  were 
languorous  and  devout  airs — (dialogues  of  the  Soul  coquetting 
with  Jesus) — which  sickened  Christophe:  then  he  seemed  to 
see  chubby  cherubims  with  round  limbs  and  flying  draperies. 
And  also  he  had  a  feeling  that  the  genial  Cantor  always  wrote 
in  a  closed  room:  his  work  smacked  of  stuffiness:  there  was 
not  in  his  music  that  brave  outdoor  air  that  was  breathed 
in  others,  not  such  great  musicians,  perhaps,  but  greater  men— 
more  human — than  he.  Like  Beethoven  or  Handel.  What  hurt 
him  in  all  of  them,  especially  in  the  classics,  was  their  lack 
of  freedom:  almost  all  their  works  were  "constructed."  Some- 
times an  emotion  was  filled  out  with  all  the  commonplaces  of 
musical  rhetoric,  sometimes  with  a  simple  rhythm,  an  orna- 
mental design,  repealed,  turned  upside  down,  combined  in 
every  conceivable  way  in  a  mechanical  fashion.  These  sym- 
metrical and  twaddling  constructions — classical  and  neo-classical 
sonatas  and  symphonies — exasperated  Christophe,  who,  at  that 
time,  was  not  verv  sensible  of  the  beauty  of  order,  and  vast 


REVOLT  373 

and  well-conceived   plans.     That  seemed   to  him   to   be    rathci 
masons'  work  than  musicians'. 

But  he  was  no  less  severe  with  the  romantics.  It  was  a 
strange  thing,  and  he  was  more  surprised  by  it  than  anybody, — 
but  no  musicians  irritated  him  more  than  those  who  had  pre- 
tended to  be — and  had  actually  been — the  most  free,  the  most 
spontaneous,  the  least  constructive, — those,  who,  like  Schumann, 
had  poured  drop  by  drop,  minute  by  minute,  into  their  in- 
numerable little  works,  their  whole  life,  lie  was  the  more  in- 
dignantly in  revolt  against  them  as  he  recognized  in  them  his 
adolescent  soul  and  all  the  follies  that  he  had  vowed  to  pluck 
out  of  it.  In  truth,  the  candid  Schumann  could  not  be  taxed 
with  falsity:  he  hardly-  ever  said  anything  that  he  had  not  felt. 
But  that  was  just  it :  his  example  made  Christophe  under- 
stand that  the  worst  falsity  in  German  art  came  into  it  not 
when  the  artists  tried  to  express  something  which  they  had 
not  felt,  but  rather  when  they  tried  to  express  the  feelings 
which  they  did  in  fact  feel — feelings  which  ware  fal^e.  Music 
is  an  implacable  mirror  of  the  soul.  The  more  a  German  musi- 
cian is  naive  and  in  good  faith,  the  more  he  displays  the 
weaknesses  of  the  German  soul,  its  uncertain  depths,  its  soft 
tenderness,  its  want  of  frankness,  its  rather  sly  idealism,  its 
incapacity  for  seeing  itself,  for  daring  to  come  face  to  face 
with  itself.  That  false  idealism  is  the  secret  sore  even  of  the 
greatest— of  Wagner.  As  he  read  his  works  Christophe  ground 
his  teeth.  Lohengrin  seemed  to  him  a  blatant  lie.  lie  loaihed 
the  huxtering  chivalry,  the  hypocritical  mummery,  the  hero 
without  fear  and  without  a  heart,  the  incarnation  of  cold  and 
selfish  virtue  admiring  itself  and  most  patently  self-satislied. 
lie  knew  it  too  well,  he  had  seen  it  in  reality,  the  type  of 
German  1'harisee,  foppish,  impeccable,  and  hard,  ho \ving  d«>\vn 
before  its  own  image,  the  divinitv  to  which  it  has  no  scruple 
about  sacrificing  others.  77/r  Fhii-n;/  Diilcli  IIHIII  overwhelmed 
him  with  its  massive  sentimentality  and  its  gloomy  boredom. 
The  loves  of  the  barbarous  decadents  of  the  '/'  //•<//•/.'///  \\vre  of 
a  sickening  stateness.  Siegmund  carrviug  off  his  sister  sang 
a  tenor  drawing-room  song.  Siegfried  and  llriinnhilde,  like  re- 
spectable German  married  people,  in  the  (iuUcnli'uunn'rnnij  laid 
bare  before  each  other,  especiallv  for  the  beneiit  of  the  audience. 


374  JEAN-CHKISTOPHE 

their  pompous  and  voluble  conjugal  passion.  Every  sort  of 
lie  had  arranged  to  meet  in  that  work:  false  idealism,  false 
Christianity,  false  Gothicism,  false  legend,  false  gods,  false 
humans.  Never  did  more  monstrous  convention  appear  than 
in  that  theater  which  was  to  upset  all  the  conventions.  Neither 
eyes,  nor  mind,  nor  heart  could  be  deceived  by  it  for  a  moment: 
if  they  were,  then  they  must  wish  to  be  so. — They  did  wish  to 
be  so.  Germany  was  delighted  with  that  doting,  childish  art, 
an  art  of  brutes  let  loose,  and  mystic,  namby-pamby  little 
girls. 

And  Christophe  could  do  nothing:  as  soon  as  he  heard  the 
music  he  was  caught  up  like  the  others,  more  than  the  others, 
by  the  flood,  and  the  diabolical  will  of  the  man  who  had  let 
it  loose.  He  laughed,  and  he  trembled,  and  his  cheeks  burned, 
and  he  felt  galloping  armies  rushing  through  him!  And  he 
thought  that  those  who  bore  such  storms  within  themselves 
might  have  all  allowances  made  for  them.  What  cries  of  joy 
he  uttered  when  in  the  hallowed  works  which  he  could  not 
read  without  trembling  he  felt  once  more  his  old  emotion, 
ardent  still,  with  nothing  to  tarnish  the  purity  of  what  ho 
loved!  These  were  glorious  relics  that  he  saved  from  the  wreck. 
What  happiness  they  gave  him!  It  seemed  to  him  that  he 
had  saved  a  part  of  himself.  And  was  it  not  himself?  These 
great  Germans,  against  whom  he  revolted,  were  they  not  his 
blood,  his  flesh,  his  most  precious  life?  Tie  was  only  severe 
with  them  because  he  was  severe  with  himself.  Who  loved  them 
better  than  he?  *Who  felt  more  than  he  the  goodness  of 
Schubert,  the  innocence  of  Haydn,  the  tenderness  of  Mozart, 
the  great  heroic  heart  of  Beethoven?  Who  more  often  than  he 
took  refuge  in  the  murmuring  of  the  forests  of  Weber,  and  the 
cool  shade  of  the  cathedrals  of  John  Sebastian,  raising  against 
the  gray  sky  of  the  North,  above  the  plains  of  Germany,  their 
pile  of  stone,  and  their  gigantic  towers  with  their  sun-tipped 
spires? — But  he  suffered  from  their  lies,  and  he  could  not  forget 
them.  ITe  attributed  them  to  the  race,  their  greatness  to  them- 
selves. Ue  was  wrong.  Greatness  and  weaknesses  belong  equally 
to  the  race  whose  great,  shifting  thought  flows  like  the  greatest 
river  of  music  and  poetry  at  which  Kurope  comes  to  drink. — 
And  in  what  other  people  would  he  have  found  the  simple 


REVOLT  375 

purity  which  now  made  it  possible  for  him  to  condemn  it  so 
harshly  ? 

He  had  no  notion  of  that.  With  the  ingratitude  of  a  spoiled 
child  he  turned  against  his  mother  the  weapons  which  he  had 
received  from  her.  Later,  later,  he  was  to  feel  all  that  he  owed 
to  her,  and  how  dear  she  was  to  him.  .  .  . 

But  he  was  in  a  phase  of  blind  reaction  against  all  the  idols 
of  his  childhood.  He  was  angry  with  himself  and  with  them 
because  he  had  believed  in  them  absolutely  and  passionately— 
and  it  was  well  that  it  was  so.  There  is  an  age  in  life  when 
we  must  dare  to  be  unjust,  when  we  must  make  a  clean  sweep 
of  all  admiration  and  respect  got  at  second-hand,  and  deny 
everything — truth  and  untruth — everything  which  we  have  not 
of  ourselves  known  for  truth.  Through  education,  and  through 
everything  that  he  sees  and  hears  about  him,  a  child  absorbs 
so  many  lies  and  blind  follies  mixed  with  the  essential  verities 
of  life,  that  the  first  duty  of  the  adolescent  who  wishes  to 
grow  into  a  healthy  man  is  to  sacrifice  everything. 

Christophe  was  passing  through  that  crisis  of  healthy  disgust. 
His  instinct  was'  impelling  him  to  eliminate  from  his  life  all 
the  undigested  elements  which  encumbered  it. 

First  of  all  to  go  was  that  sickening  sweet  tenderness  which 
sucked  away  the  soul  of  Germany  like  a  damp  and  moldy  river- 
bed. Light!  Light!  A  rough,  dry  wind  which  should  sweep 
away  the  miasmas  of  the  swamp,  the  misty  staleness  of  the 
Licder,  Licdclien,  Liedldn,  as  numerous  as  drops  of  rain  in 
which  inexhaustibly  the  Germanic  (ffniitl  is  poured  forth:  the 
countless  things  like  Sehnsiirht  (Desire),  llcimiri'li  (Home- 
sickness), Aufscliwunf]  (Soaring),  Tranc  (A  que-tion). 
^Yannn?  (Why?),  an  den  Nond  (To  the  Moon),  mi  dif  N/i'/v/'1 
(To  the  Stars),  an  di"  Xacliiif/all  (To  the  Nightingale,  "ft 
den  Friililiiu/  (To  Spring),  an  den  SonnrnKclx  in  (To  Sun- 
shin;1):  like  Friihlingslie-d  (Spring  Song).  /•'/'// lilin<ixln*l  (De- 
lights of  Spring).  Friihlinf/sgrnss  (Hail  to  the  Spring).  Fr'rih- 
Hngsfahrt  (A  Spring  Journev),  Friihlinfjxnurlif  (A  Spring 
Night),  Fruhlingsbotschaft  (The  Message  of  Spring)  :  like 
Stint  me-  dcr  Licbe  (The  'Voice  of  Love).  >'/</•'/'•//>'  <lcr  I.irhr 
(The  Language  of  Love),  Traucr  dcr  f/ichf  (Love's  Sorrow); 


376  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

Geist  der  Liebe  (The  Spirit  of  Love),  Fillle  dcr  Licbe  (The 
Fullness  of  Love)  :  like  Klumenlied  (The  Song  of  the  Flowers), 
Blumeribrief  (The  Letter  of  the  Flowers),  Blumengruss  (Flow- 
ers' Greeting)  :  like  Hcrzeleid  (Heart  Pangs),  Nein  Rcrz  ist 
schwer  (My  Heart  is  Heavy),  Mein  Ilcrz  ist  bctrubt  (My 
Heart  is  Troubled),  Nein  Aug'  ist  trill  (My  Eye  is  Heavy)  : 
like  the  candid  and  silly  dialogues  with  the  Roselein  (The  Little 
Rose),  with  the  brook,  with  the  turtle  dove,  with  the  lark:  like 
those  idiotic  questions:  "If  the  briar  could  have  no  thorns?" - 
"Is  an  old  husband  like  a  lark  who  has  built  a  nest?" — "Is 
•she  newly  plighted?":  the  whole  deluge  of  stale  tenderness, 
stale  emotion,  stale  melancholy,  stale  poetry.  .  .  .  How  many 
lovely  things  profaned,  rare  things,  used  in  season  or  out ! 
For  the  worst  of  it  was  that  it  was  all  useless :  a  habit  of  un- 
dressing their  hearts  in  public,  a  fond  and  foolish  propensity 
of  the  honest  people  of  Germany  for  plunging  loudly  into  confi- 
dences. With  nothing  to  say  they  were  always  talking!  Would 
their  chatter  never  cease? — As  well  bid  frogs  in  a  pond  be 
silent. 

It  was  in  the  expression  of  love  that  Christophe  was  most 
rawly  conscious  of  untruth :  for  he  was  in  a  position  to  com- 
pare it  with  the  reality.  The  conventional  love  songs,  lacrymose 
and  proper,  contained  nothing  like  the  desires  of  man  or  the 
heart  of  woman.  And  yet  the  people  who  had  written  them 
must  have  loved  at  least  once  in  their  lives !  Was  it  possible 
that  they  could  have  loved  like  that?  Xo,  no,  they  had  lied, 
as  they  always  did,  they  had  lied  to  themselves :  they  had  tried 
to  idealize  themselves.  .  .  .  Idealism !  That  meant  that  they 
were  afraid  of  looking  at  life  squarely,  were  incapable  of  seeing 
things  like  a  man,  as  they  are. — Everyvher^  the  same  timidity, 
the  same  lack  of  manly  frankness.  Everywhere  the  same  chilly 
enthusiasm,  the  same  pompous  lying  solemnity,  in  their  patriot- 
ism, in  their  drinking,  in  their  religion.  The  Trinklieder 
(Drinking  Songs)  were  prosopopeia  to  wine  and  the  bowl:  "  Du, 
hcrrllch  Glas  \  .  ."  ("Thou,  noble  glass  .  .  .").  Faith— the 
one  thing  in  the  world  which  should  be  spontaneous,  springing 
from  the  soul  like  an  unexpected  sudden  stream — was  a  manu- 
factured article,  a  commodity  of  trade.  Their  patriotic  songs 
were  made  for  docile  flocks  of  sheep  basking  in  unison.  .  .  . 


EEVOLT  377 

Shout,  then ! — What !  Must  you  go  on  lying — "  idealizing  " 
• — till  you  are  surfeited,  till  it  brings  you  to  slaughter  and  mad- 
ness! .  .  . 

Christophe  ended  by  hating  all  idealism.  He  preferred  frank 
brutality  to  such  lying.  But  at  heart  he  was  more  of  an  idealist 
than  the  rest,  and  he  had  not — he  could  not  have — any  more 
real  enemies  than  the  brutal  realists  whom  he  thought  he  pre- 
ferred. 

He  was  blinded  by  passion.  He  was  frozen  by  the  mist,  the 
anasmic  lying,  "  the  sunless  phantom  Ideas."  With  his  whole 
being  he  reached  upwards  to  the  sun.  In  his  youthful  contempt 
for  the  hypocrisy  with  which  he  was  surrounded,  or  for  what 
he  took  to  be  hypocrisy,  he  did  not  see  the  high,  practical  wis- 
dom of  the  race  which  little  by  little  had  built  up  for  itself 
its  grandiose  idealism  in  order  to  suppress  its  savage  instincts, 
or  to  turn  them  to  account.  Xot  arbitrary  reasons,  not  moral 
and  religious  codes,  not  legislators  and  statesmen,  priests  and 
philosophers,  transform  the  souls  of  peoples  and  often  impose 
upon  them  a  new  nature :  but  centuries  of  misfortune  and  ex- 
perience, which  forge  the  life  of  peoples  who  have  the  will  to 
live. 

And  yet  Christophe  went  on  composing :  and  his  compositions 
were  not  examples  of  the  faults  which  he  found  in  others.  -In 
him  creation  was  an  irresistible  necessity  which  would  not  sub- 
mit to  the  rules  which  his  intelligence  laid  down  for  it.  Xo 
man  creates  from  reason,  but  from  necessity. — It  is  not  enough 
to  have  recognized  the  untruth  and  affectation  inherent  in  the 
majority  of  the  feelings  to  avoid  falling  into  them :  long  and 
painful  endeavor  is  necessary:  nothing  is  more  difficult  than 
to  be  absolutely  true  in  modern  society  with  its  crushing  heri- 
tage of  indolent  habits  handed  down  through  generations.  It 
is  especially  difficult  for  those  people,  those  nations  who  are 
possessed  by  an  indiscreet  mania  for  letting  their  hearts  speak — 
for  making  them  speak — unceasingly,  when  most  generally  it 
had  much  better  have  been  silent. 

Christophe's  heart  was  very  German  in  that :  it  had  not  yet 
learned  the  virtue  of  silence:  and  that  virtue  did  not  belong 
to  his  age.  He  had  inherited  from  his  father  a  need  for  talk- 


378  JEAX-CHRISTOPHE 

ing,  and  talking  loudly.  He  knew  it  and  struggled  against  it: 
but  the  conflict  paralyzed  part  of  his  forces. — And  he  had  an- 
other gift  of  heredity,  no  less  burdensome,  which  had  come  to 
him  from  his  grandfather:  an  extraordinary  difficulty — in  ex- 
pressing himself  exactly. — He  was  the  son  of  a  virtuoso.  He 
was  conscious  of  the  dangerous  attraction  of  virtuosity :  a  physi- 
cal pleasure,  the  pleasure  of  skill,  of  agility,  of  satisfied  mus- 
cular activity,  the  pleasure  of  conquering,  of  dazzling,  of  en- 
thralling in  his  own  person  the  many-headed  audience:  an 
excusable  pleasure,  in  a  young  man  almost  an  innocent  pleasure, 
though  none  the  less  destructive  of  art  and  soul :  Christophe 
knew  it:  it  was  in  his  blood:  he  despised  it,  but  all  the  same 
he  yielded  to  it. 

And  so,  torn  between  the  instincts  of  his  race  and  those  of 
his  genius,  weighed  down  by  the  burden  of  a  parasitical  past, 
which  covered  him  with  a  crust  that  he  could  not  break  through, 
he  floundered  along,  and  was  much  nearer  than  he  thought  to 
all  that  he  shunned  and  banned.  All  his  compositions  were  a 
mixture  of  truth  and  turgidness,  of  lucid  strength  and  faltering 
stupidity.  It  was  only  in  rare  moments  that  his  personality 
could  pierce  the  casing  of  the  dead  personality  which  hampered 
his  movements. 

He  was  alone.  He  had  no  guide  to  help  him  out  of  the  mire. 
When  he  thought  he  was  out  of  it  he  slipped  back  again.  He 
went  blindly  on,  wasting  his  time  and  strength  in  futile  efforts. 
He  was  spared  no  trial :  and  in  the  disorder  of  his  creative 
striving  he  never  knew  what  was  of  greatest  worth  in  what  he 
created.  He  tied  himself  up  in  absurd  projects,  symphonic 
poems,  which  pretended  to  philosophy  and  were  of  monstrous 
dimensions.  He  was  too  sincere  to  be  able  to  hold  to  them  for 
long  together:  and  he  would  discard  them  in  disgust  before 
he  had  stretched  out  a  single  movement.  Or  he  would  set  out 
to  translate  into  overtures  the  most  inaccessible  works  of  poetry. 
Then  he  would  flounder  about  in  a  domain  which  was  not  his 
own.  When  he  drew  up  scenarios  for  himself — (for  he  stuck 
at  nothing) — they  were  idiotic':  and  when  he  attacked  the  great 
works  of  Goethe,  Hebbel,  Kleist,  or  Shakespeare,  he  under- 
stood them  all  wrong.  It  was  not  want  of  intelligence  but  want 
of  the  critical  spirit:  he  could  not  yet  understand  others,  he 


HEVOLT  379 

was  too  much  taken  up  with  himself:  he  round  himself!  every- 
where with  his  naive  and  turgid  soul. 

But  besides  these  monsters  who  were  not  ivally  begotten,  he 
wrote  a  quantity  of  small  pieces,  which  were  the  immediate 
expression  of  passing  emotions — the -most  eternal  of  all:  musi- 
cal thoughts,  Lied<>r.  In  this  as  in  other  things  he  was  in 
passionate  reaction  against  current  practices,  lie  would  take 
up  the  most  famous  poems,  already  set  to  music,  and  was  im- 
pertinent enough  to  try  to  treat  them  differently  and  with 
greater  truth  than  Schumann  and  Schubert.  Sometimes  he 
would  try  to  give  to  the  poetic  figures  of  Goethe— to  Mignon, 
the  Harpist  in  \Y\lhclni  Meisicr,  their  individual  character, 
exact  and  changing.  Sometimes  he  would  tackle  certain  love 
songs  which  the  weakness  of  the  artists  and  the  dullness  of  the 
audience  in  tacit  agreement  had  clothed  about  with  sickly  senti- 
mentality: and  he  would  unclothe  them:  he  would  restore  to 
them  their  rough,  crude  sensuality.  In  a  word,  he  set  out  to 
make  passions  and  people  live  for  themselves  and  not  to  serve 
as  toys  for  German  families  seeking  an  easy  emotionalism  on 
Sundays  when  they  sat  about  in  some  Bicr;/ar("n. 

But  generally  he  would  find  the  poets,  even  the  greatest  of 
them,  too  literary:  and  he  would  select  the  simplest  texts  for 
preference:  texts  of  old  Liedcr,  jolly  old  songs,  which  he  had 
read  perhaps  in  some  improving  work:  he  would  take  care  not 
to  preserve  their  choral  character:  he  would  treat  them  with  a 
line,  lively,  and  altogether  lay  audacity.  Or  he  would  take 
words  from  the  Gospel,  or  proverbs,  sometimes  even  words  heard 
by  chance,  scraps  of  dialogues  of  the  people,  children's  thoughts: 
words  often  awkward  and  prosaic  in  which  there  was  only  pur.; 
feeling.  With  them  he  was  at  his  ease,  and  he  would  reaei: 
a  depth  with  them  which  was  not  in  his  other  compositions, 
a  depth  which  he  himself  never  suspected. 

Good  or  bad.  more  often  bad  than  good,  his  works  as  a  who1  • 
had  abounding  vitalitv.  Thev  were  not  altogether  new;  f,n 
from  it.  Christophe  was  often  banal,  through  his  \ery  sincerity: 
he  repeated  sometimes  forms  alreadv  used  because  tiiey  exactly 
rendered  his  thought,  because  he  also  felt  in  thai  wav  and  not 
otherwise.  Nothing  wotild  have  indued!  him  to  try  to  be 
original:  it  seemed  to  him  that  a  man  mut-t  be  very  common- 


380  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

place  to  burden  himself  with  such  an  idea.  He  tried  to  be  him- 
self, to  say  what  he  felt,  without  worrying  as  to  whether  what 
he  said  had  been  said  before  him  or  not.  He  took  a  pride  in 
believing  that  it  was  the  best  way  of  being  original  and  that 
Christophe  had  only  been  and  only  would  be  alive  once. 
With  the  magnificent  impudence  of  youth,  nothing  seemed  to 
him  to  have  been  done  before :  and  everything  seemed  to  him 
to  be  left  for  doing — or  for  doing  again.  And  the  feeling  of 
this  inward  fullness  of  life,  of  a  life  stretching  endless  before 
him,  brought  him  to  a  state  of  exuberant  and  rather  indiscreet 
happiness.  He  was  perpetually  in  a  state  of  jubilation,  which 
had  no  need  of  joy :  it  could  adapt  itself  to  sorrow :  its  source 
overflowed  with  life,  was,  in  its  strength,  mother  of  all  happiness 
and  virtue.  To  live,  to  live  too  much !  .  .  .  A  man  who  does 
not  feel  within  himself  this  intoxication  of  strength,  this  jubila- 
tion in  living — even  in  the  depths  of  misery, — is  not  an  artist. 
That  is  the  touchstone.  True  greatness  is  shown  in  this  power 
of  rejoicing  through  joy  and  sorrow.  A  Mendelssohn  or  a 
Brahms,  gods  of  the  mists  of  October,  and  of  fine  rain,  have 
never  known  the  divine  power. 

Christophe  was  conscious  of  it :  and  he  showed  his  joy  simply, 
impudently.  He  saw  no  harm  in  it,  he  only  asked  to  share  it 
with  others.  He  did  not  see  how  such  joy  hurts  the  majority 
of  men,  who  never  can  possess  it  and  are  always  envious  of  it. 
For  the  rest  he  never  bothered  about  pleasing  or  displeasing : 
he  was  sure  of  himself,  and  nothing  seemed  to  him  simpler  than 
to  communicate  his  conviction  to  others, — to  conquer.  In- 
stinctively he  compared  his  riches  with  the  general  poverty  of 
the  makers  of  music:  and  he  thought  that  it  would  be  very 
easy  to  make  his  superiority  recognized.  Too  easy,  even.  He 
had  only  to  show  himself. 

He  showed  himself. 

They  were  waiting  for  him. 

Christophe  had  made  no  secret  of  his  feelings.  Since  he  had 
become  aware  of  German  Pharisaism,  which  refuses  to  see 
things  as  they  are,  lie  had  made  it  a  law  for  himself  that  he 
should  be  absolutely,  continually,  uncompromisingly  sincere  in 
everything  without  regard  for  anything  or  anybody  or  himself. 


REVOLT  381 

And  as  he  could  do  nothing  without  going  to  extremes,  he 
was  extravagant  in  his  sincerity :  he  would  say  outrageous  things 
and  scandalize  people  a  thousand  times  less  naive  than  him- 
self. He  never  dreamed  that  it  might  annoy  them.  When  he 
realized  the  idiocy  of  some  hallowed  composition  he  would  make 
haste  to  impart  his  discovery  to  everybody  he  encountered : 
musicians  of  the  orchestra,  or  amateurs  of  his  acquaintance. 
He  would  pronounce  the  most  absurd  judgments  with  a  beam- 
ing face.  At  first  no  one  took  him  seriously:  they  laughed 
at  his  freaks.  But  it  was  not  long  before  they  found  that  he 
was  always  reverting  to  them,  insisting  on  them  in  a  way  that 
was  really  bad  taste.  It  became  evident  that  Christophe  be- 
lieved in  his  paradoxes :  and  they  became  less  amusing.  He 
was  a  nuisance :  at  concerts  he  would  make  ironic  remarks  in 
a  loud  voice,  or  would  express  his  scorn  for  the  glorious  masters 
in  no  veiled  fashion  wherever  he  might  be. 

Everything  passed  from  mouth  to  mouth  in  the  little  town : 
not  a  word  was  lost.  People  were  already  affronted  by  his  con- 
duct during  the  past  year.  They  had  not  forgotten  the  scan- 
dalous fashion  in  which  he  had  shown  himself  abroad  with 
Ada  and  the  troublous  times  of  the  sequel.  He  had  forgotten 
it  himself :  one  day  wiped  out  another,  and  he  was  very  different 
from  what  he  had  been  two  months  before.  But  others  had 
not  forgotten :  those  who,  in  all  small  towns,  take  upon  them- 
selves scrupulously  to  note  down  all  the  faults,  all  the  imper- 
fections, all  the  sad,  ugly,  and  unpleasant  happenings  concern- 
ing their  neighbors,  so  that  nothing  is  ever  forgotten.  Chris- 
tophe's  new  extravagances  were  naturally  set,  side  by  side  with 
his  former  indiscretions,  in  the  scroll.  The  former  explained 
the  latter.  The  outraged  feelings  of  offended  morality  were  now 
bolstered  up  by  those  of  scandalized  good  taste.  The  kindliest 
of  them  said : 

"  He  is  trying  to  be  particular." 

But  most  alleged : 

"  Total  verriicld !  "     ( Absolutely  mad. ) 

An  opinion  no  less  severe  and  even  more  dangerous  was 
beginning  to  find  currency — an  opinion  assured  of  success  by 
reason  of  its  illustrious  origin:  it  was  said  that,  at  the  Palace, 
whither  Christophe  still  went  upon  his  oilicial  duties,  he  had 


383  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

had  the  had  tasto  in  conversation  with  the  Grand  Duke  himself, 
with  revolting  hiek  of  decency,  to  give  vent  to  his  ideas  con- 
cerning the  illustrious  masters:  it  was  said  that  he  had  called 
Mendelssohn's  Elijah  "  a  clerical  humbug's  paternoster,"  and 
he  had  called  certain  Licdcr  of  Schumann  "Backfisch  Muxik  ": 
and  that  in  the  face  of  the  declared  preference  of  the  august 
Princess  for  those  works!  The  Grand  Duke  had  cut  short  his 
impcriineiu es  by  saying  dryly: 

"  To  hear  you,  sir,  one  would  doubt  your  being  a  German."' 
This  vengeful  utterance,  coming  from  so  lofty  an  eminence, 
reached  the  lowest  depths:  and  everybody  who  thought  he 
had  reason  to  be  annoyed  with  Christophe,  either  for  his  success, 
or  for  some  more  personal  if  not  more  cogent  reason,  did  not 
fail  to  call  to  mind  that  he  was  not  in  fact  pure  German.  Jlis 
father's  family,  it  was  remembered,  came  originally  from  Bel- 
gium. Jt  was  not  surprising,  therefore,  that  this  immigrant 
should  decry  the  national  glories.  That  explained  everything 
and  German  vanity  found  reasons  therein  for  greater  self-esteem, 
and  at  the  same  time  for  despising  its  adversary. 

Christopho  himself  most  substantially  fed  this  Platonic 
vengeance.  It  is  very  imprudent  to  criticise  others  when  vou 
are  yourself  on  the  point  of  challenging  criticism.  A  cleverer  or 
less  frank  artist  would  have  shown  more  modesty  and  more 
respect  for  his  predecessors.  But  Christopho.  could  see  no  rea- 
son for  hiding  his  contempt  for  mediocrity  or  his  joy  in  his 
own  strength,  and  his  jov  was  shown  in  no  temperate  fashion. 
Although  from  childhood  Christoplie  had  been  turned  in  upon 
himself  for  want  of  any  creature  to  confide  in,  of  late  he  had 
come  by  a  need  of  expansiveness.  lie  had  too  much  joy  for 
himself:  his  breast  was  too  small  to  contain  it:  he  would  have 
hurst  if  he  had  not  shared  his  delight.  Failing  a  friend,  he 

in  t  he  orchi'st  ra,  the  second 
a  young  Wnrtemberger,  a  good 
who  showed  him  an  eH'usive  deference, 
rust  him:  and,  even  if  he  had.  how  could 
it  have  occurred  to  him  that  it  might  be  harmful  to  confide  his 
joy  to  one  who  did  not  care,  or  even  to  an  enemy:'  Ought  they 
not  rather  to  be  grateful  to  him?  Was  it  not  for  them  also 
that  he  was  working?  He  brought  happiness  for  all,  friends 


REVOLT  383 

and  enemies  alike. — He  had  no  idea  that  there  is  nothing  more 
difficult  than  to  make  men  accept  a  new  happiness :  they  almost 
prefer  their  old  misery:  they  need  food  that  has  been  masticated 
for  ages.  But  what  is  most  intolerable  to  them  is  the  thought 
that  they  owe  such  happiness  to  another.  They  cannot  forgive 
that  offense  until  there  is  no  way  of  evading  it :  and  in  any  case, 
they  do  contrive  to  make  the  giver  pay  dearly  for  it. 

There  were,  then,  a  thousand  reasons  why  Christophers  con- 
fidences should  not  be  kindly  received  by  anybody.  But  there 
were  a  thousand  and  one  reasons  why  they  should  not  be  accept- 
able to  Siegmund  Ochs.  The  first  Kapellmeister,  Tobias  Pfeif- 
fer,  was  on  the  point  of  retiring:  and,  in  spite  of  his  youth. 
Christophe  had  every  chance  of  succeeding  him.  Ochs  was  too 
good  a  German  not  to  recognize  that  Christophe  was  worthy  of 
the  position,  since  the  Court  was  on  his  side.  But  he  had  too 
good  an  opinion  of  himself  not  to  believe  that  he  would  have 
been  more  worthy  had  the  Court  known  him  better.  And  so 
he  received  Christophe's  effusions  with  a  strange  smile  when 
he  arrived  at  the  theater  in  the  morning  with  a  face  that  he 
tried  hard  to  make  serious,  though  it  beamed  in  spite  of  hi  in- 
self. 

"Well?"  he  would  say  slyly  as  he  came  up  to  him,  ''another 
masterpiece  ?  " 

Christophe  would  take  his  arm. 

"Ah!  my  friend.  It  is  the  best  of  all.  ...  If  you  could 
hear  it!  ...  Devil  take  me,  it  is  too  beautiful!  There  has 
never  been  anything  like  it.  God  help  the  poor  audience! 
They  will  only  long  for  one  tiling  when  they  have  heard  it :  to 
die." 

His  words  did  not  fall  upon  deaf  ears.  Instead  of  smiling. 
or  of  chaffing  Christophe  about  his  childish  enthusiasm — he 
would  have  been  the  first  to  laugh  at  it  and  beg  pardon  if  be 
had  been  made  to  feel  the  absurd  it  v  of  it— Oclis  \vent  into 
ironic1  ecstasies:  he  drew  Christophe  on  to  further  enormities: 
and  when  he  left  him  made  baste  to  repeat  them  all.  making 
them  even  more  grotesque.  The  little  circle  of  musicians 
cfmckled  over  them:  and  even*  one  was  impatient  for  the  oppor- 
tunity of  judging  the  unhappy  compositions. — They  were  all 
judged  beforehand. 


384  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

At  last  they  appeared — Christophe  had  chosen  from  the  l)etter 
of  his  works  an  overture  to  the  Judith  of  Hebbel,  the  savage 
energy  of  which  had  attracted  him,  in  his  reaction  against 
German  atony,  although  he  was  beginning  to  lose  his  taste 
for  it,  knowing  intuitively  the  unnaturalness  of  such  assumption 
of  genius,  always  and  at  all  costs.  He  had  added  a  symphony 
which  bore  the  bombastic  title  of  the  Basle  Boecklin,  "  Tlie 
Dream  of  Life,"  and  the  motto:  "Vila  somnium  breve."  A 
song-cycle  completed  the  programme,  with  a  few  classical  works, 
and  a  Festmarscli  by  Ochs,  which  Christophe  had  kindly  offered 
to  include  in  his  concert,  though  he  knew  it  to  be  mediocre. 

Nothing  much  happened  during  the  rehearsals.  Although 
the  orchestra  understood  absolutely  nothing  of  the  composition 
it  was  playing  and  everybody  was  privately  disconcerted  by  the 
oddities  of  the  new  music,  they  had  no  time  to  form  an  opinion : 
they  were  not  capable  of  doing  so  until  the  public  had  pro- 
nounced on  it.  Besides,  Christophe's  confidence  imposed  on 
the  artists,  who,  like  every  good  German  orchestra,  were  docile 
and  disciplined.  His  only  difficulties  were  with  the  singer.  She 
was  the  blue  lady  of  the  Townlialle  concert.  She  was  famous 
through  Germany:  the  domestic  creature  sang  Briinnhilde  and 
Ivundry  at  Dresden  and  Bayreuth  with  undoubted  lung-power. 
But  if  in  the  Wagnerian  school  she  had  learned  the  art  of 
which  that  school  is  justly  proud,  the  art  of  good  articulation, 
of  projecting  the  consonants  through  space,  and  of  battering 
the  gaping  audience  with  the  vowels  as  with  a  club,  she  had 
not  learned — designedly — the  art  of  being  natural.  She  pro- 
vided for  every  word:  everything  was  accentuated:  the  syllables 
moved  with  leaden  foot,  and  there  was  a  tragedy  in  every 
sentence.  Christophe  implored  her  to  moderate  her  dramatic 
power  a  little.  She  tried  at  first  graciously  enough :  but  her 
natural  heaviness  and  her  need  for  letting  her  voice  go  carried 
her  awa}r.  Christophe  became  nervous.  Tie  told  the  respectable 
lady  that  he  had  tried  to  make  human  beings  speak  with  his 
speaking-trumpet  and  not  the  dragon  Fafner.  She  took  his 
insolence  in  bad  part — naturally.  She  said  that,  thank  Heaven! 
she  knew  what  singing  was,  and  that  she  had  had  the  honor  of 
interpreting  the  Lic-der  of  Maestro  Brahms,  in  the  presence  of 
that  great  man,  and  that  he  had  never  tired  of  hearing  her. 


REVOLT  385 

"  So  much  the  worse !    So  much  the  worse  !  "  cried  Christophe. 

She  asked  him  with  a  haughty  smile  to  be  kind  enough  to 
explain  the  meaning  of  his  energetic  remark.  He  replied  that 
never  in  his  life  had  Brahms  known  what  it  was  to  he  natural, 
that  his  eulogies  were  the  worst  possible  censure,  and  that 
although  he — Christophe — was  not  very  polite,  as  she  had  justly 
observed,  never  would  he  have  gone  so  far  as  to  say  anything  so 
unpleasant. 

The  argument  went  on  in  this  fashion:  and  the  lady  insisted 
on  singing  in  her  own  way,  with  heavy  pathos  and  melodramatic 
effects — until  one  day  when  Christophe  declared  coldly  that  he 
saw  the  truth:  it  was  her  nature  and  nothing  could  change  it: 
but  since  the  Lieder  could  not  be  sung  properly,  they  should 
not  be  sung  at  all :  he  withdrew  them  from  the  programme. — It 
was  on  the  eve  of  the  concert  and  they  were  counting  on  the 
Lieder :  she  had  talked  about  them  :  she  was  musician  enough 
to  appreciate  certain  of  their  qualities :  Christophe  insulted  her : 
and  as  she  was  not  sure  that  the  morrow's  concert  would  not 
set  the  seal  on  the  young  man's  fame,  she  did  not  wish  to  quarrel 
with  a  rising  star.  She  gave  way  suddenly:  and  during  the 
last  rehearsal  she  submitted  docilely  to  all  Christophe's  wishes. 
But  she  had  made  up  her  mind — at  the  concert — to  have  her 
own  way. 

The  day  came.  Christophe  had  no  anxiety.  He  was  too  full 
of  his  music  to  be  able  to  judge  it.  He  realized  that  some  of 
his  works  in  certain  places  bordered  on  the  ridiculous.  But 
what  did  that  matter?  Xothing  great  can  be  written  without 
touching  the  ridiculous.  To  reach  the  heart  of  thing?  it  is 
necessary  to  dare  human  respect,  politeness,  modesty,  the  timid- 
ity of  social  lies  under  which  the  heart  is  stifled.  If  nobody 
is  to  be  affronted  and  success  attained,  a  man  must  be  resigned 
all  his  life  to  remain  bound  by  convention  and  to  give  to  second- 
rate  people  the  second-rate  truth,  mitigated,  diluted,  which  they 
are  capable  of  receiving:  he  must  dwell  in  prison  all  his  life. 
A  man  is  great  only  when  he  has  set  his  foot  on  such  anxieties. 
Christophe  trampled  them  underfoot.  Tx't  them  hiss  him:  lie 
was  sure  of  not  leaving  them  indifferent.  He  conjured  up  the 
faces  that  certain  people  of  his  acquaintance  would  make  as 


38G  JEAN-CHR1STOPHE 

they  heard  certain  rather  bold  passages.  lie  expected  bitter 
criticism:  he  smiled  at  it  already.  In  any  case  they  would  have 
to  be  blind — or  deaf — to  deny  that  there  \vas  force  in  it — pleas- 
ant or  otherwise,  what  did  it  matter  ? — Pleasant !  Pleasant ! 
.  .  .  Force!  That  is  enough.  Let  it  go  its  way,  and  bear  all 
before  it,  like  the  Rhine!  .  .  . 

He  had  one  setback.  The  Grand  Duke  did  not  come.  The 
royal  box  was  only  occupied  by  Court  people,  a  few  ladies-in- 
waiting.  Christophe  was  irritated  by  it.  lie  thought :  "  The 
fool  is  cross  with  me.  He  does  not  know  what  to  think  of  my 
work:  he  is  afraid  of  compromising  himself."  He  shrugged 
his  shoulders,  pretending  not  to  be  put  out  by  such  idiocy. 
Others  paid  more  attention  to  it :  it  was  the  first  lesson  for 
him,  a  menace  of  his  future. 

The  public  had  not  shown  much  more  interest  than  the  Grand 
Duke:  quite  a  third  of  the  hall  was  empty.  Christophe  could 
not  help  thinking  bitterly  of  the  crowded  halls  at  his  concerts 
when  he  was  a  child.  He  would  not  have  been  surprised  by 
the  change  if  he  had  had  more  experience :  it  would  have  seemed 
natural  to  him  that  there  were  fewer  people  come  to  hear 
him  when  he  made  good  music  than  when  he  made  bad  :  for 
it  is  not  music  but  the  musician  in  which  the  greater  part  of 
the  public  is  interested  :  and  it  is  obvious  that  a  musician  who 
is  a  man  and  like  everybody  else  is  much  less  interesting  than 
a  musician  in  a  child's  little  trowsers  or  short  frock,  who  tickles 
sentimentality  or  amuses  idleness. 

After  waiting  in  vain  for  the  hall  to  fill,  Christophe  decided 
to  begin.  He  tried  to  pretend  that  it  was  better  so,  paying, 
"  A  few  friends  but  good." — His  optimism  did  not  last  long. 

His  pieces  were  played  in  silence. — There  is  a  silence  in  an 
audience  which  seems  big  and  overflowing  with  love.  But 
there  was  nothing  in  this.  Nothing.  "Utter  sleep.  Blankness. 
Every  phrase  seemed  to  drop  into  depths  of  indifference.  With 
his  back  turned  to  the  audience,  busy  with  his  orchestra,  Chris- 
tophe  was  fully  aware  of  everything  that  was  happening  in  the 
hall,  with  those  inner  antcnnie,  with  which  every  true  musician 
is  endowed,  so  that  he  knows  whether  what  he  is  playing  is 
waking  an  echo  in  the  hearts  about  him.  He  went  on  conduct- 
ing and  growing  excited  while  he  was  frozen  by  the  cold 


REVOLT  387 

mist  of  boredom  rising  from  the  stalls  and  the  boxes  behind 
him. 

At  last  the  overture  was  ended:  and  the  audience  applauded. 
It  applauded  coldly,  politely,  and  was  then  silent.  Christophe 
would  rather  have  had  them  hoot.  ...  A  hiss!  One  hiss! 
Anything  to  give  a  sign  of  life,  or  at  least  of  reaction  against 
his  work !  .  .  .  Nothing. — He  looked  at  the  audience.  The 
people  were  looking  at  each  other,  each  trying  to  find  out  what 
the  other  thought.  They  did  not  succeed  and  relapsed  into 
indifference. 

The  music  went  on.  The  symphony  was  played. — Christophe 
found  it  hard  to  go  on  to  the  end.  Several  times  he  was  on 
the  point  of  throwing  down  his  baton  and  running  away.  Their 
apathy  overtook  him:  at  last  he  could  not  understand  what  he 
was  conducting :  he  could  not  breathe :  he  felt  that  he  was  falling 
into  fathomless  boredom.  There  was  not  even  the  whispered 
ironic  comment  which  he  had  anticipated  at  certain  passages : 
the  audience  were  reading  their  programmes.  Christophe  heard 
the  pages  turned  all  together  with  a  dry  rustling:  and  then 
once  more  there  was  silence  until  the  last  chord,  when  the  same 
polite  applause  showed  that  they  had  not  understood  that  the 
symphony  was  finished. — And  yet  there  were  four  pairs  of  hands 
went  on  clapping  when  the  others  had  finished  :  but  they  awoke 
no  echo,  and  stopped  ashamed :  that  made  the  emptiness  seem 
more  empty,  and  the  little  incident  served  to  show  the  audience 
how  bored  it  had  been. 

Christophe  took  a  scat  in  the  middle  of  the  orchestra:  he 
dared  not  look  to  right  or  left.  lie  wanted  to  cry:  and  at  the 
same  time  he  was  quivering  with  rage.  He  was  fain  to  get 
up  and  shout  at  them:  "You  bore  me!  Ah!  How  you  bore 
me!  J  cannot  bear  it!  .  .  .  Go  away!  Go  away,  all  of 
you!  .  .  ." 

The  audience  woke  up  a  little:  they  were  expecting  the  singer, 
— they  were  accustomed  to  applauding  her.  In  thai  ocean  of  new 
music  in  which  they  were  drifting  without  a  compass,  she  at 
least  was  sure,  a  known  land,  and  a  solid,  in  which  there  was 
no  danger  of  being  lost.  Christophe  divined  their  thoughts 
exactly:  and  he  laughed  bitterly.  The  singer  was  no  less  con- 
scious of  the  expectancy  of  the  audience:  Christophe  saw  that 


388  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

in  her  regal  airs  when  he  came  and  told  her  that  it  was  her  turn 
to  appear.  They  looked  at  each  other  inimically.  Instead  of 
offering  her  his  arm,  Christophe  thrust  his  hands  into  his 
pockets  and  let  her  go  on  alone.  Furious  and  out  of  counte- 
nance she  passed  him.  He  followed  her  with  a  bored  expression. 
As  soon  as  she  appeared  the  audience  gave  her  an  ovation :  that 
made  everybody  happier :  every  face  brightened,  the  audience 
grew  interested,  and  glasses  were  brought  into  play.  Certain 
of  her  power  she  tackled  the  Licder,  in  her  own  way,  of  course, 
and  absolutely  disregarded  Christophe's  remarks  of  the  evening 
before.  Christophe,  who  was  accompanying  her,  went  pale.  He 
had  foreseen  her  rebellion.  At  the  first  change  that  she  made 
he  tapped  on  the  piano  and  said  angrily : 

"  No !  " 

She  went  on.  He  whispered  behind  her  back  in  a  low  voice 
of  fury: 

"  No !     No !     Not  like  that !  .  .  .  Not  that !  " 

Unnerved  by  his  fierce  growls,  winch  the  audience  could  not 
hear,  though  the  orchestra  caught  every  syllable,  she  stuck  to 
it,  dragging  her  notes,  making  pauses  like  organ  stops.  He 
paid  no  heed  to  them  and  went  ahead :  in  the  end  they  got 
out  of  time.  The  audience  did  not  notice  it :  for  some  time 
they  had  been  saying  that  Christophe's  music  was  not  made 
to  seem  pleasant  or  right  to  the  ear:  but  Christophe,  who  was 
not  of  that  opinion,  was  making  lunatic  grimaces :  and  at  last 
he  exploded.  He  stopped  short  in  the  middle  of  a  bar : 

"  Stop,"  he  shouted. 

She  was  carried  on  by  her  own  impetus  for  half  a  bar  and 
then  stopped: 

"  That's  enough,"  he  said  dryly. 

There  was  a  moment  of  amazement  in  the  audience.  After 
a  few  seconds  he  said  icily : 

"  Begin  again !  " 

She  looked  at  him  in  stupefaction:  her  hands  trembled:  she 
thought  for  a  moment  of  throwing  his  book  at  his  head :  after- 
wards she  did  not  understand  how  it  was  that  she  did  not  do 
so.  But  she  was  overwhelmed  by  Christophe's  authority  and  his 
unanswerable  tone  of  voice :  she  began  again.  She  sang  the 
whole  song-cycle,  without  changing  one  shade  of  meaning,  or 


REVOLT  389 

a  single  movement :  for  she  felt  that  he  would  spare  her  noth- 
ing: and  she  shuddered  at  the  thought  of  a  fresh  insult. 

When  she  had  finished  the  audience  recalled  her  frantically. 
They  were  not  applauding  the  Lieder — (they  would  have  ap- 
plauded just  the  same  if  she  had  sung  any  others) — but  the 
famous  singer  who  had  grown  old  in  harness :  they  knew  that 
they  could  safely  admire  her.  Besides,  they  wanted  to  make 
up  to  her  for  the  insult  she  had  just  received.  They  were  not 
quite  sure,  but  they  did  vaguely  understand  that  the  singer  had 
made  a  mistake :  and  they  thought  it  indecent  of  Christophe  to 
call  their  attention  to  it.  They  encored  the  songs.  But  Chris- 
tophe shut  the  piano  firmly. 

The  singer  did  not  notice  his  insolence :  she  was  too  much 
upset  to  think  of  singing  again.  She  left  the  stage  hurriedly 
and  shut  herself  up  in  her  box :  and  then  for  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  she  relieved  her  heart  of  the  flood  of  wrath  and  rage  that 
was  pent  up  in  it :  a  nervous  attack,  a  deluge  of  tears,  indignant 
outcries  and  imprecations  against  Christophe, — she  omitted 
nothing.  Her  cries  of  anger  could  be  heard  through  the  closed 
door.  Those  of  her  friends  who  had  made  their  way  thero 
told  everybody  when  they  left  that  Christophe  had  behaved  like 
a  cad.  Opinion  travels  quickly  in  a  concert  hall.  And  so 
when  Christophe  went  to  his  desk  for  the  last  piece  of  music 
the  audience  was  stormy.  But  it  was  not  his  composition:  it 
was  the  Festmarsch  by  Ochs,  which  Christophe  had  kindly  in- 
cluded in  his  programme.  The  audience — who  were  quite  at 
their  ease  with  the  dull  music — found  a  very  simple  method  of 
displaying  their  disapproval  of  Christophe  without  going  so  far 
as  to  hiss  him :  they  acclaimed  Ochs  ostentatiously,  recalled  the 
composer  two  or  three  times,  and  he  appeared  readily.  And 
that  was  the  end  of  the  concert. 

The  Grand  Duke  and  everybody  at  the  Court — the  bored, 
gossiping  little  provincial  town — lost  no  detail  of  what  had 
happened.  The  papers  which  were  friendly  towards  the  singer 
made  no  allusion  to  the  incident :  but  they  all  agreed  in  exalt- 
ing her  art  while  they  only  mentioned  the  titles  of  the  Lieder 
which  she  had  sung.  They  published  only  a  few  lines  about 
Christophers  other  compositions,  and  they  all  said  almost  the 
same  things :  ".  .  .  Knowledge  of  counterpoint.  Complicated 


390  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

writing.  Lack  of  inspiration.  Xo  melody.  Written  with  the 
head,  not  with  the  heart.  Want  of  sincerity.  'Frying  to  be 
original.  .  .  .""  Followed  a  paragraph  on  true  originality,  thai 
of  the  masters  who  are  dead  and  buried,  Mozart,  Beethoven, 
Loewe,  Schubert.  Brahms,  "  those  who  are  original  without 
thinking  of  it." — Then  by  a  natural  transition  they  passed  to 
the  revival  at  the  Grand  .Ducal  Theater  of  the  Nachtlayer  von 
Granada  of  Konradiu  Kreut/er:  a  long  account  was  given  of 
"  the  delicious  music,  as  fresh  and  lolly  as  when  it  was  first 
written." 

Christophe's  compositions  met  with  absolute  and  astonished 
lack  of  comprehension  from  the  most  kindly  disposed  critics: 
veiled  hostility  from  those  who  did  not  like  him,  and  were 
arming  themselves  for  later  ventures:  and  from  the  general 
public,  guided  by  neither  friendly  nor  hostile  critics,  silence. 
Left  to  its  own  thoughts  the  general  public  does  not  think  at 
all :  that  goes  without  saying. 

Christophe  was  bowled  over. 

,  And  yet  there  was  nothing  surprising  in  his  defeat.  There 
were  reasons,  three  to  one,  why  his  compositions  should  not 
please.  They  were  immature.  They  were,  secondly,  too  ad- 
vanced to  be  understood  at  once.  And,  lastly,  people  were  only 
too  glad  to  give  a  lesson  to  the  impertinent  youngster. — But 
Christophe  was  not  cool-headed  enough  to  admit  that  his  reverse 
was  legitimate.  lie  had  none  of  that  serenity  which  the  true 
artist  gains  from  the  mournful  experience  of  long  misunder- 
standing at  the  hands  of  men  and  their  incurable  stupidity. 
His  naive  confidence  in  the  public  and  in  success  which  he 
thought  he  could  easily  gain  because  he  deserved  it,  crumbled 
away,  lie  would  have  thought  it  natural  to  have  enemies.  But 
what  staggered  him  was  to  find  that  he  had  not  a  single  friend. 
Those1  on  whom  he  had  counted,  those  who  hitherto  had  seemed 
to  be  interested  in  everything  thai  he  wrote,  had  not  given  him 
a  single  word  of  encouragement  since  the  concert,  lie  tried 
to  probe  them:  they  took  refuge  behind  vague  words.  He  in- 
sisted, he  wanted  to  know  what  they  really  thought:  the  most 
sincere  of  them  referred  back  to  his  former  works,  his  foolish 
early  efforts. — More  than  once  in  his  life  he  was  to  hear  his 


REVOLT  .191 

Dew  works  condemned  by  comparison  with  UK-  older  ones,— 
and  that  by  the  same  people  who,  a  few  years  before,  had  con- 
demned his  older  works  when  they  were  new:  that  is,  the  usual 
ordering  of  these  things.  Christophe  did  not  like  it:  he  ex- 
claimed loudly.  ]f  people  did  not  like  him,  well  and  good: 
he  accepted  that:  it  even  pleased  him  since  he  could  no!  be 
friends  with  everybody.  But  that  people  should  pretend  tu 
be  fond  of  him  and  not  allow  him  to  grow  up,  that  they  should 
try  to  force  him  all  his  life  to  remain  a  child,  was  beyond  the 
pale!  What  is  good  at  twelve  is  not  good  at  twenty:  and  he 
hoped  not  to  stay  at  that,  but  to  change  and  to  go  on  changing 
always.  .  .  .  These  idiots  who  tried  to  stop  life!  .  .  .  Whai 
was  interesting  in  his  childish  compositions  was  not  their  child- 
ishness and  silliness,  but  the  force  in  them  hungering  for  the 
future.  And  they  were  trying  to  kill  his  future!  .  .  .  Xo.  they 
had  never  understood  what  he  was,  they  had  never  loved  him. 
never  then  or  now :  the}"  only  loved  the  weakness  and  vulgarity 
in  him,  everything  that  he  had  in  common  with  others,  and  not 
himself,  not  what  he  really  was:  their  friendship  was  a  mis- 
understanding. .  .  . 

He  was  exaggerating,  perhaps.  Jt  often  happens  with  quite 
nice  people  who  are  incapable  of  liking  new  work  which  they 
sincerely  love  when  it  is  twenty  years  old.  New  life  smacks 
too  strong  for  their  weak  senses:  the  scent  of  it  must  evaporate 
in  the  winds  of  Time.  A  work  of  art  only  becomes  intelligible 
to  them  when  it  is  crusted  over  with  the  dust  of  years. 

But  C'hristophc  could  not  admit  of  not  being  understood 
when  he  was  present,  and  of  being  understood  when  he  was  /;>/>•/. 
He  preferred  to  think  that  he  was  not  understood  at  all.  in 
any  case,  even.  And  he  raged  against  it.  He  was  foolish 
enough  to  want  to  make  himself  understood,  to  explain  himself, 
to  argue.  Although  no  good  purpose  was  served  thereby:  he 
wotdd  have  had  to  reform  the  taste  of  his  time.  !>ut  h*1  was 
afraid  of  nothing.  He  .was  determined  by  book  or  by  crook  to 
clean  up  German  taste.  But  it  was  utterly  impossible:  he 
could  not  convince  anybody  by  means  of  conversation,  in  which 
he  found  it  diilicult  to  Hud  words,  and  expressed  himself  with 
an  excess  of  violence  about  the  great  musicians  and  even  about 
the  men  to  whom  he  was  talking:  he  only  succeeded  in  making 


392  JEAN-CHKISTOPHE 

a  few  more  enemies.     He  would  have  had  to  prepare  his  ideas 
beforehand,  and  then  to  force  the  public  to  hear  him.  .  .  . 

And  just  then,  at  the  appointed  hour,  his  star — his  evil  star — 
gave  him  the  means  of  doing  so. 

He  was  sitting  in  the  restaurant  of  the  theater  in  a  group 
of  musicians  belonging  to  the  orchestra  whom  he  was  scandaliz- 
ing by  his  artistic  judgments.  They  were  not  all  of  the  same 
opinion :  but  they  were  all  ruffled  by  the  freedom  of  his  language. 
Old  Krause,  the  alto,  a  good  fellow  and  a  good  musician,  who 
sincerely  loved  Christophe,  tried  to  turn  the  conversation:  he 
coughed,  then  looked  out  for  an  opportunity  of  making  a  pun. 
But  Christophe  did  not  hear  him :  he  went  on :  and  Krause 
mourned  and  thought: 

"  What  makes  him  say  such  things  ?  God  bless  him !  You. 
can  think  these  things :  but  you  must  not  say  them." 

The  odd  thing  was  that  he  also  thought  "  these  things  " :  at 
least,  he  had  a  glimmering  of  them,  arid  Christophe's  words 
roused  many  doubts  in  him :  but  he  had  not  the  courage  to 
confess  it,  or  openly  to  agree — half  from  fear  of  compromising 
himself,  half  from  modesty  and  distrust  of  himself. 

Weigl,  the  cornet-pla}Ter,  did  not  want  to  know  anything:  he 
was  ready  to  admire  anything,  or  anybody,  good  or  bad,  star 
or  gas-jet :  everything  was  the  same  to  him :  there  were  no 
degrees  in  his  admiration:  he  admired,  admired,  admired.  It 
was  a  vital  necessity  to  him :  it  hurt  him  when  anybody  tried 
to  curb  him. 

Old  Kuh,  the  violoncellist,  suffered  even  more.  He  loved 
bad  music  with  all  his  heart.  Everything  that  Christophe 
hounded  down  with  his  sarcasm  and  invective  was  infinitely 
dear  to  him :  instinctively  his  choice  pitched  on  the  most  con- 
ventional works :  his  soul  was  a  reservoir  of  tearful  and  high- 
flown  emotion.  Indeed,  he  was  not  dishonest  in  his  tender 
regard  for  all  the  sham  great  men.  It  was  when  he  tried  to 
pretend  that  he  liked  the  real  great  men  that  he  was  lying  to 
himself — in  perfect  innocence.  There  are  "  Brahmins  "  who 
think  to  find  in  their  God  the  breath  of  old  men  of  genius: 
they  love  Beethoven  in  Brahms.  Kuh  went  one  better :  he  loved 
Brahms  in  Beethoven. 


REVOLT  393 

But  the  most  enraged  of  all  with  Christophe's  paradoxes  was 
Spitz,  the  bassoon.  It  was  not  so  much  his  musical  instinct 
that  was  wounded  as  his  natural  servility.  One  of  the  Homan 
Emperors  wished  to  die  standing.  Spitz  wished  to  die,  as  he 
had  lived,  crawling :  that  was  his  natural  position :  it  was  de- 
lightful to  him  to  grovel  at  the  feet  of  everything  that  was 
official,  hallowed,  "  arrived  " :  and  he  was  beside  himself  when 
anybody  tried  to  keep  him  from  playing  the  lackev,  comfort- 
ably. 

So,  Kuh  groaned,  Weigl  threw  up  his  hands  in  despair, 
Krause  made  jokes,  and  Spitz  shouted  in  a  shrill  voice.  But 
Christophe  went  on  imperturbably  shouting  louder  than  the 
rest :  and  saying  monstrous  things  about  Germany  and  the 
Germans. 

At  the  next  table  a  young  man  was  listening  to  him  and 
rocking  with  laughter.  He  had  black  curly  hair,  line,  intelligent 
eyes,  a  large  nose,  which  at  its  end  could  not  make  up  its  mind 
to  go  either  to  right  or  left,  and  rather  than  go  straight  on,  went 
to  both  sides  at  once,  thick  lips,  and  a  clever,  mobile  face:  he 
was  following  everything  that  Christophe  said,  hanging  on  his 
lips,  reflecting  every  word  with  a  sympathetic  and  yet  mocking 
attention,  wrinkling  up  his  forehead,  his  temples,  the  corners 
of  his  eyes,  round  his  nostrils  and  cheeks,  grimacing  with 
laughter,  and  every  now  and  then  shaking  all  over  convulsively. 
He  did  not  join  in  the  conversation,  but  he  did  not  miss  a 
word  of  it.  He  showed  his  joy  especially  when  he  saw  Chris- 
tophe, involved  in  some  argument  and  heckled  by  Spitx,  flounder 
about,  stammer,  and  stutter  with  anger,  until  he  had  found 
the  word  he  was  seeking, — a  rock  with  which  to  crush  his 
adversary.  And  his  delight  knew  no  bounds  when  Christophe, 
swept  along  by  his  passions  far  beyond  the  capacity  of  his 
thought,  enunciated  monstrous  paradoxes  which  made  his  hear- 
ers snort. 

At  last  they  broke  up.  each  of  them  tired  out  with  feeling 
and  alleging  his  own  superiority.  As  Christophe,  the  last  to 
go,  was  leaving  the  room  he  was  accosted  by  the  young  man 
who  had  listened  to  his  words  with  such  pleasure.  He  had 
not  yet  noticed  him.  The  other  politely  removed  his  hat,  smiled, 
and  asked  permission  to  introduce  himself : 


394  JEAN  -CIIK1  STOPTIE 

"  Fran?;  Mannheim.''     • 

He  begged  pardon  for  his  indiscretion  in  listening  to  the 
argument,  and  congratulated  Christophe  on  the  ntaesiria  with 
which  lie  had  pulverized  his  opponents,  lie  was  still  laughing 
at  the  thought  of  it.  Christophe  was  glad  to  hear  it,  and  looked 
at  him  a  little  distrustfully: 

"Seriously?"  he  asked.  "You  are  not  laughing  at 
me?" 

The  other  swore  hy  the  gods.     Christophers  face  lit  up. 

"Then  you  think  1  ;;m  right?     You  art1  of  my  opinion?" 

"  Well,"  said  Mannheim,  "  1  am  not  a  musician.  I  know 
nothing  of  music.  The  only  music  I  like  —  (if  it  is  not  too 
flattering  to  say  so)  —  is  yours.  .  .  .  That  may  show  you  that 
my  taste  is  not  so  bad.  .  .  ." 

"  Oh  !  "  said  Christophe  skeptically,  though  he  was  flattered 
all  the  same,  "  that  proves  nothing." 

''You  are  dillicult  to  please.  .  .  .  Good!  ...  I  think  as 
you  do  :  that  proves  nothing.  And  I  don't  venture  to  judge 
what  you  say  of  German  musicians.  But,  anyhow,  it  is  so  true 
of  the  Germans  in  general,  the  old  Germans,  all  the  romantic 
idiots  Avith  their  rancid  thought,  their  sloppy  emotion,  their 
senile  reiteration  which  we  are  asked  to  admire,  '  the,  denial 
1'c.stcrday,  which,  has  al  trays  l>c.cn,  and  always  will  be,  and  will 
be  law  to-morrow  because  il  i'x  law  to-day.'  .  .  .  !  " 

He  recited  a  few  lines  of  the   famous  passage   in   Schiller: 


"Himself,  first  of  all!"  He  stopped  in  the  middle  of  his 
recitation. 

"Who?"  asked  Christophe. 

"The  pump-maker  who  wrote1  that!" 

Christophe  did  not  understand.  But  Mannheim  went 
on  : 

''  I  should  like  to  have  a  general  cleaning  up  of  art  and 
thought  every  iifty  years  —  nothing  to  be  left  standing.'' 

"A  little  drastic,"  said  Chrjstophe,  smiling. 

'  .No,  1  assure  you.     Fifty  years  is  too  much:  1  should  say, 


•REVOLT  395 

thirty.  .  .  .  And  even  less!  ...  It  is  a  hygienic-  measure.  One 
does  not  keep  one's  ancestors  in  one's  house.  One  gets  rid  of 
them,  when  they  are  dead,  and  sends  them  elsewhere,  there 
politely  to  rot,  and  one  plaees  stones  on  them  ro  he  quite  sure 
that  they  will  not  come  hack.  Nice  people  put  tlowers  on  them, 
too.  I  don't  mind  if  they  like  it.  All  I  ask  is  to  he  left  in 
peace.  ]  leave  them  alone!  Kaeh  for  his  own  side,  say  I  :  tin- 
dead  and  the  living." 

"There  are  some  dead  who  are  more  alive  than  the  living.'" 

"  Xo,  no!  It  would  he  more  true  to  say  that  there  are  some 
living  who  are  more  dead  than  the  dead." 

"Maybe.  In  any  case,  there  are  old  tilings  which  are  still 
young." 

"Then  if  they  are  still  young  we  can  lind  them  for  ourselves. 
.  .  .  But  I  don't  helieve  it.  What  has  been  good  once  never  is 
good  again.  Nothing  is  good  but  change.  Before  all  we  have 
to  rid  ourselves  of  the  old  men  and  things.  There  are  too  many 
of  them  in  dermany.  Death  to  them,  say  I  !  " 

Christophe  listened  to  these  squibs  attentively  and  labored 
to  discuss  them :  he  was  in  part  in  sympathy  with  them,  he 
recognized  certain  of  his  own  thoughts  in  them :  and  at  the 
same  time  he  felt  a  little  embarrassed  at  having  them  so  blown 
out  to  the  point  of  caricature.  But  as  he  assumed  that  every- 
body else  was  as  serious  as  himself,  he  thought  that  perhaps 
Mannheim,  who  seemed  to  be  more  learned  than  himself  and 
spoke  more  easily,  was  right,  and  was  drawing  the  logical  con- 
clusions from  his  principles.  Vain  Christophe,  whom  so  many 
people  could  not  forgive  for  his  faith  in  himself,  was  really 
most  naively  modest,  often  tricked  by  his  modesty  when  he  was 
with  those  who  were  better  educated  than  himself. — especially 
when  they  consented  not  to  plume  themselves  on  it  to  avoid  au 
awkward  discussion.  Mannheim,  who  was  amusing  himself 
with  his  own  paradoxes,  and  from  one  s;illv  t'»  another  had 
readied  extravagant  quips  and  cranks,  at  which  lie  was  laugh- 
ing immensely,  was  not  accustomed  to  being  taken  seriously: 
he  was  delighted  with  the  trouble  that  Christophe  was  taking 
to  discuss  his  nonsense,  and  even  to  under-'and  it  :  and  while 
he  laughed,  he  was  grateful  for  the  importance  which  Chris- 
tophi.1  gave  him:  he  thought  him  ahsurd  and  charming. 


396  "  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

They  parted  very  good  friends :  and  Christophc  was  not  a 
little  surprised  three  hours  later  at  rehearsal  to  see  Mannheim's 
head  poked  through  the  little  door  leading  to  the  orchestra, 
smiling  and  grimacing,  and  making  mysterious  signs  at  him. 
When  the  rehearsal  was  over  Christophe  went  to  him.  Mann- 
heim took  his  arm  familiarly. 

"  You  can  spare  a  moment  ?  .  .  .  Listen.  I  have  an  idea. 
Perhaps  you  will  think  it  absurd.  .  .  .  Would  not  you  like 
for  once  in  a  way  to  write  what  you  think  of  music  and  the 
musicos?  Instead  of  wasting  your  breath  in  haranguing  four 
dirty  knaves  of  your  band  who  are  good  for  nothing  but  scrap- 
ing and  blowing  into  bits  of  wood,  would  it  not  be  better  to 
address  the  general  public  ?  " 

"Not  better?  Would  I  like?  ...  My  word!  And  when 
do  you  want  me  to  write  ?  It  is  good  of  you !  .  .  ." 

"  I've  a  proposal  for  you.  .  .  .  Some  friends  and  I :  Adal- 
bert von  Waldhaus,  Raphael  Goldenring,  Adolf  Mai,  and  Lucien 
Ehrenfeld, — have  started  a  Review,  the  only  intelligent  Review 
in  the  town:  the  Dionysos. —  (You  must  know  it.  .  .  .) — We  all 
admire  each  other  and  should  be  glad  if  you  would  join  us. 
Will  you  take  over  our  musical  criticism  ?  " 

Christophe  was  abashed  by  such  an  honor :  he  was  longing 
to  accept :  he  was  only  afraid  of  not  being  worthy :  he  could  not 
write. 

"  Oh !  come,"  said  Mannheim,  "  I  am  sure  you  can.  And 
besides,  as  soon  as  you  are  a  critic  you  can  do  anything  you 
like.  You've  no  need  to  be  afraid  of  the  public.  The  public 
is  incredibly  stupid.  It  is  nothing  to  be  an  artist :  an  artist 
is  only  a  sort  of  comedian :  an  artist  can  be  hissed.  But  a  critic 
has  the  right  to  say :  '  Hiss  me  that  man ! '  The  whole  audi- 
ence lets  him  do  its  thinking.  Think  whatever  you  like.  Only 
look  as  if  you  were  thinking  something.  Provided  you  give  the 
fools  their  food,  it  does  not  much  matter  what,  they  will  gulp 
down  anything." 

In  the  end  Christophe  consented,  with  effusive  thanks.  He 
only  made  it  a  condition  that  he  should  be  allowed  to  say  what 
he  liked. 

"  Of  course,  of  course,"  said  Mannheim.  "  Absolute  free- 
dom !  We  are  all  free." 


REVOLT  397 

He  looked  him  up  at  the  theater  once  more  after  the  perform- 
ance to  introduce  him  to  Adalbert  von  Waldhaus  and  his  friends. 
They  welcomed  him  warmly. 

With  the  exception  of  Waldhaus,  who  belonged  to  one  of 
the  noble  families  of  the  neighborhood,  they  were  all  Jews  and 
all  very  rich :  Mannheim  was  the  son  of  a  banker :  Mai  the  son 
of  the  manager  of  a  metallurgical  establishment:  and  Ehren- 
f eld's  father  was  a  great  jeweler.  Their  fathers  belonged  to 
the  older  generation  of  Jews,  industrious  and  acquisitive,  at- 
tached to  the  spirit  of  their  race,  building  their  fortunes  with 
keen  energy,  and  enjoying  their  energy  much  more  than  their 
fortunes.  Their  sons  seemed  to  be  made  to  destroy  what  their 
fathers  had  builded :  they  laughed  at  family  prejudice  and  their 
ant-like  mania  for  economy  and  delving:  they  posed  as  artists, 
affected  to  despise  money  and  to  fling  it  out  of  window.  But 
in  reality  they  hardly  ever  let  it  slip  through  their  fingers:  and 
in  vain  did  they  do  all  sorts  of  foolish  things:  they  never  could 
altogether  lead  astray  their  lucidity  of  mind  and  practical  sense. 
For  the  rest,  their  parents  kept  an  eye  on  them,  and  reined 
them  in.  The  most  prodigal  of  them,  Mannheim,  would  sin- 
cerely have  given  away  all  that  he  had :  but  he  never  had  any- 
thing: and  although  he  was  always  loudly  inveighing  against 
his  father's  niggardliness,  in  his  heart  he  laughed  at  it  and 
thought  that  he  was  right.  In  fine,  there  was  only  Waldhaus 
really  who  was  in  control  of  his  fortune,  and  went  into  it  whole- 
heartedly and  reckless  of  cost,  and  bore  that  of  the  Keview. 
He  was  a  poet.  He  wrote  "  Poly  metres"  in  the  manner  of 
Arno  Holz  and  Walt  Whitman,  with  lines  alternately  very  long 
and  very  short,  in  which  stops,  double  and  triple  stops,  dashes, 
silences,  commas,  italics  and  italics,  played  a  great  part.  And  so 
did  alliteration  and  repetition — of  a  word — of  a  line — of  a 
whole  phrase.  lie  interpolated  words  of  everv  language.  He 
wanted — (no  one  has  ever  known  why) — to  render  the  Ci':nnnc 
into  verse.  In  truth,  he  was  poetic  enough  and  had  a  distin- 
guished taste  for  stale  things.  lie  was  sentimental  and  dry, 
naive  and  foppish:  his  labored  verses  aU'ei-ted  a  i-avalier  careless- 
ness. He  would  have  been  a  good  poet  for  men  of  the  world. 
But  there  are  too  many  of  the  kind  in  the  Reviews  and  artistic 
circles :  and  he  wished  to  be  alone.  lie  had  taken  it  into  his 


398  JEAN-CHKISTOPHE 

head  to  play  the  great  gentleman  who  is  above  the  prejudices 
of  his  caste.  He  had  more  prejudices  than  anybody.  He  did 
not  admit  their  existence,  lie  took  a  delight  in  surrounding 
himself  with  Jews  in  the  Be  view  which  he  edited,  to  rouse  the 
indignation  of  his  family,  who  were  very  anti-Semite,  and  to 
prove  his  own  freedom  of  mind  to  himself.  With  his  colleagues 
he  assumed  a  tone  of  courteous  equality.  But  in  his  heart 
he  had  a  calm  and  boundless  contempt  for  them.  He  was  no! 
unaware  that  they  were  very  glad  to  make  use  of  his  name  and 
money:  and  lie  let  them  do  so  because  it  pleased  him  to  despise 
them. 

And  they  despised  him  for  letting  them  do  so:  for  they  knew 
very  well  that  it  served  his  turn.  A  fair  exchange.  Waldhaus 
lent  them  his  name  and  fortune:  and  they  brought  him  then 
talents,  their  eye  for  business  and  subscribers.  They  were  much 
more  intelligent  than  he.  A'ot  that  they  had  more  personality. 
They  had  perhaps  even  less,  But  in  the  little  town  they  were, 
as  the  Jews  are  everywhere  and  always, — b\r  the  mere  fact  of 
their  difference  of  race  which  for  centuries  has  isolated  them 
and  sharpened  their  faculty  for  making  observation — they  were 
the  most  advanced  in  mind,  the  most  sensible  of  the  absurdity 
of  its  moldy  institutions  and  decrepit  thought.  Only,  as  their 
character  was  less  free  than  their  intelligence,  it  did  not  help 
them,  while  they  mocked,  from  trying  rather  to  turn  those 
institutions  and  ideas  to  account  than  to  reform  them. 
In  spite  of  their  independent  professions  of  faith,  they  were 
like  the  noble  Adalbert,  little  provincial  snobs,  rich,  idle  young 
men  of  family,  who  dabbled  and  flirted  with  letters  for  the  fun 
of  it.  They  were  very  glad  to  swagger  about  as  giant-killers: 
but  the\  were  kindly  enough  and  never  slew  anybody  but  a 
few  inoffensive  people  or  those  whom  they  thought  could  never 
harm  them.  They  cared  nothing  for  setting  bv  the  ears  a 
society  to  which  thev  knew  verv  well  they  would  one  dav  return 
and  embrace  all  the  prejudices  which  they  had  combated.  And 
when  they  did  venture  to  make  a  stir  on  a  little  scandal,  or 
loudly  to  declare  war  on  some  idol  of  the  day, — who  was  begin- 
ning to  totter, — they  took  care  never  to  burn  their  boats:  in 
case  of  danger  they  re-embarked.  Whatever  then  might  be  the 
issue  of  the  campaign,—- when  it  was  finished  it  was  a  long 


KEVOLT  399 

time  before  war  would  break  out  again:  the  Philistines  could 
sleep  in  peace.  All  that  these  new  Davidsbundlcr  wanted  to 
do  was  to  make  it  appear  that  they  could  have  been  terrible  it' 
they  had  so  desired  :  but  they  did  not  desire.  They  preferred 
to  be  on  friendly  terms  with  artists  and  to  give  suppers  to 
actresses. 

dhristophe  was  not  happy  in  such  a  set.  They  were  always 
talking  of  women  and  horses:  and  their  talk  was  not  refilled. 
They  were  stiff  and  formal.  Adalbert  spoke  in  a  mincing,  slow 
voice,  with  exaggerated,  bored,  and  boring  politeness.  Adolf 
Mai,  the  secretary  of  theHeview,  a  heavy,  thick-s.-t.  bull-necked, 
brutal-looking  young  man,  always  pretended  to  be  in  the  right: 
he  laid  down  the  law,  never  listened  to  what  anybody  said, 
seemed  to  despise  the  opinion  of  the  person  he  was  talking  to, 
and  also  that  person.  Goldenring,  the  art  critic,  who  had  a 
twitch,  and  eyes  perpetually  winking  behind  his  large  spectacles, 
— no  doubt  in  imitation  of  the  painters  whose  society  he  cul- 
tivated, wore  long  hair,  smoked  in  silence,  mumbled  scraps  of 
sentences  which  he  never  finished,  and  made  vague  gestures  in 
the  air  with  his  thumb.  Ehrenfeld  was  little,  bald,  and  smil- 
ing, had  a  fair  beard  and  a  sensitive,  weary-looking  faee.  a 
hooked  nose,  and  he  wrote  the  fashions  ami  the  soeieiy  notes 
in  the  EevieAV.  In  a  silky  voice  he  used  to  talk  obscurely  :  he  had 
a  wit,  though  of  a  malignant  and  often  ignoble  kind. — All  these 
young  millionaires  were  anarchists,  of  course:  when  a  man  pos- 
sesses everything  it  is  the  supreme  luxury  for  him  to  deny  soci- 
ety :  for  in  that  way  he  can  evade  his  responsibilities.  So  might 
a  robber,  who  has  just  lleeced  a  traveler,  say  to  him:  "\\hat 
are  you  staying  for?  (Jet  along!  1  have  no  more  use  for  you." 

Of  the  whole  bunch  (.'hristophe  was  oulv  in  sympathy  w;th 
Mannheim:  he  was  certainlv  the  most  livelv  of  the  live:  he 
was  amused  by  everything  that  he  said  and 
was  said  to  him:  stuttering,  stammering,  bl 
ing,  talking  nonsense,  he  was  incapable  of 
ment,  or  of  knowing  exactlv  what  he  thought 
was  quite  kindly,  bearing  no  malice,  having 
ambition.  In  truth,  he  was  not  very  frank 
playing  a  part:  but  quite  innocently,  and  he  never  did  anybody 
anv  harm. 


400  JEANX3EKISTOPHE 

He  espoused  all  sorts  of  strange  Utopias — most  often  gen- 
erous. He  was  too  subtle  and  too  skeptical  to  keep  his  head 
even  in  his  enthusiasms,  and  he  never  compromised  himself  by 
applying  his  theories.  But  he  had  to  have  some  hobby :  it  was 
a  game  to  him,  and  he  was  always  changing  from  one  to  an- 
other. For  the  time  being  his  craze  was  for  kindness.  It  was 
not  enough  for  him  to  be  kind  naturally:  be  wished  to  be 
thought  kind  :  be  professed  kindness,  and  acted  it.  Out  of 
reaction  against  the  hard,  dry  activity  of  bis  kinsfolk,  and 
against  German  austerity,  militarism,  and  Philistinism,  he  was 
a  Tolstoyan,  a  Nirvanian,  an  evangelist,  a  Buddhist., — he  was 
not  quite  sure  what, — an  apostle  of  a  new  morality  that  was 
soft,  boneless,  indulgent,  placid,  easy-living,  effusively  forgiving 
every  sin,  especially  the  sins  of  the  flesh,  a  morality  which  did 
not  conceal  its  predilection  for  those  sins  and  much  less  readily 
forgave  the  virtues — a  morality  which  was  only  a  compact  of 
pleasure,  a  libertine  association  of  mutual  accommodations, 
which  amused  itself  by  donning  the  halo  of  sanctity.  There 
was  in  it  a  spice  of  hypocrisy  which  was  a  little  offensive  to 
delicate  palates,  and  would  have  even  been  frankly  nauseating 
if  it  had  taken  itself  seriously.  But  it  made  no  pretensions 
towards  that:  it  merely  amused  itself.  His  blackguardly  Chris- 
tianity was  only  meant  to  serve  until  some  other  hobby  came 
along  to  take  its  place — no  matter  what:  brute  force,  imperial- 
ism, "  laughing  lions." — Mannheim  was  always  playing  a  part, 
playing  with  his  whole  heart:  he  was  trying  on  all  the  feelings 
that  he  did  not  possess  before  becoming  a  good  Jew  like  the 
rest  and  with  all  the  spirit  of  his  race.  He  was  very  sympa- 
thetic, and  extremely  irritating.  For  some  time  Christophe  was 
one  of  his  hobbies.  Mannheim  swore  by  him.  He  blew  his 
trumpet  everywhere.  He  dinned  his  praises  into  the  ears  of 
his  family.  According  to  him  Christophe  was  a  genius, 
an  extraordinary  man,  who  made  strange  music  and  talked 
about  it  in  an  astonishing  fashion,  a  witty  man — and  a 
handsome:  fine  lips,  magnificent  teeth.  He  added  that  Chris- 
tophe admired  him. — One  evening  he  took  him  home  to  din- 
ner. Christophe  found  himself  talking  to  his  new  friend's 
father.  Lothair  Mannheim,  the  banker,,  and  Franz's  sister, 
Judith. 


EEVOLT  401 

It  was  the  first  time  that  he  had  been  in  a  Jew's  house.  Al- 
though there  were  many  Jews  in  the  little  town,  and  although 
they  played  an  important  part  in  its  life  by  reason  of  their 
wealth,  cohesion,  and  intelligence,  they  lived  a  little  apart.  There 
were  always  rooted  prejudices  in  the  minds  of  the  people  and 
a  secret  hostility  that  was  credulous  and  injurious  against  them. 
Christophers  family  shared  these  prejudices.  Ills  grandfather 
did  not  love  Jews:  but  the  irony  of  fate  had  decreed  that  his 
two  best  pupils  should  be  of  the  race — (one  had  become  a  com- 
poser, the  other  a  famous  virtuoso)  :  for  there  had  been  moments 
when  he  was  fain  to  embrace  these  two  good  musicians :  and 
then  he  would  remember  sadly  that  they  had  crucified  the  Lord : 
and  he  did  not  know  how  to  reconcile  his  two  incompatible 
currents  of  feeling.  But  in  the  end  he  did  embrace  them.  He 
was  inclined  to  think  that  the  Lord  would  forgive  them  because 
of  their  love  for  music. — Christophe's  father,  Melchior,  who 
pretended  to  be  broad-minded,  had  had  fewer  scruples  about 
taking  money  from  the  Jews :  and  he  even  thought  it  good  to 
do  so :  but  he  ridiculed  them,  and  despised  them. — As  for  his 
mother,  she  was  not  sure  that  she  was  not  committing  a  sin 
when  she  went  to  cook  for  them.  Those  whom  she  had  had  to 
do  with  were  disdainful  enough  with  her :  but  she  had  no 
grudge  against  them,  she  bore  nobody  any  ill-will:  she  was 
filled  with  pity  for  these  unhappy  people  whom  God  had  damned  : 
sometimes  she  would  be  filled  with  compassion  when  she  saw 
the  daughter  of  one  of  them  go  by  or  heard  the  merry  laughter 
of  their  children. 

"So  pretty  she  is!  ...  Such  pretty  children!  .  .  .  How 
dreadful !  .  .  ."  she  would  think. 

She  dared  not  say  anything  to  Christophe,  when  he  told 
her  that  he  was  going  to  dine  with  the  Mannhcims :  but  her 
heart  sank.  She  thought  that  it  was  unnecessary  to  believe 
everything  bad  that  was  said  about  the  Jews — (people  speak- 
ill  of  everybody) — and  that  there  are  honest  people  everywhere, 
but  that  it  was  better  and  more  proper  to  keep  themselves  to 
themselves,  the  Jews  on  their  side,  the  Christians  on  theirs. 

Christophe  shared  none  of  these  prejudices.  In  his  perpetual 
reaction  against  his  surroundings  he  was  rather  attracted  to- 
wards the  different  race.  But  he  hanllv  knew  them.  He  had 


402  J  E  AX-C  HRT  STO  PHE 

only  come  in  contact  with  the  more  vulgar  of  the  Jews:  little 
shopkeepers,  the  populace  swarming  in  certain  streets  between 
the  Rhine  and  the  cathedral,  forming,  with  the  gregarious  in- 
stinct of  all  human  beings,  a  sort  of  little  ghetto.  He  had  often 
strolled  through  the  neighborhood,  catching  sight  of  and  feeling 
a  sort  of  sympathy  with  certain  typos  of  women  with  hollow 
cheeks,  and  full  lips,  and  wide  cheek-bones,  a  da  Vinci  smile, 
rather  depraved,  while  the  coarse  language  and  shrill  laughter 
destroyed  this  harmony  that  was  in  their  faces  when  in  repose. 
Even  in  the  dregs  of  the  people,  in  those  large-headed,  beady- 
eyed  creatures  with  their  bestial  faces,  their  thick-set,  squat 
bodies,  those  degenerate  descendants  of  the  most  noble  of  all 
peoples,  even  in  that  thick,  fetid  muddiness  there  were  strange 
phosphorescent  gleams,  like  will-o'-the-wisps  dancing  over  a 
swamp :  marvelous  glances,  minds  subtle  and  brilliant,  a  subtle 
electricity  emanating  from  the  ooze  which  fascinated  and  dis- 
turbed Christophe.  He  thought  that  hidden  deep  were  fine 
souls  struggling,  great  hearts  striving  to  break  free  from  the 
dung:  and  he  would  have  liked  to  meet  them,  and  to  aid  them: 
without  knowing  them,  he  loved  them,  while  he  was  a  little 
fearful  of  them.  And  he  had  never  had  any  opportunity  of 
meeting  the  best  of  the  Jews. 

His  dinner  at  the  Mannheims'  had  for  him  the  attraction  of 
novelty  and  something  of  that  of  forbidden  fruit.  The  Eve 
who  gave  him  the  fruit  sweetened  its  flavor.  From  the  first 
moment  Christophe  had  eyes  only  for  Judith  Mannheim.  She 
was  utterly  dill'ercnt  from  all  the  women  he  had  known.  Tall 
and  slender,  rather  thin,  though  solidlv  built,  with  her  face 
framed  in  her  black  hair,  not  long,  but  thick  and  eurled  low 
on  her  head,  covering  her  temples  and  her  broad,  golden  brow; 
rather  short-sighted,  with  large  pupils,  and  slightly  prominent 
eves:  with  a  largish  nose  and  wide  nostrils,  thin  cheeks,  a  heavy 
chin,  strong  coloring,  she  had  a  tine  profile  showing  much 
energy  and  alertness:  full  face,  her  expression  was  more  chang- 
ing, uncertain,  complex:  her  eyes  and  her  cheeks  were  irregular. 
She  seemed  to  give  revelation  of  a  strong  race,  and  in  the  mold 
of  that  race,  roughly  thrown  together,  were  manifold  incon- 
gruous elements,  of  doubtful  and  unequal  qualify,  beautiful  and 
vulgar  at  the  same  time.  Her  beauty  lay  especiallv  in  her  silent 


KEVOLT  403 

lips,  and  in  her  eyes,  in  which  there  seemed  to  be  greater  deptli 
by  reason  of  their  short-sightedness,  and  darker  by  reason  of 
the  bluish  markings  round  them. 

It  needed  to  be  more  used  than  Christophe  was  to  those  eyes, 
which  are  more  those  of  a  race  than  of  an  individual,  to  be 
able  to  read  through  the  limpidity  that  unveiled  them  with 
such  vivid  quality,  the  real  soul  of  the  woman  whom  he  thus 
encountered.  It  was  the  soul  of  the  people  of  Israel  that  he 
saw  in  her  sad  and  burning  eyes,  the  soul  that,  unknown  to 
them,  shone  forth  from  them.  He  lost  himself  as  he  gazed  into 
them.  It  was  only  after  some  time  that  lie  was  able,  after  los- 
ing his  way  again  and  again,  to  strike  the  track  again  on  that 
oriental  sea. 

She  looked  at  him :  and  nothing  could  disturb  the  clearness 
of  her  gaze :  nothing  in  his  Christian  soul  seemed  to  escape 
her.  He  felt  that.  Under  the  seduction  of  the  woman's  eyes 
upon  him  he  was  conscious  of  a  virile  desire,  clear  and  cold, 
which  stirred  in  him  brutally,  indiscreetly.  There  was  no  evil 
in  the  brutality  of  it.  She  took  possession  of  him:  not  like  a 
coquette,  whose  desire  is  to  seduce  without  caring  whom  she  se- 
duces. Had  she  been  a  coquette  she  would  have  gone  to  greatest 
lengths :  but  she  knew  her  power,  and  she  left  it  to  her  natural 
instinct  to  make  use  of  it  in  its  own  way, — especially  when  she 
had  so  easy  a  prey  as  Christophe. — What  interested  her  more 
was  to  know  her  adversary — (any  man,  any  stranger,  was  an 
adversary  for  her, — an  adversary  with  whom  later  on.  if  occa- 
sion served,  she  could  sign  a  compact  of  alliance). — She  wished 
to  know  his  quality.  Life  being  a  game,  in  which  the  cleverest 
wins,  it  was  a  matter  of  reading  her  opponent's  cards  and  of 
not  showing  her  own.  When  she  succeeded  she  tasted  the  sweets 
of  victory.  It  mattered  little  whether  she  could  turn  it  to  any 
account.  It  was  purely  for  her  pleasure.  She  had  a  passion 
for  intelligence:  not  abstract  intelligence,  although  she  had 
brains  enough,  if  she  had  liked,  to  have  succeeded  in  any 
branch  of  knowledge  and  would  have  made  a  much  better  suc- 
cessor to  Lothair  Mannheim,  the  hanker,  than  her  In-other.  Hut 
she  preferred  intelligence  in  the;  quick,  the  sort  of  intelligence 
which  studies  men.  She  loved  to  pierce  through  to  the  soul 
and  to  weigh  its  value — (she  gave  as  scrupulous  an  attention 


404  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

to  it  as  the  Jewess  of  Matsys  to  the  weighing  of  her  gold)  — 
with  marvelous  divination  she  could  find  the  weak  spot  in  the 
armor,  the  imperfections  and  foibles  which  are  the  key  to  the 
soul, — she  could  lay  her  hands  on  its  secrets :  it  was  her  way 
of  feeling  her  sway  over  it.  But  she  never  dallied  with  her 
victory :  she  never  did  anything  with  her  prize.  Once  her 
curiosity  and  her  vanity  were  satisfied  she  lost  her  interest 
and  passed  on  to  another  specimen.  All  her  power  was  sterile. 
There  was  something  of  death  in  her  living  soul.  She  had 
the  genius  of  curiosity  and  boredom. 

And  so  she  looked  at  Christophe  and  he  looked  at  her.  She 
hardly  spoke.  An  imperceptible  smile  was  enough,  a  little 
movement  of  the  corners  of  her  mouth :  Christophe  was  hypno- 
tized by  her.  Every  now  and  then  her  smile  would  fade  away, 
her  face  would  become  cold,  her  eyes  indifferent:  she  would 
attend  to  the  meal  or  speak  coldly  to  the  servants :  it  was  as 
though  she  were  no  longer  listening.  Then  her  eyes  would  light 
up  again :  and  a  few  words  coming  pat  would  show  that  she 
had  heard  and  understood  everything. 

She  coldly  examined  her  brother's  judgment  of  Christophe: 
she  knew  Franz's  crazes :  her  irony  had  had  fine  sport  when 
she  saw  Christophe  appear,  whose  looks  and  distinction  had  been 
vaunted  by  her  brother- — (it  seemed  to  her  that  Franz  had 
a  special  gift  for  seeing  facts  as  they  are  not :  or  perhaps  he 
only  thought  it  a  paradoxical  joke). — But  when  she  looked  at 
Christophe  more  closely  she  recognized  that  what  Franz  had 
said  was  not  altogether  false :  and  as  she  went  on  with  her 
scrutiny  she  discovered  in  Christophe  a  vague,  unbalanced, 
though  robust  and  bold  power:  that  gave  her  pleasure,  for  she 
knew,  better  than  any,  the  rarity  of  power.  She  was  able  to 
make  Christophe  talk  about  whatever  she  liked,  and  reveal  his 
thoughts,  and  display  the  limitations  and  defects  of  his  mind: 
she  made  him  play  the  piano:  she  did  not  love  music  but  she 
understood  it:  and  she  saw  Christophe's  musical  originality, 
although  his  music  had  roused  no  sort  of  emotion  in  her.  With- 
out the  least  change  in  the  coldness  of  her  manner,  with  a  few 
short,  apt,  and  certainly  not  flattering,  remarks  she  showed  her 
growing  interest  in  Christophe. 


REVOLT  405 

Christophe  saw  it:  and  he  was  proud  of  it:  for  he  felt  the 
worth  of  such  judgment  and  the  rarity  of  her  approbation. 
He  made  no  secret  of  his  desire  to  win  it:  and  he  set  about  it 
so  naively  as  to  make  the  three  of  them  smile:  he  talked  only 
to  Judith  and  for  Judith :  he  was  as  unconcerned  with  the 
others  as  though  they  did  not  exist. 

Franz  watched  him  as  he  talked :  he  followed  his  every  word, 
with  his  lips  and  eyes,  with  a  mixture  of  admiration  and  amuse- 
ment :  and  he  laughed  aloud  as  he  glanced  at  his  father  and  his 
sister,  who  listened  impassively  and  pretended  not  to  notice 
him. 

Lothair  Mannheim, — a  tall  old  man.  heavily  built,  stooping  a 
little,  red-faced,  with  gray  hair  standing  straight  up  on  end, 
very  black  mustache  and  eyebrows,  a  heavy  though  energetic 
and  jovial  face,  which  gave  the  impression  of  great  vitality- 
had  also  studied  Christophe  during  the  first  part  of  the  dinner, 
slyly  but  good-naturedly :  and  he  too  had  recognized  at  once 
that  there  was  "  something  "  in  the  boy.  But  he  was  not  in- 
terested in  music  or  musicians :  it  was  not  in  his  line :  he  knew 
nothing  about  it  and  made  no  secret  of  his  ignorance :  he  even 
boasted  of  it — (when  a  man  of  that  sort  confesses  his  ignorance 
of  anything  he  does  so  to  feed  his  vanity). — As  Christophe  had 
clearly  shown  at  once,  with  a  rudeness  in  which  there  was  no 
shade  of  malice,  that  he  could  without  regret  dispense  with  the 
society  of  the  banker,  and  that  the  society  of  Fraulein  Judith 
Mannheim  would  serve  perfectly  to  fill  his  evening,  old  Lothair 
in  some  amusement  had  taken  his  seat  by  the  fire:  he  read  his 
paper,  listening  vaguely  and  ironically  to  Christophe's  crotchets 
and  his  queer  music,  which  sometimes  made  him  laugh  inwardly 
at  the  idea  that  there  could  be  people  who  understood  it  and 
found  pleasure  in  it.  He  did  not  trouble  to  follow  the  con- 
versation: he  relied  on  his  daughter's  cleverness  to  tell  him 
exactly  what  the  newcomer  was  worth.  She  discharged  her  duty 
conscientiously. 

When  Christophe  had  gone  Lothair  asked  Judith: 

"Well,  you  probed  him  enough:  what  do  you  think  of  the 
artist  ?  " 

She  laughed,  thought  for  a  moment,  reckoned  up,  and  said; 

"  He  is  a  little  cracked :  but  he  is  not  stupid/' 


40G  JE  A  X-C  HEISTOPHB 

"Good,"  said  Lothair.  "J  thought  so  too.  He  will  succeed, 
then?" 

u  Yes,  1  tliink  so.     Ho  lias  power." 

"  Very  good,''  said  Loth  air  with  the  magnificent  logic  of  the 
strong  who  are  only  interested  in  the  strong,  "  we  must  help 
him." 

Christophc  went  away  filled  with  admiration  for  Judith 
Mannheim.  He  was  not  in  love  with  her  as  Judith  thought. 
They  were  both — she  with  her  subtlety,  he  with  his  instinct 
which  took  the  place  ol'  mind  in  him. — mistaken  about  each 
other.  Christophe  was  fascinated  by  the  enigma  and  the  intense 
activity  of  her  mind  :  but  lie  did  not  love  her.  His  eyes  and 
his  intelligence  were  ensnared:  his  heart  escaped. — Why? — It 
were  difficult  to  tell.  Because  he  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  some 
doubtful,  disturbing  quality  in  her? — In  other  circumstances 
that  would  have  been  a  reason  the  more  for  loving:  love  is 
never  stronger  than  when  it  goes  out  to  one  who  will  make  it 
suffer. — If  Christophe  did  not  love  Judith  it  was  not  the  fault 
of  either  of  them.  The  real  reason,  humiliating  enough  for 
both,  was  that  lie  was  still  too  near  his  last  love.  Experience 
had  not  made  him  wiser.  But  he  had  loved  Ada  so  much,  he 
had  consumed  so  much  faith,  force,  and  illusion  in  that  passion 
that  there  was  not  enough  left  for  a  new  passion.  Before  an- 
other flame  could  be  kindled  he  would  have  to  build  a  new  pyre 
in  his  heart:  short  of  that  there  could  only  be  a  few  flickering?, 
remnants  of  the  conflagration  that  had  escaped  by  chance,  which 
asked  onlv  to  be  allowed  to  burn,  cast  a  brief  and  brilliant  light 
and  then  died  down  for  want  of  food.  Six  mouths  later,  per- 
haps, he  might  have  loved  Judith  blindly.  \ow  he  saw  in 
her  only  a  friend. — a  rather  disturbing  friend  in  truth — but 
he  tried  to  drive  his  uneasiness  back:  it  reminded  him  of  Ada: 
there  was  no  attraction  in  that  memorv:  he  preferred  not  to 
think  of  it.  \Yhaf  attracted  him  in  Judith  was  everything  in 
her  which  was  different  from  other  women,  not  that  which  she 
had  in  common  with  them.  She  was  the  first  intelligent  woman 
he  had  met.  She  was  intelligent  from  head  to  foot.  Kvcn  her 
beauty — her  gestures,  her  movements,  her  features,  the  fold  of 
her  lips,  her  eyes,  her  hands,  her  slender  elegance — was  the 


EEVOLT  407 

reflection  of  her  intelligence:  her  body  was  molded  by  her  in- 
telligence: without  her  intelligence  she  would  have  passed  un- 
noticed: and  no  doubt  she  would  even  have  been  thought  plain 
by  most  people.  Her  intelligence  delighted  Christophe.  He 
thought  it  larger  and  more  free  than  it  was:  he  could  not  yet 
know  how  deceptive  it  was.  He  longed  ardently  to  confide  in 
her  and  to  impart  his  ideas  to  her.  He  had  never  found  any- 
body to  take  an  interest  in  his  dreams :  he  was  turned  in  upon 
himself :  what  joy  then  to  find  a  woman  to  be  his  friend  !  That 
he  had  not  a  sister  had  been  one  of  the  sorrows  of  his  child- 
hood: it  seemed  to  him  that  a  sister  would  have  understood 
him  more  than  a  brother  could  have  done.  And  when  he  met 
Judith  he  felt  that  childish  and  illusory  hope  of  having  a 
brotherly  love  spring  up  in  him.  ISTot  being  in  love,  love  seemed 
to  him  a  poor  thing  compared  with  friendship. 

Judith  felt  this  little  shade  of  feeling  and  was  hurt  by  it. 
She  was  not  in  love  with  Christophe,  and  as  she  had  excited 
other  passions  in  other  young  men  of  the  town,  rich  young 
men  of  better  position,  she  could  not  feel  any  great  satisfaction 
in  knowing  Christophe  to  be  in  love  with  her.  But  it  piqued 
her  to  know  that  he  was  not  in  love.  Xo  doubt  she  was  pleased 
with  him  for  confiding  his  plans:  she  was  not  surprised  by  it: 
Imt  it  was  a  little  mortifying  for  her  to  know  that  she  could 
only  exercise  an  intellectual  influence  over  him — (an  unreason- 
ing influence  is  much  more  precious  to  a  woman). — She  did 
not  even  exercise  her  influence :  Christophe  only  courted  her 
mind.  Judith's  intellect  was  imperious.  She  was  used  to 
molding  to  her  will  the  soft  thoughts  of  the  young  men  of  her 
acquaintance.  As  she  knew  their  mediocrity  she  found  no  pleas- 
ure in  holding  sway  over  them.  With  Christophe  the  pursuit 
was  more  interesting  because  more  difHcult.  She  was  not  in- 
terested in  his  projects:  but  she  would  have  liked  to  direct  his 
originality  of  thought,  his  ill-grown  power,  and  to  make  them 
good, — in  her  own  way,  of  course,  and  not  in  Christophe's, 
which  she  did  not  take  the  trouble  to  understand.  She  saw 
at  once  that  she  could  not  succeed  without  a  struggle:  she  had 
marked  down  in  Christophe  all  sorts  of  notions  and  ideas  which 
she  thought  childish  and  extravagant:  thev  were  weeds  to  her: 
she  tried  hard  to  eradicate  them.  She  did  not  <ret  rid  of  a 


408  JEAX-CHRTSTOPHE 

single  one.  She  did  not  gain  the  least  satisfaction  for  her 
vanity.  Christophe  was  intractable.  Not  being  in  love  he  had 
110  reason  for  surrendering  his  ideas  to  her. 

She  grew  keen  on  the  game  and  instinctively  tried  for  some 
time  to  overcome  him.  Christophe  was  very  nearly  taken  in 
again  in  spite  of  his  lucidity  of  niind  at  that  time.  Men  are 
easily  taken  in  by  any  flattery  of  their  vanity  or  their  desires: 
and  an  artist  is  twice  as  easy  to  trick  as  any  other  man  because 
he  has  more  imagination.  Judith  had  only  to  draw  Christophe 
into  a  dangerous  flirtation  to  bowl  him  over  once  more  more 
thoroughly  than  ever.  But  as  usual  she  soon  wearied  of  the 
game:  she  found  that  such  a  conquest  was  hardly  worth  while: 
Christophe  was  already  boring  her:  she  did  not  understand 
him. 

She  did  not  understand  him  beyond  a  certain  point.  Up  to 
that  she  understood  everything.  Her  admirable  intelligence 
could  not  take  her  beyond  it:  she  needed  a  heart,  or  in  default 
of  that  the  thing  which  could  give  the  illusion  of  one  for  a 
time:  love.  She  understood  Christophers  criticism  of  people 
and  things:  it  amused  her  and  seemed  to  her  true  enough:  she 
had  thought  much  the  same  herself.  But  what  she  did  not 
understand  was  that  such  ideas  might  have  an  influence  on 
practical  life  when  it  might  be  dangerous  or  awkward  to 
apply  them.  The  attitude  of  revolt  against  everybody  and 
everything  which  Christophe  had  taken  up  led  to  nothing:  he 
could  not  imagine  that  he  was  going  to  reform  the  world.  .  .  . 
And  then?  .  .  .  Jt  was  waste  of  time  to  knock  one's  head  against 
a  wall.  A  clever  man  judges  men,  laughs  at  them  in  secret, 
despise*  them  a  little:  hut  be  does  as  they  do — only  a  little 
better:  it  is  the  only  way  of  mastering  them.  Thought  is  one 
world:  action  is  another.  What  boots  it  for  a  man  to  be  the 
victim  of  his  thoughts?  Since  men  are  so  stupid  as  not  to 
be  able  to  bear  the  truth,  why  force  it  on  them?  To  accept 
their  weakness,  to  seem  to  bow  to  it.  and  to  feel  free  to  despise 
thein  in  his  heart,  is  there  not  a  secret  joy  in  that?  The  joy 
of  a  clever  slave?  (Vrtainlv.  But  all  the  world  is  a  slave: 
there  is  no  getting  away  from  that:  it  is  useless  to  protest 
against  it:  better  to  be  a  slave  deliberately  of  one's  own  free 
will  and  to  avoid  ridiculou.-  and  futile  conflict.  Besides^  the 


REVOLT  409 

worst  slavery  of  all  is  to  be  the  slave  of  one's  own  thoughts 
and  to  sacrifice  everything  to  them.  There  is  no  need  to  deeeive 
one's  self. — She  saw  clearly  that  if  Christophc  went  on.  as 
he  seemed  determined  to  do,  with  his  aggressive  refusal  to  com- 
promise with  the  prejudices  of  German  art  and  German  mind, 
he  would  turn  everybody  against  him,  even  his  patrons:  lie 
was  courting  inevitable  ruin.  She  did  not  understand  why  he 
so  obstinately  held  out  against  himself,  and  so  took  pleasure  in 
digging  his  own  ruin. 

To  have  understood  him  she  would  have  had  to  be  able  to 
understand  that  his  aim  was  not  success  but  his  own  faith. 
He  believed  in  art:  he  believed  in  /m  art:  he  believed  in  him- 
self, as  realities  not  only  superior  to  interest,  but  also  to  his 
own  life.  When  he  was  a  little  out  of  patience  with  her  re- 
marks and  told  her  so  in  his  naive  arrogance,  she  just  shrugged 
her  shoulders:  she  did  not  take  him  seriously.  She  thought  he 
was  using  big  words  such  as  she  was  accustomed  to  hearing 
from  her  brother  when  he  announced  periodically  his  absurd 
and  ridiculous  resolutions,  which  lie  never  by  any  chance  put 
into  practice.  And  then  when  she  saw  that  I'hristophc  really 
believed  in  what  he  said,  she  thought  him  mad  and  lost  interest 
in  him. 

After  that  she  took  no  trouble  to  appear  to  advantage,  and 
she  showed  herself  as  she  was:  much  more  German,  and  average 
German,  than  she  seemed  to  be  at  first,  more  perhaps  than  she 
thought. — The  Jews  are  quite  erroneously  reproached  with  not 
belonging  to  any  nation  and  with  forming  from  one  end  of 
Europe  to  the  other  a  homogeneous  people  impervious  to  the 
influence  of  the  different  races  with  which  they  have  pitched 
their  tents.  In  reality  there  is  no  race  which  more  easily  takes 
on  the  impress  of  the  country  through  which  it  passes:  ami 
if  there  are  many  characteristics  in  common  between  a  l-'rench 
Je\v  and  a  German  Jew,  there  are  manv  more  different  charac- 
teristics derived  from  their  new  country,  of  which  with  in- 
credible rapidity  they  assimilate  the  habits  of  mind  :  m<uv  the 
habits  than  the  mind,  indeed.  JUit  habit,  which  is  a  second 
nature  to  all  men,  is  in  most  of  them  all  the  nature  that  they 
have,  and  the  result  is  that  the  majority  of  the  autochthonous 
citizens  of  any  country  have  very  little  right  to  reproach  the 


410  JEAX-CHRISTOPHE 

Jews  with  the  lack  of  a  profound  and  reasonable  national  feel- 
ing of  which  they  themselves  possess  nothing  at  all. 

The  women,  always  more  sensible  to  external  influences,  more 
easily  adaptable  to  the  conditions  of  life  and  to  change  with 
them — Jewish  women  throughout  Europe  assume  the  physical 
and  moral  customs,  often  exaggerating  them,  of  the  country 
in  which  they  live, — without  losing  the  shadow  and  tbe  strange 
fluid,  solid,  and  haunting  quality  of  their  race. — This  idea  came 
to  Christophe.  At  the  Mannheims'  he  mot  Judith's  aunts, 
cousins,  and  friends.  Though  there  was  little  of  the  German 
in  their  eyes,  ardent  and  too  close  together,  their  noses  going 
down  to  their  lips,  their  strong  features,  their  red  blood  cours- 
ing under  their  coarse  brown  skins:  though  almost  all  of  them 
seemed  hardly  at  all  fashioned  to  be  German — they  were  all 
extraordinarily  German:  they  had  the  same  way  of  talking,  of 
dressing, — of  overdressing. — Judith  was  much  the  best  of  them 
all :  and  comparison  with  them  made  all  that  was  exceptional 
in  her  intelligence,  all  that  she  had  made  of  herself,  shine  forth. 
But  she  had  most  of  their  faults  just  as  much'  as  they.  She 
was  much  more  free  than  they  morally — almost  absolutely  free 
— but  socially  she  was  no  more  free :  or  at  least  her  practical 
sense  usurped  the  place  of  her  freedom  of  mind.  She  believed 
in  society,  in  class,  in  prejudice,  because  when  all  was  told  she 
found  thorn  to  her  advantage.  It  was  idle  for  her  to  laugh  at 
the  German  spirit:  she  followed  it  like  any  German.  Her  in- 
telligence made  her  see  the  mediocrity  of  some  artist  of  reputa- 
tion :  but  she  respected  him  none  the  less  because  of  his  reputa- 
tion: and  if  she  met  him  personally  she  would  admire  him:  for 
her  vanity  was  flattered.  She  had  no  love  for  the  works  of 
Brahms  and  she  suspected  him  of  being  an  artist  of  the  second 
rank:  but  bis  fame  impressed  her:  and  as  she  had  received  five 
or  six  letters  from  him  the  result  was  that  she  thought  him 
the  greatest  musician  of  the  day.  She  had  no  doubt  as  to 
Christophe's  real  worth,  or  as  to  the  stupidity  of  Lieutenant 
Detlev  von  Fleischer:  but  she  was  more  flattered  by  the  homage 
the  lieutenant  deigned  to  pay  to  her  millions  than  by  Chris- 
tophe's friendship:  for  a  dull  officer  is  a  man  of  another  caste: 
it  is  more  difficult  for  a  German  Jewess  to  enter  that  caste  than 
for  any  other  woman.  Although  she  was  not  deceived  by  these 


REVOLT  411 

feudal  follies,  and  although  she  knew  quite  well  that  if  she  did 
marry  Lieutenant  Detlev  von  Fleischer  she  would  he  doing  him 
a  great  honor,  she  set  herself  to  the  conquest :  she  stooped  so 
low  as  to  make  eyes  at  the  fool  and  to  flatter  his  vanity.  The 
proud  Jewess,  who  had  a  thousand  reasons  for  her  pride — the 
clever,  disdainful  daughter  of  Mannheim  the  banker  lowered 
herself,  and  acted  like  any  of  the  little  middle-class  German 
women  whom  she  despised. 

That  experience  was  short.  Christophe  lost  his  illusions  about 
Judith  as  quickly  as  he  had  found  them.  It  is  only  just  to 
say  that  Judith  did  nothing  to  preserve  them.  As  soon  as  a 
woman  of  that  stamp  has  judged  a  man  she  is  done  with  him :  he 
ceases  to  exist  for  her:  she. will  not  see  him  again.  And  she 
no  more  hesitates  to  reveal  her  soul  to  him,  with  calm  impudence, 
that  to  appear  naked  before  her  dog,  her  cat,  or  any  other 
domestic  animal.  Christophe  saw  Judith's  egoism  and  cold- 
ness, and  the  mediocrity  of  her  character.  He  had  not  had 
time  to  be  absolutely  caught.  But  lie  had  been  enough  caught  to 
make  him  suffer  and  to  bring  him  to  a  sort  of  fever.  He  did 
not  so  much  love  Judith  as  what  she  might  have  been — what 
she  ought  to  have  been.  Her  fine  eyes  exercised  a  melancholy 
fascination  over  him :  he  could  not  forget  them :  although  he 
knew  now  the  drab  soul  that  slumbered  in  their  depths  he  went 
on  seeing  them  as  he  wished  to  see  them,  as  he  had  first  seen 
them.  It  was  one  of  those  loveless  hallucinations  of  love  which 
take  up  so  much  of  the  hearts  of  artists  when  they  are  not 
entirely  absorbed  by  their  work.  A  passing  face  is  enough  to 
create  it:  they  see  in  it  all  the  beauty  that  is  in  it,  unknown 
to  its  indifferent  possessor.  And  they  love  it  the  more  for  its 
indifference.  They  love  it  as  a  beautiful  thing  that  must  die 
without  any  man  having  known  its  worth  or  that  it  even  had 
life. 

Perhaps  he  was  deceiving  himself,  and  Judith  Mannheim 
could  not  have  been  anything  more  than  she  was.  But  for  a 
moment  Christophe  had  believed  in  her:  and  her  charm  en- 
dured: he  could  not  judge  her  impartially.  All  her  beauty 
seemed  to  him  to  be  hers,  to  be  herself.  All  that  was  vulgar 
in  her  he  cast  back  upon  her  twofold  race.  Jew  and  German, 


413  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

and  perhaps  lie  was  more  indignant  with  the  German  than  with 
the  Jew,  for  it  had  made  him  suffer  more.  As  lie  did  not  yet 
know  any  other  nation,  the  German  spirit  was  for  him  a  sort 
of  scapegoat:  he  put  upon  it  all  the  sins  of  the  world.  That 
Judith  had  deceived  him  was  a  reason  the  more  for  combating 
it:  he  could  not  forgive  it  for  having  crushed  the  life  out  of 
such  a  soul. 

Such  was  his  first  encounter  with  Israel.  He  had  hoped 
much  from  it.  He  had  hoped  to  find  in  that  strong  race  living 
apart  from  the  rest  an  ally  for  his  fight.  He  lost  that  hope. 
With  the  flexibility  of  his  passionate  intuition,  which  made  him 
lea])  from  one  extreme  to  another,  he  persuaded  himself  that 
the  Jewish  race  was  much  weaker  than  it  was  said  to  he,  and 
much  more  open — much  too  open — to  outside  influence.  It 
had  all  its  own  weaknesses  augmented  by  those  of  the  rest  of 
the  world  picked  up  on  its  way.  It  was  not  in  them  that  he 
could  find  assistance  in  working  the  lever  of  his  art.  leather 
he  was  in  danger  of  being  swallowed  with  them  in  the  sands 
of  the  desert. 

Having  seen  the  danger,  and  not  feeling  sure  enough  of  him- 
self to  brave  it,  he  suddenly  gave  up  going  to  the  Mannheims'. 
He  was  invited  several  times  and  begged  to  be  excused  without 
giving  any  reason.  As  up  till  then  he  had  shown  an  ex- 
cessive eagerness  to  accept,  such  a  sudden  change  was  remarked: 
it  was  attributed  to  his  "originality":  but  the  Mannheims  had 
no  doubt  that  the  fair  Judith  had  something  to  do  with  it: 
Lothair  and  Franz  joked  about  it  at  dinner.  Judith  shrugged 
her  shoulders  and  said  it  was  a  fine  conquest,  and  she  asked 
her  brother  frigidly  not  to  make  such  a  fuss  about  it.  But 
she  left  no  stone  unturned  in  her  effort  to  bring  Christophe 
back.  She  wrote  to  him  for  some  musical  information  which 
no  one  else  could  sunplv:  and  at  the  cud  of  her  letter  she  made 
a  friendly  allusion  to  the  rarity  of  his  visits  and  the  pleasure 
it  would  give  them  to  see  him.  Christophe  replied,  giving  the 
desired  information,  said  that  he  was  very  busy,  and  did  not 
go.  They  met  sometimes  at  the  theater.  Christopho  obstinately 
looked  awav  from  the  Mannheims'  box:  and  he  would  pretend 
not  to  see  Judith,  who  held  herself  in  readiness  to  give  him 
her  most  charming  smile.  She  did  not  persist.  As  she  did  not 


REVOLT  41.3 

count  on  him  for  anything  she  was  annoyed  that  the  little 
artist  should  let  her  do  all  the  labor  of  their  friendship,  and 
pure  waste  at  that.  If  ho  wanted  to  come,  he  would.  If  not — 
oh,  well,  they  could  do  without  him.  .  .  . 

They  did  without  him:  and  his  absence  left  no  very  great 
gap  in  the  Mannheims'  evenings.  But  in  spite  of  herself  Judith 
was  realty  annoyed  with  Christophe.  It  seemed  natural  enough 
not  to  bother  about  him  when  he  was  there:  and  site  could 
allow  him  to  show  his  displeasure  at  being  neglected  :  but  that 
his  displeasure  should  go  so  far  as  to  break  off  their  relation- 
ship altogether  seemed  to  her  to  show  a  stupid  pride  and  a 
heart  more  egoistic  than  in  love. — Judith  could  not  tolerate 
her  own  faults  in  others. 

She  followed  the  more  attentively  everything  that  Christopho 
did  and  wrote.  Without  seeming  to  do  so,  she  would  lead  her 
brother  to  the  subject  of  Christophe:  she  would  make  him  tell 
her  of  his  intercourse  with  him  :  and  she  would  punctuate  the 
narrative  with  clever  ironic  comment,  which  never  let  any 
ridiculous  feature  escape,  and  gradually  destroyed  Franz's  en- 
thusiasm without  his  knowing  it. 

At  first  all  went  well  with  the  Review.  Christophe  had  not 
yet  perceived  the  mediocrity  of  his  colleagues:  and,  since  he 
was  one  of  them,  they  hailed  him  as  a  genius.  Mannheim, 
who  had  discovered  him,  went  everywhere  repeating  that  Chris- 
tophe  was  an  admirable  critic,  though  he  had  never  read  any- 
thing he  had  written,  that  he  had  mistaken  his  vocation,  and 
that  he,  Mannheim,  had  revealed  it  to  him.  They  advertised 
his  articles  in  mysterious  terms  which  roused  curiositv:  and  his 
first  effort  was  in  fact  like  a  stone  falling  into  a  duck-pond  in 
the  atony  of  the  little  town.  It  was  called:  Too  nitiili  ///<>*/<'. 

"Too  much  music,  too  much  drinking,  too  much  eating.'5 
wrote  Christophe.  "Eating,  drinking,  hearing,  \vithout  hun- 
ger, thirst,  or  need,  from  sheer  habitual  gormandi/.ing.  Liv- 
ing like  Strasburg  geese.  These  .people  are  sick  from  a  diseased 
appetite.  It  matters  little  what  vou  give  them:  7Y/Vr<////  or  the 
Trom  peter  ron  Sakkingeti,  Beethoven  or  Mascagni,  a  fugue  or 
a  two-step,  Adam,  Bach.  Puccini.  Mo/art,  or  Marsrhner :  thevdo 
not  know  what  they  are  eating:  the  great  thing  is  to  eat.  They 
find  no  pleasure  in  it.  Look  at  them  at  a  concert.  Talk  of 


414  JEAtf-CHRISTOPHE 

German  gaiety!  These  people  do  not  know  what  gaiety  means: 
they  are  always  gay !  Their  gaiety,  like  their  sorrow,  drops  like 
rain :  their  joy  is  dust :  there  is  neither  life  nor  force  in  it. 
They  would  stay  for  hours  smilingly  and  vaguely  drinking  in 
sounds,  sounds,  sounds.  They  think  of  nothing :  they  feel  noth- 
ing: they  are  sponges.  True  joy,  or  true  sorrow — strength- 
is  not  drawn  out  over  hours  like  beer  from  a  cask.  They  take 
you  by  the  throat  and  have  you  down :  after  they  are  gone 
there  is  no  desire  left  in  a  man  to  drink  in  anything:  he  is 
full!  .  .  . 

"  Too  much  music !  You  are  slaying  each  other  and  it.  If 
you  choose  to  murder  each  other  that  is  your  affair :  I  can't 
help  it.  But  where  music  is  concerned, — hands  off !  I  will 
not  suffer  you  to  debase  the  loveliness  of  the  world  by  heaping 
up  in  the  same  basket  things  holy  and  things  shameful,  by 
giving,  as  you  do  at  present,  the  prelude  to  Parsifal  between  a 
fantasia  on  the  Daughter  of  the  Regiment  and  a  saxophone 
quartette,  or  an  adagio  of  Beethoven  between  a  cakewalk  and 
the  rubbish  of  Leoncavallo.  You  boast  of  being  a  musical 
people.  You  pretend  to  love  music.  What  sort  of  music  do 
you  love  ?  Good  or  bad  ?  You  applaud  both  equally.  Well, 
then,  choose!  What  exactly  do  you  want?  You  do  not  know 
yourselves.  You  do  not  want  to  know :  you  are  too  fearful 
of  taking  sides  and  compromising  yourselves.  .  .  .  To  the  devil 
with  your  prudence! — You  are  above  party,  do  you  say? — 
Above?  You  mean  below.  .  .  ." 

And  he  quoted  the  lines  of  old  Gottfried  Keller,  the  rude 
citizen  of  Zurich — one  of  the  German  writers  who  \vas  most 
dear  to  him  by  reason  of  his  vigorous  loyalty  and  his  keen 
savor  of  the  soil : 

"Wer  iibcr  den  Partein  sicli  iL'dhnt  mit  stoJzen  Micncn 
Der  steht   zumeist   viclmehr   bctrachtUch   nntcr   ihnen." 

("He  who  proudly  preens  himself  on  being  above  parties  is 
rather  immeasurably  beneath  them.") 

"  Have  courage  and  be  true,"  he  went  on.  "  Have  courage 
and  be  ugly.  If  you  like  bad  music,  then  say  so  frankly.  Show 


EEVOLT  415 

yourselves,  see  yourselves  as  you  are.  Eid  your  souls  of  the 
loathsome  burden  of  all  your  compromise  and  equivocation. 
Wash  it  in  pure  water.  How  long  is  it  since  you  have  seen 
yourselves  in  a  mirror  ?  I  will  show  you  yourselves.  Composers, 
virtuosi,  conductors,  singers,  and  you,  dear  public.  You  shall 
for  once  know  yourselves.  ...  Be  what  you  like:  but,  for  any 
sake,  be  true !  Be  true  even  though  art  and  artists — and  I 
myself — have  to  suffer  for  it!  If  art  and  truth  cannot  live 
together,  then  let  art  disappear.  Truth  is  life.  Lies  are  death." 

Xaturally,  this  youthful,  wild  outburst,  which  was  all  of  a 
piece,  and  in  very  bad  taste,  produced  an  outcry.  And  yet,  as 
everybody  was  attacked  and  nobody  in  particular,  its  pertinency 
was  not  recognized.  Every  one  is,  or  believes  himself  to  be, 
or  says  that  he  is  the  best  friend  of  truth :  there  was  therefore 
no  danger  of  the  conclusions  of  the  article  being  attacked.  Only 
people  were  shocked  by  its  general  tone :  everybody  agreed  that 
it  was  hardly  proper,  especially  from  an  artist  in  a  semi-official 
position.  A  few  musicians  began  to  be  uneasy  and  protested 
bitterly :  they  saw  that  Christophe  would  not  stop  at  that.  Others 
thought  themselves  more  clever  and  congratulated  Christophe 
on  his  courage :  they  were  no  less  uneasy  about  his  next  articles. 

Both  tactics  produced  the  same  result.  Christophe  had 
plunged :  nothing  could  stop  him :  and  as  he  had  promised, 
everybody  was  passed  in  survey,  composers  and  interpreters  alike. 

The  first  victims  were  the  Kapellmeisters.  Christophe  did 
not  confine  himself  to  general  remarks  on  the  art  of  conducting 
an  orchestra.  He  mentioned  his  colleagues  of  his  own  town 
and  the  neighboring  towns  by  name:  or  if  he  did  not  name 
them  his  allusions  were  so  transparent t that  nobody  could  be 
mistaken.  Everybody  recognized  the  apathetic  conductor  of  the 
Court,  Alois  von  Werner,  a  cautious  old  man,  laden  with  honors, 
who  was  afraid  of  everything,  dodged  everything,  was  too  timid 
to  make  a  remark  to  his  musicians  and  meekly  followed  what- 
ever they  chose  to  do, — who  never  risked  anything  on  his  pro- 
gramme that  had  not  been  consecrated  by  twenty  years  of  success, 
or,  at  least,  guaranteed  by  the  official  stamp  of  some  academic 
dignity.  Christophe  ironically  applauded  his  boldness:  he  con- 
gratulated him  on  having  discovered  Oade,  Dvorak,  or  Tschai- 
kowskv:  he  waxed  enthusiastic  over  his  unfailing  correctness, 


416  JEAX-CH1J1  STOl'J  IE 

his  metronomic  equality,  the  always  fein-nuanciert  (finely 
shaded)  playing  of  his  orchestra:  he  proposed  to  orchestrate 
the  Ecole  de  la  Vclocite  of  C/erny  for  his  next  concert,  and 
implored  him  not  to  try  himself  so  much,  not  to  give  rein  to 
his  passions,  to  look  after  his  precious  health. — Or  he  cried  out 
indignantly  upon  the  way  in  which  he  had  conducted  the  Eroica 
of  Beethoven  : 

"A  cannon!  A  cannon!  Mow  me  down  these  people!  .  .  . 
But  have  you  then  no  idea  of  the  conflict,  the  light  between 
human  stupidity  and  human  ferocity,— and  the  strength  which 
tramples  them  underfoot  with  a  glad  shout  of  laughter ?- — How 
could  you  know  it?  It  is  you  against  whom  it  tights!  You 
expend  all  the  heroism  that  is  in  you  in  listening  or  in  playing 
the  Eroica  of  Beethoven  without  a  yawn — (for  it  bores  you.  .  .  . 
Confess  that  it  bores  you  to  death!) — or  in  risking  a  draught 
as  you  stand  with  bare  head  and  bowed  back  to  let  some  Serene 
Highness  pass." 

He  could  not  be  sarcastic  enough  about  the  pontiffs  of  the 
Conservatories  who  interpreted  the  great  men  of  the  past  as 
"  classics." 

"  Classical !  That  word  expresses  everything.  Free  passion, 
arranged  and  expurgated  for  the  use  of  schools!  Life,  that 
vast  plain  swept  by  the  winds,— inclosed  within  the  four  walls 
of  a  school  playground  !  The  tierce,  proud  beat  of  a  heart  in 
anguish,  reduced  to  the  tic-tacs  of  a  four-tune  pendulum,  which 
goes  its  jolly  way,  hobbling  and  imperturbablv  leaning  on  the 
crutch  of  time!  .  .  .  To  enjoy  the  Ocean  you  need  to  put  it 
in  a  bowl  with  goldfish.  You  only  understand  life  when  you 
have  killed  it." 

If  he  was  not  kind  to  the  "  bird-stuifers,"  as  he  called  them, 
he  was  even  less  kind  to  the  ringmen  of  the  orchestra,  the 
illustrious  Kapellmeisters  who  toured  the  country  to  show  olf 
their  flourishes  and  their  dainty  hands,  those  who  exercised 
their  virtuosity  at  the  expense  of  the  masters,  tried  hard  to 
make  (he  most  familiar  works  unrecognizable,  and  turned  somer- 
saults through  the  hoop  of  the  Symphony  in  ('  min<ir.  lie 
made  them  appeal1  as  old  coquettes,  prim  a  il'iinni*  of  the  orches- 
tra, gipsies,  and  rope-dancers. 

The  virtuosi  naturally  provided  him  with  splendid  material. 


REVOLT  417 

He  declared  himself  incompetent  when  ho  had  to  criticise  their 
conjuring  performances,  lie  said  that  such  mechanical  exercises 
belonged  to  the  School  of  Arts  and  Crafts,  and  that  not  musical 
criticism  hut  charts  registering  the  duration,  and  number  of 
the  notes,  and  the  energy  expended,  could  decide  the  merit  of 
such  labors.  Sometimes  he  would  set  at  naught  some  famous 
piano  virtuoso  who  during  a  two  hours'  concert  had  surmounted 
the  formidable  difficulties,  with  a  smile  on  his  lips  and  his  hair 
hanging  down  into  his  eyes — of  executing  a  childish  andante 
of  Mozart. — He  did  not  ignore  the  pleasure  of  overcoming  diiri- 
culties.  He  had  tasted  it  himself:  it  was  one  of  the  joys  of 
life  to  him.  But  only  to  see  the  most  material  aspect  of  it, 
and  to  reduce  all  the  heroism  of  art  to  that,  seemed  to  him 
grotesque  and  degrading.  Pie  could  not  forgive  the  "  lions  "  or 
"  panthers  "  of  the  piano. — But  he  was  not  very  indulgent  either 
towards  the  town  pedants,  famous  in  Germany,  who,  while 
they  are  rightly  anxious  not  to  alter  the  text  of  the  masters, 
carefully  suppress  every  flight  of  thought,  and,  like  K.  d'Albcrt 
and  H.  von  Billow,  seem  to  be  giving  a  lesson  in  diction  when 
thev  are  rendering  a  passionate  sonata. 

The  singers  had  their  turn.  Christophe  was  full  to  the  brim 
of  things  to  say  about  their  barbarous  heaviness  and  their  pro- 
vincial affectations.  It  was  not  only  because  of  his  recent  mis- 
adventures with  the  enraged  lady,  but  because  of  all  the  torture 
he  had  suffered  during  so  many  performances.  It  was  ditlicult 
to  know  which  had  suffered  most,  ears  or  eyes-.  And  Christophe 
had  not  enough  standards  of  comparison  to  be  able  to  have 
any  idea  of  the  ugliness  of  the  setting,  the  hideous  costumes. 
the  screaming  colors.  He  was  only  shocked  by  the  vulgarity 
of  the  people,  their  gestures  and  attitudes,  their  unnatural 
playing,  the  inability  of  the  aefors  to  take  on  other  souls  than 
their  own,  and  by  the  stupefying  indifference  with  which  they 
passed  from  one  role  to  another,  provided  they  were  written 
more  or  less  in  the  same  register.  Matrons  of  opulon;  llesh. 
hearty  and  buxom,  appeared  alternately  as  Ysolde  and  Carmen. 
Amfortas  played  Figaro. — But  what  most  offended  Christophe 
was  the  ugliness  of  the  singing,  espeeiallv  in  the  elassical  works 
in  which  the  beauty  of  melody  is  essential.  No  one  in  (lonnany 
could  sing  the  perfect  music  of  the  eighteenth  century:  no  or.e 


418  JEAX-CHRISTOPHE 

would  take  the  trouble.  The  clear,  pure  style  of  Ciluck  and 
Mozart  which,  like  that  of  Goethe,  seems  to  be  bathed  in  the 
light  of  Italy — the  style  which  begins  to  change  and  to  become 
vibrant  and  dazzling  Avith  Weber — the  style  ridiculed  by  the 
ponderous  caricatures  of  the  author  of  Crociato — had  been 
killed  by  the  triumph  of  Wagner.  The  wild  flight  of  the 
Valkyries  with  their  strident  cries  had  passed  over  the  Grecian 
sky.  The  heavy  clouds  of  Odin  dimmed  the  light.  Xo  one 
now  thought  of  singing  music :  they  sang  poems.  Ugliness  and 
carelessness  of  detail,  even  false  notes  were  let  pass  under  pre- 
text that  only  the  whole,  only  the  thought  behind  it  mat- 
tered. .  .  . 

"  Thought !  Let  us  talk  of  that.  As  if  you  understood  it ! 
.  .  .  But  whether  or  no  you  do  understand  it,  I  pray  you  respect 
the  form  that  thought  has  chosen  for  itself.  Above  all,  let 
music  be  and  remain  music !  " 

And  the  great  concern  of  German  artists  with  expression 
and  profundity  of  thought  was,  according  to  Christophe,  a 
good  joke.  Expression  ?  Thought  ?  Yes,  they  introduced  them 
into  everything — everything  impartially.  They  would  have 
found  thought  in  a  skein  of  wool  just  as  much — neither  more 
nor  less — as  in  a  statue  of  Michael  Arigelo.  They  played  any- 
thing, anybody's  music  with  exactly  the  same  energy.  For 
most  of  them  the  great  thing  in  music — so  he  declared — was 
the  volume  of  sound,  just  a  musical  noise.  The  pleasure  of 
singing  so  potent  in  Germany  was  in  some  sort  a  pleasure  of 
vocal  gymnastics.  It  was  just  a  matter  of  being  inflated  with 
air  and  then  letting  it  go  vigorously,  powerfully,  for  a  long 
time  together  and  rhythmically. — And  by  way  of  compliment 
he  accorded  a  certain  great  singer  a  certificate  of  good  health. 
He  was  not  content  with  flaying  the  artists.  He  strode  over 
the  footlights  and  trounced  the  public  for  coming,  gaping, 
to  such  performances.  The  public  was  staggered  and  did  not 
know  whether  it  ought  to  laugh  or  be  angry.  They  had  every 
right  to  cry  out  upon  his  injustice:  they  had  taken  care  not 
to  be  mixed  up  in  any  artistic  conflict:  they  stood  aside  pru- 
dently from  any  burning  question:  and  to  avoid  making  any 
mistake  they  applauded  everything!  And  now  Christophe  de- 
clared that  it  was  a  crime  to  applaud!  .  .  .  To  applaud  bad 


KEVOLT  419 

works? — That  would  have  been  enough!  But  Christophe  went 
further :  he  stormed  at  them  for  applauding  great  works : 

"  Humhugs !  "  he  said.  "You  would  have  us  believe  that 
you  have  as  much  enthusiasm  as  that?  .  .  .  Oh!  Come!  Spare 
yourselves  the  trouble !  You  only  prove  exactly  the  opposite 
of  what  you  are  trying  to  prove.  Applaud  if  you  like  those 
works  and  passages  which  in  some  measure  deserve  applause. 
Applaud  those  loud  final  movements  which  are  written,  as 
Mozart  said,  "  for  long  ears."  Applaud  as  much  as  you  like, 
then :  your  braying  is  anticipated :  it  is  part  of  the  concert. — 
But  after  the  Missa  Solctnnis  of  Beethoven!  .  .  .  Poor 
wretches !  ...  It  is  the  Last  Judgment.  You  have  just  seen 
the  maddening  Gloria  pass  like  a  storm  over  the  ocean.  You 
have  seen  the  waterspout  of  an  athletic  and  tremendous  well, 
which  stops,  breaks,  reaches  up  to  the  clouds  clinging  by  its 
two  hands  above  the  abyss,  then  plunging  once  more  into  space 
in  full  swing.  The  squall  shrieks  and  whirls  along.  And 
when  the  hurricane  is  at  its  height  there  is  a  sudden  modula- 
tion, a  radiance  of  sound  which  cleaves  the  darkness  of  the 
sky  and  falls  upon  the  livid  sea  like  a  patch  of  light.  It  is 
the  end:  the  furious  flight  of  the  destroying  angel  stops  short, 
its  wings  transfixed  by  these  flashes  of  lightning.  Around 
you  all  is  buzzing  and  quivering.  The  eye  gazes  fixedly  forward 
in  stupor.  The  heart  beats,  breathing  stops,  the  limbs  are 
paralyzed.  .  .  .  And  hardly  has  the  last  note  sounded  than 
already  you  are  gay  and  merry.  You  shout,  you  laugh,  you 
criticise,  you  applaud.  .  .  .  But  you  have  seen  nothing,  heard 
nothing,  felt  nothing,  understood  nothing,  nothing,  nothing, 
absolutely  nothing!  The  sufferings  of  an  artist  are  a  show  to 
you.  You  think  the  tears  of  agony  of  a  Beethoven  are  finely 
painted.  You  would  cry  'Encore'  to  the  Crucifixion.  A 
great  soul  struggles  all  its  life  long  in  sorrow  to  divert  your 
idleness  for  an  hour !  .  .  ." 

So,  without  knowing  it,  he  confirmed  Goethe's  great  words: 
but  he  had  not  yet  attained  his  lofty  serenity: 

"The  people  make  a  sport  of  the  sublime.  It'  they  could 
see  it  as  it  is,  they  would  be  unable  to  bear  its  aspect." 

If  be  had  only  stopped  at  that! — But.  whirled  along  by  his 
enthusiasm,  he  swept  past  the  public  and  plunged  like  a  cannon 


420  JEAX-CHBTSTOPHE 

ball  into  the  sanctuary,  the  tabernacle,  the  inviolable  refuge  of 
mediocrity  :  Criticism.  He  bombarded  his  colleagues.  One  of 
them  had  taken  upon  himself  to  attack  the  most  gifted  of 
living  composers,  the  most  advanced  representative  of  the  new 
school,  Hassler,  the  writer  of  programme  symphonies,  extrava- 
gant in  truth,  but  full  of  genius.  Christophe  who — as  perhaps 
will  be  remembered — had  been  presented  to  him  when  he  was  a 
child,  had  always  had  a  secret  tenderness  for  him  in  his  grati- 
tude for  the  enthusiasm  and  emotion  that  he  had  had  then. 
To  see  a  stupid  critic,  whose  ignorance  he  knew,  instructing 
a  man  of  that  caliber,  calling  him  to  order,  and  reminding 
him  of  set  principles,  infuriated  him: 

'•'  Order !  Order !  "  he  cried.  "  You  do  not  know  any  order 
but  that  of  the  police.  Genius  is  not  to  be  dragged  along  the 
beaten  track.  It  creates  order,  and  makes  its  will  a  law." 

After  this  arrogant  declaration  he  took  the  unlucky  critic, 
considered  all  the  idiocies  he  had  written  for  some  time  past, 
and  administered  correction. 

All  the  critics  felt  the  affront.  Up  to  that  time  they  had 
stood  aside  from  the  conflict.  They  did  not  care  to  risk  a 
rebuff:  they  knew  Christophe,  they  knew  his  eilicicncy,  and 
chey  knew  also  that  he  was  not  long-suffering.  Certain  of  them 
had  discreetly  expressed  their  regret  that  so  gifted  a  composer 
should  dabble  in  a  profession  not  his  own.  Whatever  might 
be  their  opinion  (when  they  had  one),  and  however  hurt  they 
might  be  by  Christophe,  they  respected  in  him  their  own  privi- 
lege of  being  able  to  criticise  everything  without  being  criticised 
themselves.  But  when  they  saw  Christophe  ruddy  break  the 
tacit  convention  which  bound  them,  they  saw  in  him  an  enemy 
of  public  order.  With  one  consent  it  seemed  revolting  to  them 
that  a  very  young  man  should  take  upon  himself  to  show  scant 
respect  for  the  national  glories:  and  they  began  a  furious  cam- 
paign against  him.  They  did  not  write  long  articles  or  con- 
secutive arguments — (they  were  unwilling  to  venture  upon  such 
ground  with  an  adversary  better  armed  than  themselves:  al- 
though a  journalist  has  the  special  faculty  of  being  able  to 
discuss  without  taking  his  adversary's  arguments  into  con- 
sideration, and  even  without  having  read  them)— -but  long  ex- 
perience had  taught  them  that,  as  the  reader  of  a  paper  always 


REVOLT  421 

agrees  with  it,  even  to  appear  to  argue  was  to  weaken  its  credit 
with  him:  it  was  necessary  to  affirm,  or  better  still,  to  deny— 
(negation  is  twice  as  powerful  as  affirmation:  it  is  a  direct 
consequence  of  the  law  of  gravity:  it  is  much  easier  t<>  drop 
a  stone  than  to  throw  it  up). — They  adopted,  therefore,  a  sys- 
tem of  little  notes,  perfidious,  ironic,  injurious,  which  were  re- 
peated day  by  day,  in  an  easily  accessible  position,  with  un- 
wearying assiduity.  They  held  the  insolent  Ohristophe  up  to 
ridicule,  though  they  never  mentioned  him  by  name,  but  always 
transparently  alluded  to  him.  They  twisted  his  words  to  make 
them  look  absurd:  they  told  anecdotes  about  him,  true  for 
the  most  part,  though  the  rest  were  a  tissue  of  lies,  nicely 
calculated  to  set  him  at  loggerheads  with  the  whole  town,  and, 
worse  still,  with  the  Court:  even  his  physical  appearance,  his 
features,  his  manner  of  dressing,  wore  attacked  and  caricatured 
in  a  way  that  by  dint  of  repetition  came  to  be  like  him. 

It  would  have  mattered  little  to  Christophe's  friends  if  their 
Review  had  not  also  come  in  for  blows  in  the  battle,  hi  truth, 
it  served  rather  as  an  advertisement:  there  was  no  desire  to 
commit  the  Review  to  the  quarrel:  rather  the  attempt  was  made 
to  cut  Christophc  off  from  it:  there  was  astonishment  that 
it  should  so  compromise  its  good  name,  and  they  were  given 
to  understand  that  if  they  did  not  take  care  steps  would  be 
taken,  however  unpleasant  it  might  be,  to  make  the  whole 
editorial  staff  responsible.  There  were  signs  of  attack,  gentle 
enough,  upon  Adolf  Mai  and  Mannheim,  which  stirred  up  the 
wasps'  nest.  Mannheim  only  laughed  at  it:  lie  thought  that 
it  would  infuriate  his  father,  his  uncles,  cousins,  and  his  in- 
numerable family,  who  took  upon  themselves  to  watch  every- 
thing he  did  and  to  be  scandalized  by  it.  l>ut  Adolf  Mai  took 
it  very  seriously  and  blamed  Christophe  for  compromising  the 
Review.  Christophe  sent  him  packing.  The  others  who  had 
not  been  attacked  found  it  rather  amusing  that  Mai.  who  was 
apt  to  pontificate  over  them,  should  be  their  scapegoat.  Wald- 
haus  was  secretly  delighted:  he  said  that  then.1  was  never  a 
fight  without  a  few  heads  being  broken.  Naturally  he  took 
good  care  that  it  should  not  be  his  own:  he  thought  he  was 
sheltered  from  onslaught  by  the  position  of  his  family  and  his 


422  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

relatives :  and  he  saw  no  harm  in  the  Jews,  his  allies,  being 
mauled  a  little.  Ehrenfeld  and  Goldenring,  who  were  so  far 
untouched,  would  not  have  been  worried  by  attack :  they  could 
reply.  But  what  did  touch  them  on  the  raw  was  that  Cliris- 
tophe  should  go  on  persistently  putting  them  in  the  wrong 
with  their  friends,  and  especially  their  women  friends.  They 
had  laughed  loudly  at  the  first  articles  and  thought  them  good 
fun :  they  admired  Christophe's  vigorous  window-smashing : 
they  thought  they  had  only  to  give  the  word  to  check  his  com- 
bativeness,  or  at  least  to  turn  his  attack  from  men  and  women 
whom  they  might  mention. — But  no.  Christophe  would  listen 
to  nothing :  he  paid  no  heed  to  any  remark  and  went  on  like 
a  madman.  If  they  let  him  go  on  there  would  be  no  living 
in  the  place.  Already  their  young  women  friends,  furious  and 
in  tears,  had  come  and  made  scenes  at  the  offices  of  the  Review. 
They  brought  all  their  diplomacy  to  bear  on  Christophe  to  per- 
suade him  at  least  to  moderate  certain  of  his  criticisms :  Chris- 
tophe changed  nothing.  They  lost  their  tempers :  Christophe 
lost  his,  but  he  changed  nothing.  Waldhaus  was  amused  by 
the  unhappiness  of  his  friends,  which  in  no  wise  touched  him, 
and  took  Christophe's  part  to  annoy  them.  Perhaps  also  he 
was  more  capable  than  they  of  appreciating  Christophe's  ex- 
travagance, who  with  head  down  hurled  himself  upon  every- 
thing without  keeping  any  line  of  retreat,  or  preparing  any 
refuge  for  the  future.  As  for  Mannheim  he  was  royally  amused 
by  the  farce :  it  seemed  to  him  a  good  joke  to  have  introduced 
this  madman  among  these  correct  people,  and  he  rocked  with 
laughter  both  at  the  blows  which  Christophe  dealt  and  at  those 
which  he  received.  Although  under  his  sister's  influence  he 
was  beginning  to  think  that  Christophe  was  decidedly  a  little 
cracked,  he  only  liked  him  the  more  for  it^(it  was  necessary 
for  him  to  find  those  who  were  in  sympathy  with  him  a  little 
absurd). — And  so  he  joined  Waldhaus  in  supporting  Chris- 
tophe against  the  others. 

As  he  was  not  wanting  in  practical  sense,  in  spite  of  all  his 
efforts  to  pretend  to  the  contrary,  he  thought  very  justly  that 
it  would  be  to  his  friend's  advantage  to  ally  himself  with  the 
cause  of  the  most  advanced  musical  party  in  the  country. 

As  in  most  German  towns,  there  was  in  the  town  a  Wagner- 


EEVOLT  423 

Verein,  which  represented  new  ideas  against  the  conservative 
element. — In  truth,  there  was  no  great  risk  in  defending  Wagner 
when  his  fame  was  acknowledged  everywhere  and  his  works 
included  in  the  repertory  of  every  Opera  House  in  Germany. 
And  yet  his  victory  was  rather  won  by  force  than  by  universal 
accord,  and  at  heart  the  majority  were  obstinately  conservative, 
especially  in  the  small  towns  such  as  this  which  have  been 
rather  left  outside  the  great  modern  movements  and  are  rather 
proud  of  their  ancient  fame.  More  than  anywhere  else  there 
reigned  the  distrust,  so  innate  in  the  German  people,  of  any- 
thing new,  the  sort  of  laziness  in  feeling  anything  true  or 
powerful  which  has  not  been  pondered  and  digested  by  several 
generations.  It  was  apparent  in  the  reluctance  with  which — 
if  not  the  works  of  Wagner  which  are  beyond  discussion — 
every  new  work  inspired  by  the  Wagnerian  spirit  was  accepted. 
And  so  the  }\'agner-Vercine  would  have  had  a  useful  task  to 
fulfil  if  they  had  set  themselves  to  defend  all  the  young  and 
original  forces  in  art.  Sometimes  they  did  so,  and  Bruckner 
or  Hugo  Wolf  found  in  some  of  them  their  best  allies.  But 
too  often  the  egoism  of  the  master  weighed  upon  his  disciples : 
and  just  as  Bayreuth  serves  only  monstrously  to  glorify  one 
man,  the  offshoots  of  Bayreuth  were  little  churches  in  which 
Mass  was  eternally  sung  in  honor  of  the  one  God.  At  the 
most  the  faithful  disciples  were  admitted  to  the  side  chapels, 
the  disciples  who  applied  the  hallowed  doctrines  to  the  letter, 
and,  prostrate  in  the  dust,  adored  the  only  Divinity  with  His 
many  faces:  music,  poetry,  drama,  and  metaphysics. 

The  Wagner-Vercin  of  the  town  was  in  exactlv  this  case. — 
However,  they  went  through  tb.3  form  of  activity:  they  were 
always  trying  to  enroll  young  men  of  talent  who  looked  as 
though  they  might  be  useful  to  it:  and  they  had  long  had  their 
eyes  on  Christophe.  They  had  discreetly  made  advam-es  to 
him,  of  which  Christophe  had  not  taken  any  notice,  because 
he  felt  no  need  of  being  associated  with  anybody:  he  could  not 
understand  the  necessity  which  drove  his  compatriots  always 
to  be  banding  themselves  together  in  groups,  being  unable  to 
do  anything  alone:  neither  to  sing,  nor  to  walk,  nor  to  drink. 
He  was  averse  to  all  Vereinswesen.  Hut  on  the  whole  he  was 
more  kindly  disposed  to  the  Wagner-Vcrein  than  to  any  other 


424  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

Verein:  at  least  they  did  provide  an  excuse  for  fine  concerts: 
and  although  he  did  not  share  all  the  Wagnerian  ideas  on  art, 
he  was  much  nearer  them  than  to  those  of  any  other  group 
in  music.  He  could  lie  thought  find  common  ground  with  a, 
party  which  was  as  unjust  as  himself  towards  Brahms  and 
the  "  "Brahmins."  So  he  let  himself  he  put  up  for  it.  Mann- 
heim  introduced  him:  he  knew  everybody.  Without  being  a 
musician  he  was  a  member  of  the  Wagner-Verein. — The  manag- 
ing committee  had  followed  the  campaign  which  Christophc 
was  conducting  in  the  Review.  His  slaughter  in  the  opposing 
camp  had  seemed  to  them  to  give  signs  of  a  strong  grip  which 
it  would  be  as  well  to  have  in  their  service.  Christophc  had 
also  let  fly  certain  disrespectful  remarks  about  the  sacred  fetish : 
hut  they  had  preferred  to  close  their  eyes  to  that:  and  perhaps 
his  attacks,  not  yet  very  offensive,  had  not  been  without  their 
influence,  unconsciously,  in  making  them  so  eager  to  enroll 
Christophe  before  he  had  time  to  deliver  himself  manfully. 
They  came  and  very  amiably  asked  his  permission  to  play  some 
of  his  compositions  at  one  of  the  approaching  concerts  of  the 
Association.  Christophe  was  flattered,  and  accepted  :  he  went 
to  the  Wagner-Verein,  and,  urged  by  Mannheim,  he  was  made 
a  member. 

At  that  time  there  were  at  the  head  of  the  Wagner-Verein 
two  men,  of  whom  one  enjoyed  a  certain  notoriety  as  a  writer 
and  the1  other  as  a  conductor.  Both  had  a  Mohammedan  belief 
in  Wagner.  The  first,  Josias  Kling,  had  compiled  a  \Vagner 
Dictionary — War/ncr  Lr.rikoi; — which  made  it  possible  in  a 
moment  to  know  the  master's  thoughts  de  ornni  re  ttcibi/i: 
it  had  been  his  life's  work.  Tie  was  capable  of  reciting  whole 
chapters  of  it  at  table,  as  the  French  provincials  used  to  troll 
the  songs  of  the  Maid.  Me  used  also  to  publish  in  the  Jim/- 
rcutlic.r  Bliillcr  articles  on  Wagner  and  the  Arvan  Spirit.  Of 
course.  Wagner  was  to  him  the  type  of  the  pure  Aryan,  of  whom 
the  German  race  had  remained  the  last  inviolable  refuge  against 
the  corrupting  influences  of  Latin  Semitism.  especially  the 
French.  He  declared  that  ilie  impure  French  spirit  was  finally 
destroyed,  though  he  did  not  desist  from  attacking  it  bitterly 
day  by  day  as  though  the  eternal  enemy  were  still  a  menace. 
He  would  onlv  acknowledge  one  great  man  in  France:  the 


REVOLT  IV  5 

Count  of  Gobineau.  Kling  was  a  little  man,  very  little,  and 
he  used  to  blush  like  a  girl. — The  other  pillar  of  the  \\'<t</n<'r- 
Vercin,  Erich  Lauber,  had  been  manager  of  a  chemical  works 
until  four  years  before:  then  he  had  given  up  everything  to 
become  a  conductor,  lie  had  succeeded  by  force  of  will,  and 
because  he  was  very  rich.  He  was  a  Bayreuth  fanatic:  it  was 
said  that  he  had  gone  there  on  foot,  from  Munich,  wearing 
pilgrim's  sandals.  It  was  a  strange  thing  that  a  man  who 
had  read  much,  traveled  much,  practised  divers  professions,  and 
in  everything  displayed  an  energetic  personality,  should  have 
become  in  music  a  sheep  of  Panurge:  all  his  originality  was 
expended  in  his  being  a  little  more  stupid  than  the  others. 
He  was  not  sure  enough  of  himself  in  music  to  trust  to  his  own 
personal  feelings,  and  so  he  slavishly  followed  the  interpreta- 
tions of  Wagner  given  by  the  Kapellmeisters,  and  the  licensees 
of  Bayreuth.  He  desired  to  reproduce  even  to  the  smallest 
detail  the  setting  and  the  variegated  costumes  which  delighted 
the  puerile  and  barbarous  taste  of  the  little  Court  of  \Yahn- 
fried.  He  was  like  the  fanatical  admirer  of  Michael  Angelo 
who  used  to  reproduce  in  his  copies  even  the  cracks  in  Ha- 
waii of  the  moldy  patches  which  had  themselves  been  hallowed 
by  their  appearance  in  the  hallowed  pictures. 

Christophe  was  not  likely  to  approve  greatly  of  the  two  men. 
But  they  were  men  of  the  world,  pleasant,  and  both  well-read: 
and  Limber's  conversation  was  always  interesting  on  any  other 
subject  than  music.  He  was  a  bit  of  a  crank:  and  Christophe 
did  not  dislike  cranks:  they  were  a  change  from  the  horrihle 
banality  of  reasonable  people,  lie  did  not  yet  know  that  there 
is  nothing  more  devastating  than  an  irrational  man,  and  thai, 
originality  is  even  more  rare  among  those  who  are  called 
"originals"  than  among  the  rest.  For  these  "'originals' 
are  simply  maniacs  whose  thoughts  are  reduced  to  clock- 
work. 

Josias  Kling  and  Lauber,  being  desirous  of  winning  ('hris- 
tophe's  support,  were  at  first  very  keenly  interested  in  him. 
Kling  wrote  a  eulogistic  article  about  him  and  Lau!i«T  followed 
all  his  directions  when  he  conducted  \}\<  compositions  at  one. 
of  the  concerts  of  the  Society.  Christophe  was  touched  bv  it, 
all.  Unfortunately  all  their  attentions  were  spoiled  by  the 


426  JEAN-CHKISTOPHE 

stupidity  of  those  who  paid  them.  He  had  not  the  faculty  of 
pretending  about  people  because  they  admired  him.  He  was 
exacting.  He  demanded  that  no  one  should  admire  him  for 
the  opposite  of  what  he  was :  and  he  was  always  prone  to  regard 
as  enemies  those  who  were  his  friends,  by  mistake.  And  so 
he  was  not  at  all  pleased  with  Kling  for  seeing  in  him  a  disciple 
of  Wagner,  and  trying  to  see  connections  between  passages  of 
his  Lieder  and  passages  of  the  Tetralogy,  which  had  nothing  in 
common  but  certain  notes  of  the  scale.  And  he  had  no  pleasure 
in  hearing  one  of  his  works  sandwiched — together  with  a  worth- 
less imitation  by  a  Wagnerian  student — between  two  enormous 
blocks  of  Wagnerian  drama. 

It  was  not  long  before  he  was  stifled  in  the  little  chapel. 
It  was  just  another  Conservatoire,  as  narrow  as  the  old  Con- 
servatoires, and  more  intolerant  because  it  was  the  latest  comer 
in  art.  Christophe  began  to  lose  his  illusions  about  the  absolute 
ralue  of  a  form  of  art  or  of  thought.  Hitherto  he  had  always 
believed  that  great  ideas  bear  their  own  light  within  them- 
. selves.  Xow  he  saw  that  ideas  may  change,  but  that  men 
remain  the  same :  and,  in  fine,  nothing  counted  but  men :  ideas 
were  what  they  were.  If  the}r  were  born  mediocre  and  servile, 
even  genius  became  mediocre  in  its  passage  through  their  souls, 
and  the  shout  of  freedom  of  the  hero  breaking  his  bonds  became 
the  act  of  slavery  of  succeeding  generations. — Christophe  could 
not  refrain  from  expressing  his  feelings.  He  let  no  opportunity 
slip  of  jeering  at  fetishism  in  art.  He  declared  that  there  was 
no  need  of  idols,  or  classics  of  any  sort,  and  that  he  only  had 
the  right  to  call  himself  the  heir  of  the  spirit  of  Wagner  who 
was  capable  of  trampling  Wagner  underfoot  and  so  walking 
on  and  keeping  himself  in  close  communion  with  life.  Kling's 
stupidity  made  Christophe  aggressive.  lie  set  out  all  the  faults 
and  absurdities  he  could  sec  in  Wagner.  The  Wagnerians  at 
once  credited  him  with  a  grotesque  jealousy  of  their  God. 
Christophe  for  his  part  had  no  doubt  that  these  same  people 
who  exalted  Wagner  since  he  was  dead  would  have  been  the 
first  to  strangle  him  in  his  life:  and  he  did  them  an  injustice. 
The  Klings  and  the  Laubers  also  had  had  their  hour  of  illumina- 
tion:  they  had  been  advanced  twenty  years  ago:  and  then  like 
most  people  they  had  stopped  short  at  that.  Man  has  so  little 


REVOLT  42  T 

force  that  he  is  out  of  breath  after  the  first  ascent :  very  feu 
arc  long-winded  enough  to  go  on. 

Christophe's  attitude  quickly  alienated  him  from  his  new 
friends.  Their  sympathy  was  a  bargain:  he  had  to  side  with 
them  if  they  were  to  side  with  him:  and  it  was  quite  evident 
that  Christophe  would  not  yield  an  inch:  he  would  not  join 
them.  The}r  lost  their  enthusiasm  for  him.  The  eulogies 
which  lie  refused  to  accord  to  the  gods  and  demi-gods  who  were 
approved  by  the  cult,  were  withheld  from  him.  They  showed 
less  eagerness  to  welcome  his  compositions:  and  some  of  the 
members  began  to  protest  against  his  name  being  too  often  on 
the  programmes.  They  laughed  at  him  behind  his  back,  and 
criticism  went  on:  Kling  and  Lauber  by  not  protesting  seemed 
to  take  part  in  it.  They  would  have  avoided  a  breach  with 
Christophe  if  possible:  lirst  because  the  minds  of  the  Germans  of 
the  Rhine  like  mixed  solutions,  solutions  which  are  not  solu- 
tions, and  have  the  privilege  of  prolonging  indefinitely  an 
ambiguous  situation:  and  secondly,  because  they  hoped  in  spite 
of  everything  to  be  able  to  make  use  of  him,  by  wearing  him 
down,  if  not  by  persuasion. 

Christophe  gave  them  no  time  for  it.  Whenever  he  thought 
lie  felt  that  at  heart  any  man  disliked  him,  but  would  not  admit 
it  and  tried  to  cover  it  up  so  as  to  remain  on  good  terms  with 
him,  he  would  never  rest  until  he  had  succeeded  in  proving 
to  him  that  he  was  his  enemy.  One  evening  at  the  ]Y(ifjncr- 
Vcrciti  when  he  had  come  up  against  a  wall  of  hypocritical 
hostility,  he  could  bear  it  no  longer  and  sent  in  his  resignation 
to  Lauber  without  wasting  words.  Lauber  could  not  under- 
stand it:  and  Mannheim  hastened  to  Christophe  to  try  and 
pacify  him.  At  his  first  words  Christophe  burst  out: 

"No,  no.  no, — no!  Don't  talk  to  me  about  these  people. 
I  will  not  see  them  again.  ...  I  cannot.  I  cannot.  ...  I  am 
disgusted,  horribly,  with  men:  I  can  hardly  bear  to  look  at 
one." 

Mannheim  laughed  heartily,  lie  was  thinking  miu-h  less 
of  smoothing  Christophe  down  than  of  having  the  fun  of  it. 

"I  know  that  they  are  not  beautiful."  lie  said:  "'hut  that  is 
nothing  new:  what  new  thing  has  happened?" 

"  Nothing.     1  have  had  enough,  that  is  all.  .  .  .   Yes,  laugh, 


428  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

laugh  at  me :  everybody  knows  I  am  mad.  Prudent  people 
act  in  accordance  with  the  laws  of  logic  and  reason  and  sanity. 
1  am  not  like  that:  I  am  a  man  who  acts  only  on  his  own 
impulse.  When  a  certain  quantity  of  electricity  is  accumulated 
in  me  it  has  to  expend  itself,  at.  all  costs :  and  so  much  the 
worse  for  the  others  if  it  touches  them !  And  so  much  the 
worse  for  them !  I  am  not  made  for  living  in  society.  Hence- 
forth I  shall  helong  only  to  myself." 

"  You  think  you  can  do  without  everybody  else?  "  said  Mann- 
heim. "  You  cannot  play  your  music  all  by  yourself.  You 
need  singers,  an  orchestra,  a  conductor,  an  audience,  a 
claque.  .  .  ." 

Christophe  shouted. 

"  No  !  no  !  no  ! " 

But  the  last  word  made  him  jump. 

"A  claque!     Are  you  not  ashamed?" 

"I  am  not  talking  of  a  paid  claque — (although,  indeed,  it  is 
the  only  means  yet  discovered  of  revealing  the  merit  of  a  com- 
position to  the  audience). — But  you  must  have  a  claque:  the 
author's  coterie  is  a  claque,  properly  drilled  by  him:  every 
author  has  his  claque :  that  is  what  friends  are  for." 

"  1  don't  want  any  friends !  " 

"  Then  you  will  be   hissed." 

"  I  want  to  be  hissed  !  " 

Mannheim  was  in  the  seventh  heaven. 

"  You  won't  have  even  that  pleasure  for  long.  They  won't 
play  you." 

'•  So  he  it,  then!  Do  you  think  I  care  about  being  a  famous 
man?  .  .  .  Yes.  I  was  making  for  that  with  all  my  might.  .  .  . 
Xonsense!  Folly!  Idiocy!  ...  As  if  the  satisfaction  of  the 
Tiilgarest  sort  of  pride  could  compensate  for  all  the  sacrifices — • 
weariness,  suffering,  infamy,  insults,  degradation,  ignoble  con- 
cessions— which  are  the  price1  of  fame!  Devil  take  me  if  I  ever 
bother  my  head  about  such  things  again!  Xever  again!  Pub- 
licity is  a  vulgar  infamy.  I  will  be  a  private  citi/en  and  live 
for  myself  and  those  whom  1  love.  .  .  ." 

"  (lood.'"  said  Mannheim  ironically.  "You  must  choose  a 
profession.  Why  shouldn't  you  make  shoes?" 

"Ah!    if    1    were   a   cobbler   like   the   incomparable    Sachs!'3 


.  REVOLT  429 

cried  Christophe.  "  How  happy  my  life  would  be !  A  cobbler 
all  through  the  week, — and  a  musician  on  Sunday,  privately, 
intimately,  for  my  own  pleasure  and  that  of  my  friend? !  What 
a  life  that  would  be!  ...  Am  1  mad,  to  waste  my  time  and 
trouble  for  the  magnificent  pleasure  of  being  a  prey  to  the 
judgment  of  idiots?  Is  it  not  much  better  and  liner  to  be 
loved  and  understood  by  a  few  honest  men  than  to  be  heard, 
criticised,  and  toadied  by  thousands  of  fools?  .  .  .  The  devil 
of  pride  and  thirst  for  fame  shall  never  again  take  me :  trust 
me  for  that !  " 

"  Certainly,"  said  Mannheim.     He  thought : 

"In  an  hour  he  will  say  just  the  opposite."  He  remarked 
quietly : 

"  Then  I  am  to  go  and  smooth  things  down  with  the  ]Ya<jncr- 
Verein  ?  " 

Christophe  waved  his  arms. 

"  What  is  the  good  of  my  shouting  myself  hoarse  with  telling 
you  '  Xo/  for  the  last  hour?  ...  I  tell  you  that  I  will  never 
set  foot  inside  it  again!  I  loathe  all  these  Wagner-Vereinc, 
all  these  Vereine,  all  the.se  flocks  of  sheep  who  have  to  huddle 
together  to  be  able  to  baa  in  unison.  Go  and  tell  those  sheep 
from  me  that  I  am  a  wolf,  that  I  have  teeth,  and  am  not  made 
for  the  pasture  !  " 

"  Good,  good.  I  will  tell  them,'"  said  Mannheim,  as  he 
went.  He  was  delighted  with  his  morning's  entertainment. 
He  thought : 

'•  He  is  mad,  mad,  mad  as  a  hatter.   .  .  ." 

His  sister,  to  whom  he  reported  the  interview,  at  once 
shrugged  her  shoulders  and  said  : 

''Mad?  He  would  like  us  to  think  so!  ...  He  is  stupid, 
and  absurdly  vain.  .  .  ." 

Christophe  went  on  with  his  fierce  campaign  in  Waldhaus's 
Review.  Jt  was  not  that  it  gave  him  pleasure:  criticism  dis- 
gusted him.  and  he  \vas  always  wishing  it  at  the  bottom  <>|'  the 
sea.  Hut  he  stuck  to  it  because  people  were  trying  to  stop  him: 
he  did  not  wish  to  appear  to  have  given  in. 

Waldhaus  was  beginning  to  be  uneasv.  As  long  as  he  was 
out  of  reach  he  had  looked  on  at  the  all'rav  with  the  calmness 


430  JEAN-CHRISTDPHE 

of  an  Olympian  god.  But  for  some  weeks  past  the  other  papers 
had  seemed  to  be  beginning  to  disregard  his  inviolability:  they 
had  begun  to  attack  his  vanity  as  a  writer  with  a  rare  malev- 
olence in  which,  had  Waldhaus  been  more  subtle,  he  might  have 
recognized  the  hand  of  a  friend.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  the 
attacks  were  cunningly  instigated  by  Ehrenfeld  and  Golden- 
ring:  they  could  see  no  other  way  of  inducing  him  to  stop 
Christophe's  polemics.  Their  perception  was  justified.  Wald- 
haus at  once  declared  that  Christophe  was  beginning  to  weary 
him :  and  he  withdrew  his  support.  All  the  staff  of  the  Review 
then  tried  hard  to  silence  Christophe !  But  it  were  as  easy  to 
muzzle  a  dog  who  is  about  to  devour  his  prey !  Everything  they 
said  to  him  only  excited  him  more.  He  called  them  poltroons 
and  declared  that  he  would  say  everything — everything  that  he 
ought  to  sa}'.  If  they  wished  to  get  rid  of  him,  they  were  free 
to  do  so !  The  whole  town  would  know  that  they  were  as 
cowardly  as  the  rest :  but  he  would  not  go  of  his  own  accord. 
They  looked  at  each  other  in  consternation,  bitterly  blaming 
Mannheim  for  the  trick  he  had  played  them  in  bringing  such 
a  madman  among  them.  Mannheim  laughed  and  tried  hard 
to  curb  Christophe  himself:  and  he  vowed  that  with  the  next 
article  Christophe  would  water  his  wine.  They  were  incredu- 
lous :  but  the  event  proved  that  Mannheim  had  not  boasted 
vain!}-.  Christophe's  next  article,  though  not  a  model  of  cour- 
tesy, did  not  contain  a  single  offensive  remark  about  anybody. 
Mannheim's  method  was  very  simple :  they  were  all  amazed 
at  not  having  thought  of  it  before :  Christophe  never  read  what 
he  wrote  in  the  Review,  and  he  hardly  read  the  proofs  of  his 
articles,  only  very  quickly  and  carelessly.  Adolf  Mai  had  more 
than  once  passed  caustic  remarks  on  the  subject:  lie  said  that 
a  printer's  error  was  a  disgrace  to  a  Review :  and  Christophe, 
who  did  not  regard  criticism  altogether  as  an  art,  replied  that 
those  who  were  upbraided  in  it  would  understand  well  enough. 
Mannheim  turned  this  to  account:  he  said  that  Christophe  was 
right  and  that  correcting  proofs  was  printers'  work:  and  he 
offered  to  take  it  over.  Christophe  was  overwhelmed  with 
gratitude:  but  they  told  him  that  such  an  arrangement  would 
be  of  service  to  them  and  a  saving  of  time  for  the  Review.  So 
Christophe  left  his  proofs  to  Mannheim  and  asked  him  to 


REVOLT  431 

correct  them  carefully.  Mannheim  did:  it  was  sport  for  him. 
At  first  he  only  ventured  to  tone  down  certain  phrases  and  to 
delete  here  and  there  certain  ungracious  epithets.  Emboldened 
by  success,  he  went  further  with  his  experiments :  he  began 
to  alter  sentences  and  their  meaning:  and  he  was  really  skilful 
in  it.  The  whole  art  of  it  consisted  in  preserving  the  general 
appearance  of  the  sentence  and  its  characteristic  form  while 
making  it  say  exactly  the  opposite  of  what  Christophe  had 
meant.  Mannheim  took  far  more  trouble  to  disfigure  Chris- 
tophe's  articles  than  he  would  have  done  to  write  them  himself: 
never  had  he  worked  so  hard.  But  he  enjoyed  the  result: 
certain  musicians  whom  Christophe  had  hitherto  pursued  with 
his  sarcasms  were  astounded  to  see  him  grow  gradually  gentle 
and  at  last  sing  their  praises.  The  staff  of  the  Review  were 
delighted.  Mannheim  used  to  read  aloud  his  lucubrations  to 
them.  They  roared  with  laughter.  Ehrenfeld  and  Goldenring 
would  say  to  Mannheim  occasionally : 

"  Be  careful !     You  are  going  too  far." 

"  There's  no  danger/'  Mannheim  would  say.  And  he  would 
go  on  with  it. 

Christophe  never  noticed  anything.  He  used  to  go  to  the 
office  of  the  Review,  leave  his  copy,  and  not  bother  about  it 
any  more.  Sometimes  he  would  take  Mannheim  aside  and  say: 

"  This  time  I  really  have  done  for  the  swine.   Just  read.  .  .  ." 

Mannheim  would  read. 

"Well,  what  do  you  think  of  it?" 

"  Terrible,  my  dear  fellow,  there's  nothing  left  of  them !  " 

"What  do  you  think  they  will  say?" 

"  Oh !  there  will  be  a  fine  row." 

But  there  never  was  a  row.  On  the  contrary,  everybody 
beamed  at  Christophe:  people  whom  he  detested  would  bow  to 
him  in  the  street.  One  day  he  came  to  the  office  uneasy  and 
ecowling:  and,  throwing  a  visiting  card  on  the  table,  he  asked: 

"What  does  this  mean?" 

It  was  the  card  of  a  musician  whom  he  slaughtered. 

"A  thousand  thanks." 

Mannheim  replied  with  a  laugh: 

"  It  is  ironical." 

Christophe  was  set  at  rest. 


432  JEAN-CHKISTOPHE 

"  Oh !  "  he  said.     "  I  was  afraid  my  article  had  pleased  him." 

"  He  is  furious/'  said  Ehrenfeld :  "  but  he  does  not  wish  to 
seem  so:  ho  is  posing  as  the  strong  man,  and  is  just  laughing." 

"  Laughing  ?  .  .  .  Swine !  "  said  Christophc,  furious  once 
more.  "  I  shall  write  another  article  ahont  him.  He  laughs 
host  who  laughs  last." 

"  jSTo,  no,"  said  Waldhaus  anxiously.  "  I  don't  think  he  is 
laughing  at  you.  It  is  humility:  he  is  a  good  Christian.  He 
is  holding  out  the  other  cheek  to  the  smiter." 

"So  much  the  hotter!"  said  Christophc.  "Ah!  Coward! 
He  has  asked  for  it:  ho  shall  have  his  flogging." 

Waldhaus  tried  to  intervene.     But  the  others  laughed. 

"Let  him  bo  .  .  ."  said  Mannheim. 

"  After  all  .  .  ."  replied  Waldhaus,,  suddenly  reassured,  "  a 
little  more  or  less  makes  no  matter !  .  .  ." 

Christophe  went  away.  His  colleagues  rocked  and  roared 
with  laughter.  When  they  had  had  their  fill  of  it  Waldhaus 
said  to  Mannheim : 

"  All  the  same,  it  was  a  narrow  squeak.  .  .  .  Please  be  care- 
ful. We  shall  bo  caught  yet." 

"Bah!"  said  Mannheim.  "We  have  plenty  of  time.  .  .  . 
And  besides,  I  am  making  friends  for  him." 


II 


ENGULFED 

ClliUSTOPlTE  had  got  so  far  with  his  clumsy  efforts  towards 
the  reform  of  (Jermau  art  when  there  happened  to  pass  through 
the  town  a  iroupo  of  French  actors.  It  would  be  more  exact  to 
say,  a  band;  for,  as  usual,  they  were  a  collection  of  poor  devils, 
picked  up  goodness  knows  where,  and  young  unknown  plavers 
too  happy  to  learn  their  art,  provided  they  were  allowed  to  net. 
Thev  wore  all  harnessed  to  the  chariot  of  a  famous  and  elderly 
actress  who  was  making  tour  of  (lormanv,  and  passing  through 
the  little  princely  town,  gave  their  performances  there. 

Waldhaus'1  review  made  a  great  fuss  over  them.  Mannheim 
and  his  friends  knew  or  pretended  to  know  about  the  literary  and 


REVOLT  433 

social  life  of  Paris:  they  used  to  repeat  gossip  picket!  up  in 
the  boulevard  newspapers  and  more  or  less  understood ;  they 
represented  the  French  spirit  in  Germany.  That  robbed  Chris- 
tophe  of  any  desire  to  know  more  about  it.  Mannheim  used 
to  overwhelm  him  with  praises  of  Paris.  lie  had  been  there 
several  times;  certain  members  of  his  family  were  there.  He 
had  relations  in  every  country  in  Europe,  and  they  had  every- 
where assumed  the  nationality  and  aspect  of  the  country:  this 
tribe  of  the  seed  of  Abraham  included  an  English  baronet, 
a  Belgian  senator,  a  French  minister,  a  deputy  in  the  Rciclisia'i, 
and  a  Papal  Count;  and  all  of  them,  although  they  were  united 
and  filled  with  respect  for  the  stock  from  which  they  sprang, 
were  sincerely  English,  Belgian,  French,  German,  or  Pa^al.  for 
their  pride  never  allowed  of  doubt  that  the  country  of  their 
adoption  was  the  greatest  of  all.  Mannheim  was  paradoxically 
the  only  one  of  them  who  was  pleased  to  prefer  all  the  countries 
to  which  he  did  not  belong.  Tie  used  often  to  talk  of  Paris  en- 
thusiastically, but  as  he  was  always  extravagant  in  his  talk,  and, 
by  way  of  praising  the  Parisians,  used  to  represent  them  as  a 
species  of  scatterbrains,  lewd  and  rowdy,  who  spent  their  time 
in  love-making  and  revolutions  without  ever  taking  tin  m- 
selves  seriously,  C'hristophe  was  not  greatly  attracted  by  the 
"  Byzantine  and  decadent  republic  beyond  ihe  Yosges."  lie  used 
rather  to  imagine  Paris  as  it  was  presented  in  a  naive  engraving 
which  he  had  seen  as  a  frontispiece  to  a  book  that  had  recently 
appeared  in  a  German  art  publication ;  the  Devil  of  Xotre  Dame 
appeared  huddled  up  above  the  roofs  of  the  town  with  the 
legend : 

"Eternal  luxury  like  an  insaiinllG  Vampire  daonr*  //s  / '/'('// 
above  iJie  great  city." 

Like  a  good  German  he  despised  the  debam-hed  YoK-ae  and 
their  literature,  of  which  he  only  knew  lively  buffooneries  like 
L'Aiglon,  McnJitnir  Stilts  (!<-uc,  and  a  i'e\v  cafe  songs.  '1  lie  Mmb- 
bishness  of  the  little  town,  where  those  people  \vh<>  were  most 
notoriously  incapable  of  being  interested  in  art  flocked  noisily 
to  take  places  at  the  box  oflice.  brought  him  to  an  affectation 
of  scornful  indifference  towards  the  great,  aclnss.  lie  vowed 
that  he  would  not  go  one  yard  to  henr  her.  It  was  the  easier 


434  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

for  him  to  keep  his  promise  as  scats  had  reached  an  exorbitant 
price  which  he  could  not  afford. 

The  repertory  which  the  French  actors  had  brought  included 
a  few  classical  pieces ;  but  for  the  most  part  it  was  composed 
of  those  idiotic  pieces  which  are  expressly  manufactured  in 
Paris  for  exportation,  for  nothing  is  more  international  than 
mediocrity.  Christophe  knew  La  Tosca,  which  was  to  be  the 
first  production  of  the  touring  actors ;  he  had  seen  it  in  trans- 
lation adorned  with  all  those  easy  graces  which  the  company  of 
a  little  Rhenish  theater  can  give  to  a  French  play:  and  he 
laughed  scornfully  and  declared  that  he  was  very  glad,,  when 
he  saw  his  friends  go  off  to  the  theater,  not  to  have  to  see  it 
again.  But  next  day  he  listened  none  the  less  eagerly,  without 
seeming  to  listen,  to  the  enthusiastic  tales  of  the  delightful 
evening  they  had  had :  he  was  angry  at  having  lost  the  right 
to  contradict  them  by  having  refused  to  see  what  everybody  was 
talking  about. 

The  second  production  announced  was  a  French  translation 
of  Hamlet.  Christophe  had  never  missed  an  opportunity  of 
seeing  a  play  of  Shakespeare's.  Shakespeare  was  to  him  of  the 
same  order  as  Beethoven,  an  inexhaustible  spring  of  life.  Ham- 
let had  been  specially  dear  to  him  during  the  period  of  stress 
and  tumultuous  doubts  through  which  lie  had  just  passed.  In 
spite  of  his  fear  of  seeing  himself  reflected  in  that  magic  mirror 
he  was  fascinated  by  it :  and  he  prowled  about  the  theater 
notices,  though  he  did  not  admit  that  he  was  longing  to  book 
a  seat.  But  he  was  so  obstinate  that  after  what  he  had  said 
to  his  friends  he  would  not  eat  his  words :  and  he  would  have 
stayed  at  home  that  evening  if  chance  had  not  brought  him 
in  contact  with  Mannheim  just  as  he  was  sadly  going  home. 

Mannheim  took  his  arm  and  told  him  angrily,  though  he 
never  ceased  his  banter,  that  an  old  beast  of  a  relation,  his 
father's  sister,  had  just  come  down  upon  them  with  all  her 
retinue  and  that  they  had  all  to  stay  at  home  to  welcome  her. 
He  had  time  to  get  out  of  it:  but  his  father  would  brook  no 
trifling  with  questions  of  family  etiquette  and  the  respect  due 
to  elderly  relatives:  and  as  he  had  to  handle  his  father  care- 
fully because  he  wanted  presently  to  get  money  out  of  him, 
he  had  had  to  give  in  and  not  go  to  the  play. 


REVOLT  435 

"  You  had  tickets  ?  "  asked  Christopho. 

"An  excellent  box:  and  I  have  to  go  and  give  it — (I  am 
just  going  now) — to  that  old  pig,  Griinebaum,  papa's  partner, 
so  that  he  can  swagger  there  with  the  she  Griinebaum  and  their 
turkey  hen  of  a  daughter.  Jolly!  .  .  .  T  want  to  find 
something  very  disagreeable  to  say  to  them.  They  won't  mind 
so  long  as  I  give  them  the  tickets — although  they  would  much 
rather  they  were  banknotes." 

He  stopped  short  with  his  mouth  open  and  looked  at  Chris- 
tophe : 

"  Oh !  but — but  just  the  man  I  want !  "     He  chuckled : 

"  Christophe,  are  you  going  to  the  theater  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Good.  You  shall  go.  I  ask  it  as  a  favor.  You  cannot 
refuse." 

Christophe  did  not  understand. 

"  But  I  have  no  scat." 

"  Here  you  are !  "  said  Mannheim  triumphantly,  thrusting 
the  ticket  into  his  hand. 

"  You  are  mad,"  said  Christophe.  "  What  about  your  father's 
orders  ?  " 

Mannheim  laughed: 

"  He  will  be  furious !  "  he  said. 

He  dried  his  eyes  and  went  on: 

"I  shall  tap  him  to-morrow  morning  as  soon  as  ho  is  up 
before  he  knows  anything." 

"I  cannot  accept,"  said  Christophe, '"  knowing  that  he  would 
not  like  it." 

"  It  does  not  concern  you :  you  know  nothing  about  it." 

Christophe  had  unfolded  the  ticket : 

"  And  what  would  I  do  with  a  box  for  four?  " 

"Whatever  you  like.  You  can  sleep  in  it,  dance  if  you  like. 
Take  some  women.  You  must  know  some?  If  need  be  we 
can  lend  you  some." 

Christophe  held  out  the  ticket  to  Mannheim  : 

"  Certainly  not.     Take  it  back." 

"  Not  I,"  said  Mannheim,  stepping  back  a  pace.  "  I  can't 
force  you  to  go  if  it  bores  you,  but  I  shan't  take  it  back.  You 


436  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

can  throw  it  in  the  fire  or  even  take  it  virtuously  to  the  Grune- 
baums.  I  don't  care.  Good-night!" 

He  left  Christophe  in  the  middle  of  the  street,  ticket  in 
hand,  and  went  away. 

Christophe  was  unhappy  ahout  it.  He  said  to  himself  that 
he  ought  to  take  it  to  the  Griinebatims :  but  he  was  not  keen 
about  the  idea,  lie  went  home  still  pondering,  and  when  later 
he  looked  at  the  clock  he  saw  that  he  had  only  just  time 
enough  to  dress  for  the  theater.  It  would  be  too  silly  to  waste 
the  ticket.  He  asked  his  mother  to  go  with  him.  But  Louisa 
declared  that  she  would  rather  go  to  bed.  He  went.  At  heart 
he  was  filled  with  childish  glee  at  the  thought  of  his  evening. 
Only  one  thing  worried  him :  the  thought  of  having  to  be 
alone  in  such  a  'pleasure.  He  had  no  remorse  about  Mann- 
heim's father  or  the  Grimebaunis,  whose  box  he  was  taking: 
but  he  was  remorseful  about  those  whom  he  might  have  taken 
with  him.  He  thought  of  the  joy  it  could  give  to  other  young 
people  like  himself:  and  it  hurt  him  not  to  be  able  to  give  it 
them.  He  cast  about  but  could  find  nobody  to  whom  he  could 
offer  his  ticket.  Besides,  it  was  late  and  he  must  hurry. 

As  lie  entered  the  theater  he  passed  by  the  closed  window 
on  which  a  poster  announced  that  there  was  not  a  single  seat 
left  in  the  office.  Among  the  people  who  were  turning  away 
from  it  disappointedly  he  noticed  a  girl  who  could  not  make 
u])  her  mind  to  leave  and  was  enviously  watching  the  people 
going  in.  She  was  dressed  very  simply  in  black;  she  was  not  very 
tall;  her  face  was  thin 'and  she  looked  delicate;  and  at  the 
moment  he  did  not  notice  whether  she  were  pretty  or  plain. 
He  passed  her:  then  he  stopped,  turned,  and  without  stopping 
to  think: 

"You  can't   get  a  seat,  Friiulein? '"'  he  asked  point-blank. 

She  blushed  and  said  with  a  foreign  accent: 

"Xo,  sir." 

"I  have  a  box  which.  T  don't  kmnv  what  to  do  with.  Will 
von  make  use  of  it  with  me?" 

She  blushed  again  and  thanked  him  and  said  she  could  not 
accept.  Christ ophc  was  embarrassed  by  her  refusal,  begged  her 
pardon  and  tried  to  insist,  but  he  could  not  persuade  her; 


REVOLT  .  43t 

although  it  was  obvious  that  she  was  dying  to  accept.  He 
was  very  perplexed.  He  made  up  his  mind  suddenly. 

"  There  is  a  way  out  of  the  difficulty,"  he  said.  ''  You  take 
the  ticket.  I  don't  want  it.  I  have  seen  the  play/'  (He  was 
boasting).  "It  will  give  you  more  pleasure  than  me.  Take 
it,  please." 

The  girl  was  so  touched  by  his  proposal  and  the  cordial 
manner  in  which  it  was  made  that  tears  all  but  came  to  her 
eyes.  She  murmured  gratefully  that  she  could  not  think  of 
depriving  him  of  it. 

"  Then,  come,"  he  said,  smiling. 

He  looked  so  kind  and  honest  that  she  was  ashamed  of 
having  refused,  and  she  said  in  some  confusion: 

"Thank  you.     I  will  come." 

They  went  in.  The  Mannheims'  box  was  wide.  big.  and  faced 
the  stage:  it  was  impossible  not  to  be  seen  in  it  if  they  had 
wished.  It  is  useless  to  say  that  their  entry  passed  unnoticed. 
Christophe  made  the  girl  sit  at  the  front,  while  he  stayed  a 
little  behind  so  as  not  to  embarrass  her.  She  sat  stillly  up- 
right, not  daring  to  turn  her  bead:  she  was  horribly  shy:  she 
would  have  given  much  not  to  have  accepted.  To  give  her 
time  to  recover  her  composure  and  not  knowing  what  to  talk 
to  her  about,  Christophe  pretended  to  look  the  other  way.  Which- 
ever way  he  looked  it  was  easily  seen  that  his  presence  with  an 
unknown  companion  among  the  brilliant  people  of  tbe  boxes 
was  exciting  much  curiosity  and  comment.  Me  darted  furious 
glances  at  those  who  were  looking  at  him  :  he  was  angry  that 
people  should  go  on  being  interested  in  him  when  be  took  no 
interest  in  them.  It  did  not  occur  to  him  that  their  indi-rreet 
curiosity  was  more  busied  with  his  companion  than  with  him- 
self and  that  there  was  more  offense  in  it.  By  way  of  showing 
his  utter  indifference  to  anything  they  might  say  or  think  he 
leaned  towards  the  girl  and  began  to  talk  to  her.  She  looked 
so  scared  by  his  talking  and  so  unhappy  at  having  to  reply. 
and  it  seemed  to  be  so  difficult  for  her  to  wrench  out  a  '*  Yes  " 
or  a  "No"  without  ever  daring  to  look  at  him.  that  he  took 
pity  on  her  shyness,  and  drew  back  to  a  corner.  Fortunately 
the  play  began. 


438  .          JEAN-CHEISTOPHE 

Christ ophe  had  not  seen  the  play  bill  and  he  hardly  cared 
to  know  what  part  the  great  actress  was  playing:  he  was  one 
of  those  simple  people  who  go  to  the  theater  to  see  the  play 
and  not  the  actors.  He  had  never  wondered  whether  the  fa- 
mous player  would  be  Ophelia  or  the  Queen;  if  he  had  wondered 
about  it  he  would  have  inclined  towards  the  Queen,  bearing  in 
mind  the  ages  of  the  two  ladies.  But  it  could  never  have  oc- 
curred to  him  that  she  Avould  play  Hamlet.  When  he  saw 
Hamlet,  and  heard  his  mechanical  dolly  squeak,,  it  was  some 
time  before  he  could  believe  it ;  he  wondered  if  he  were  not 
dreaming. 

"But  who?  Who  is  it?"  he  asked  half  aloud.  "  It  can't 
be  .  .  ." 

And  when  he  had  to  accept  that  it  was  Hamlet,  he  rapped 
out  an  oath,  which  fortunately  his  companion  did  not 
hear,  because  she  was  a  foreigner,  though  it  was  heard  perfectly 
in  the  next  box :  for  he  was  at  once  indignantly  bidden  to  be 
silent.  He  withdrew  to  the  back  of  the  box  to  swear  his  fill. 
He  could  not  recover  his  temper.  If  he  had  been  just  he 
would  have  given  homage  to  the  elegance  of  the  travesty  and 
the  tour  de  force  of  nature  and  art,  which  made  it  possible  for 
a  woman  of  sixty  to  appear  in  a  youth's  costume  and  even  to 
seem  beautiful  in  it — at  least  to  kindly  eyes.  But  he  hated 
all  tours  de  force,  everything  which  violates  and  falsifies  Xa- 
ture.  He  liked  a  woman  to  be  a  woman,  and  a  man  a  man. 
(It  does  not  often  happen  nowadays.)  The  childish  and 
absurd  travesty  of  the  Leonora,  of  Beethoven  did  not  please 
him  much.  But  this  travesty  of  Hamlet  was  beyond  all  dreams 
of  the  preposterous.  To  make  of  the  robust  Dane,  fat  and 
pale,  choleric,  cunning,  intellectual,  subject  to  hallucinations, 
a  woman.' — not  even  a  woman:  for  a  woman  playing  the  man 
can  only  be  a  monster, — to  make  of  Hamlet  a  eunuch  or  an 
androgynous  betwixt  and  between, — the  times  must  be  flabby 
indeed,  criticism  must  be  idiotic,  to  let  such  disgusting  folly  be 
tolerated  for  a  single  day  and  not  hissed  off  the  boards!  The 
actress's  voice  infuriated  Christophe.  She  had  that  singing, 
labored  diction,  that  monotonous  melopcoia  which  seems  to 
have  been  dear  to  the  least  poetic  people  in  the  world  since 
the  days  of  the  Cliaminticsle  and  the  Hotel  dc  Bourgogne. 


REVOLT  43U 

Christophe  was  so  exasperated  by  it  that  lie  wanted  to  go  p.way. 
He  turned  his  back  on  the  scene,  and  he  made  hideous  faces 
against  the  wall  of  the  box  like  a  child  put  in  the  corner. 
Fortunately  his  companion  dared  not  look  at  him:  for  if  she 
had  seen  him  she  would  have  thought  him  mad. 

Suddenly  Christophe  stopped  making  faces.  He  stopped  still 
and  made  no  sound.  A  lovely  musical  voice,  a  young  woman's 
voice,  grave  and  sweet,  was  heard.  Christophe  pricked  his 
ears.  As  she  went  on  with  her  words  he  turned  again,  keenly 
interested  to  see  what  bird  could  warble  so.  lie  saw  Ophelia. 
In  truth  she  was  nothing  like  the  Ophelia  of  Shakespeare.  She 
was  a  beautiful  girl,  tall,  big  and  fine  like  a  young  fresh  statue 
• — Electra  or  Cassandra.  She  was  brimming  with  life.  In  spite 
of  her  efforts  to  keep  within  her  part,  the  force  of  youth  and 
joy  that  was  in  her  shone  forth  from  her  body,  her  movements, 
her  gestures,  her  brown  eyes  that  laughed  in  spite  of  herself. 
Such  is  the  power  of  physical  beauty  that  Christophe  who  a 
moment  before  had  been  merciless  in  judging  the  interpreta- 
tion of  Hamlet  never  for  a  moment  thought  of  regretting  that 
Ophelia  was  hardly  at  all  like  bis  image  of  her:  and  he  sacri- 
ficed his  image  to  the  present  vision  of  her  remorselessly.  With 
the  unconscious  faithlessness  of  people  of  passion  he  even  found 
a  profound  truth  in  the  youthful  ardor  brimming  in  the 
depths  of  the  chaste  and  unhappy  virgin  heart.  But  the  magic 
of  the  voice,  pure,  warm,  and  velvety,  worked  the  spell  :  every 
word  sounded  like  a  lovely  chord  :  about  every  syllable  there 
hovered  like  the  scent  of  thyme  or  wild  mint  the  laughing 
accent  of  the  Midi  with  its  full  rhythm.  Strange  was  this 
vision  of  an  Ophelia  from  Aries!  Tn  it  was  something  of  that 
golden  sun  and  its  wild  northwest  wind,  its  >ni*frtil. 

Christophe  forgot  his  companion  and  came  and  sal  by  her 
side  at  the  front  of  the  box:  he  never  took  his  eyes  olf  the 
beautiful  actress  whose  name  he  did  not  know.  Hut  the  audi- 
ence who  had  not  conn1  to  see  an  unknown  player  paid  no 
attention  to  her,  and  only  applauded  when  the  female  Hamlet 
spoke.  That  made  Christophe  growl  and  call  them:  "  Idiots! 
in  a  low  voice  which  could  be  beard  ten  yard-  away. 

It  was  not  until  the  curtain  was  lowered   upon  the  first 
that  he  remembered  the  existence  of  his  companion,  ami  se< 


440  JEAX-CHIUSTOPHE 

that  she  was  still  shy  he  thought  with  a  smile  of  how  he  must 
have  scared  her  with  his  extravagances.  Ho  was  not  far  wrong: 
the  girl  whom  chance  had  thrown  in  his  company  for  a  few 
hours  was  almost  morbidly  shy;  she  must  have  been  in  an 
abnormal  state  of  excitement  to  have  accepted  Christophe's 
invitation.  She  had  hardly  accepted  it  than  she  had  wished  at 
any  cost  to  get  out  of  it,  to  make  some  excuse  and  to  escape. 
It  had  been  much  worse  for  her  when  she  had  seen  that  she 
was  an  object  of  general  curiosity,  and  her  unhappiness  had 
been  increased  almost  past  endurance  when  she  heard  behind 
her  back — (she  dared  not  turn  round) — her  companion's  low 
growls  and  imprecations.  She  expected  anything  now,  and 
when  he  came  and  sat  by  her  she  was  frozen  with  terror :  what 
eccentricity  would  he  commit  next?  She  would  gladly  have 
sunk  into  the  ground  fathoms  down.  She  drew  back  instinc- 
tively :  she  was  afraid  of  touching  him. 

But  all  her  fears  vanished  when  the  interval  came  and  she 
heard  him  say  quite  kindly: 

"  I  am  an  unpleasant  companion,  eh  ?     I  beg  your  pardon." 

Then  she  looked  at  him  and  saw  his  kind  smile  which  had 
induced  her  to  come  with  him. 

He  went  on: 

"I  cannot  hide  what  I  think.  .  .  .  But  you  know  it  is  too 
much !  .  .  .  That  woman,  that  old  woman !  .  .  ." 

He  made  a  face  of  disgust. 

She  smiled  and  said  in  a  low  voice: 

"  It  is  fine  in  spite  of  everything." 

He  noticed  her  accent  and  asked: 

"  You  are  a   foreigner  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  she. 

He  looked  at  her  modest  gown. 

"  A  governess  ?  "  he  said. 

"  Yes." 

"  What  nationality  ?  " 

She  said : 

"  I  am  French." 

He  made  a  gesture  of  surprise: 

"French?     I  should  not  have  thought  it." 

"Why?"  she  asked  thridly. 


REVOLT  441 

<e  You  are  so     ...     serious  !  "  said  he. 

(She  thought  it  was  not  altogether  a  compliment  from  him.) 

"  There  are  serious  people  also  in  France,"  said  she  con- 
fusedly. 

He  looked  at  her  honest  little  face,  with  its  broad  forehead, 
little  straight  nose,  delicate  chin,  and  thin  cheeks  framed  in 
her  chestnut  hair.  It  was  not  she  that  he  saw :  he  was  thinking 
of  the  beautiful  actress.  He  repeated : 

"  It  is  strange  that  you  should  be  French  !  .  .  .  Are  you 
really  of  the  same  nationality  as  Ophelia?  One  would  never 
think  it." 

After  a  moment's  silence  he  went  on : 

"  How  beautiful  she  is ! "  without  noticing  that  he  seemed  to 
be  making  a  comparison  between  the  actress  and  his  companion 
that  was  not  at  all  flattering  to  her.  But  she  felt  it:  but  she 
did  not  mind  :  for  she  was  of  the  same  opinion.  He  tried  to  find 
out  about  the  actress  from  her :  but  she  knew  nothing :  it  was 
plain  that  she  did  not  know  much  about  the  theater. 

"  You  must  be  glad  to  hear  French  ?  "  he  asked.  He  meant 
it  in  jest,  but  he  touched  her. 

"Ah!"  she  said  with  an  accent  of  sincerity  which  struck 
him,  "  it  does  me  so  much  good !  I  am  stifled  here." 

He  looked  at  her  more  closely :  she  clasped  her  hands,  and 
seemed  to  be  oppressed.  But  at  once  she  thought  of  how  her 
words  might  hurt  him : 

"  Forgive  me,"  she  said.     "  I  don't  know  what  I  am  saying." 

He  laughed : 

"  Don't  beg  pardon !  You  are  quite  right.  You  don't  need 
to  be  French  to  be  stifled  here.  Ouf !  " 

He  threw  back  his  shoulders  and  took  a  long  breath. 

But  she  was  ashamed  of  having  been  so  free  and  relapsed  into 
silence.  Besides  she  had  just  seen  that  the  people  in  the  boxes 
next  to  them  were  listening  to  what  they  were  saying:  lie 
noticed  it  too  and  was  wrathful.  They  broke  oil':  and  until 
the  end  of  the  interval  he  went  out  into  the  corridor.  The 
girl's  words  were  ringing  in  his  ears,  but  he  was  lost  in  dreams: 
the  image  of  Ophelia  filled  his  thoughts.  During  the  succeed- 
ing acts  she  took  hold  of  him  completely,  and  when  the  beautiful 
actress  came  to  the  mad  scene  and  the  melancholy  songs  of 


442  J  KAX-CHIUSTOPHE 

love  and  death,  her  voice  gave  forth  notes  so  moving  that  he 
was  bowled  over :  lie  felt  that  he  was  going  to  burst  into  tears. 
Angry  with  himself  for  what  he  took  to  be  a  sign  of  weakness — • 
(for  he  would  not  admit  that  a  true  artist  can  weep)—  and 
not  wishing  to  make  an  object  of  himself,  he  left  the  box 
abruptly.  The  corridors  and  the  foyer  were  empty.  In  his 
agitation  he  went  down  the  stairs  of  the  theater  and  went  out 
without  knowing  it.  lie  had  to  breathe  the  cold  night  air, 
and  to  go  striding  through  the  dark,  half-empty  streets.  He 
came  to  himself  by  the  edge  of  a  canal,  and  leaned  on  the  para- 
pet of  the  bank  and  watched  the  silent  water  whereon  the  re- 
flections of  the  street  lamps  danced  in  the  darkness.  His  soul 
was  like  that :  it  was  dark  and  heaving :  he  could  see  nothing 
in  it  but  great  joy  dancing  on  the  surface.  The  clocks  rang 
the  hour.  It  was  impossible  for  him  to  go  back  to  the  theater 
and  hear  the  end  of  the  play.  To  see  the  triumph  of  Fortin- 
bras?  Xoj  that  did  not  tempt  him.  A  fine  triumph  that! 
Who  thinks  of  envying  the  conqueror?  Who  would  be  he  after 
being  gorged  with  all  the  wild  and  absurd  savagery  of  life? 
The  whole  play  is  a  formidable  indictment  of  life.  But  there 
is  such  a  power  of  life  in  it  that  sadness  becomes  joy,  and 
bitterness  intoxicates. 

Christophe  went  home  without  a  thought  for  the  unknown 
girl,  whose  name  even  he  had  not  ascertained. 

Next  morning  he  Aveiit  to  see  the  actress  at  the  little  third- 
rate  hotel  in  which  the  impresario  had  quartered  her  Avith  her 
comrades  while  the  great  actress  had  put  up  at  the  best  hotel 
in  the  to\vn.  He  was  conducted  to  a  very  untidy  room  where 
the  remains  of  breakfast  were  left  on  an  open  piano,  together 
with  hairpins  and  torn  and  dirty  sheets  of  music.  ]n  the  next 
room  Ophelia  was  sinking  at  the  top  of  her  voice,  like  a  child, 
for  the  pleasure  of  making  a  noise.  She  stopped  for  a  moment 
when  her  visitor  was  announced  to  ask  merrily  in  a  loud  voice 
without  ever  caring  whether  she  were  heard  through  the  wall  : 

"What  does  he  want?  What  is  his  name?  Christophe? 
Christophe  what?  Christophe  Krall't?  What  a  name!" 

(She  repeated  it  two  or  three  times,  rolling  her  r's  terribly.) 

"It  is  like  a  swear " 


REVOLT  443 

(She  swore.) 

"  Is  he  young  or  old  ?     Pleasant  ?     Very  well.     I'll  come." 

She  began  to  sing  again : 

"Nothing  is  sweeter  than  my  love  .  .  /'  while  she  rushed 
about  her  room  cursing  a  tortoise-shell  pin  which  had  got  lost 
in  all  the  rubbish.  She  lost  patience,  began  to  grumble,  and 
roared.  Although  he  could  not  see  her  Christophe  followed  all 
her  movements  on  the  other  side  of  the  wall  in  imagination 
and  laughed  to  himself.  At  last  he  heard  steps  approaching, 
the  door  was  flung  open,  and  Ophelia  appeared. 

She  was  half  dressed,  in  a  loose  gown  which  she  was  holding 
about  her  waist:  her  bare  arms  showed  in  her  wide  sleeves: 
her  hair  was  carelessly  done,  and  locks  of  it  fell  down  into 
her  eyes  and  over  her  cheeks.  Her  fine  brown  eyes  smiled,  her 
lips  smiled,  her  cheeks  smiled,  and  a  charming  dimple  in  her 
chin  smiled.  In  her  beautiful  grave  melodious  voice  she  asked 
him  to  excuse  her  appearance.  She  knew  that  there  was  noth- 
ing to  excuse  and  that  he  could  only  be  very  grateful  to  her 
for  it.  She  thought  he  was  a  journalist  come  to  interview  her. 
Instead  of  being  annoyed  when  he  told  her  that  he  had  come 
to  her  entirely  of  his  own  accord  and  because  he  admired  her, 
she  was  delighted.  She  was  a  good  girl,  affectionate,  delighted 
to  please,  and  making  no  effort  to  conceal  her  delight.  C'hris- 
tophe's  visit  and  his  enthusiasm  made  her  very  happy — (she 
was  not  yet  spoiled  by  flattery).  She  was  so  natural  in  all  her 
movements  and  ways,  even  in  her  little  vanities  and  h<-r  naive 
delight  in  giving  pleasure,  that  he  was  not  embarrassed  for  a 
single  moment.  They  became  old  friends  at  once.  lie  could 
jabber  a  few  words  of  French:  and  she  could  jabber  a  few 
words  of  German:  after  an  hour  they  told  each  other  all  tbeir 
secrets.  She  never  thought  of  sending  him  away.  The  splen- 
did gay  southern  creature,  intelligent  and  warm-hearted,  who 
would  have  been  bored  to  tears  with  her  stupid  companions  and 
in  a  country  whose  language  she  did  not  know,  a  country  with- 
out the  natural  joy  that  was  in  herself,  was  glad  to  find  some 
one  to  talk  to.  As  for  Christophe  it  was  an  untold  blessing  for 
him  to  meet  the  free-hearted  girl  of  the  Midi  tilled  with 
the  life  of  the  people,  in  the  midst  of  his  narrow  and  insincere 
fellow  citizens.  He  did  not  yet  know  the  workings  of  such 


444  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

natures  which,  unlike  the  Germans,  have  no  more  in  their 
minds  and  hearts  than  they  show,  and  often  not  even  as  much. 
But  at  the  least  she  was  young,  she  was  alive,  she  said  frankly, 
rawly,  what  she  thought :  she  judged  everything  freely  from  a 
new  and  a  fresh  point  of  view :  in  her  it  was  possible  to  breathe 
a  little  of  the  northwest  wind  that  sweeps  away  mists.  She 
was  gifted.  Uneducated  and  unthinking,  she  could  at  once  feel 
with  her  whole  heart  and  be  sincerely  moved  by  things  which 
were  beautiful  and  good;  and  then,  a  moment  later,  she  would 
burst  out  laughing.  She  was  a  coquette  and  made  eyes;  she 
did  not  mind  showing  her  bare  arms  and  neck  under  her  half 
open  gown;  she  would  have  liked  to  turn  Christophe's  head, 
but  it  was  all  purely  instinctive.  There  was  no  thought  of 
gaining  her  own  ends  in  her,  and  she  much  preferred  to  laugh, 
and  talk  blithely,  to  be  a  good  fellow,  a  good  chum,  without 
ceremony  or  awkwardness.  She  told  him  about  the  under- 
world of  the  theater,  her  little  sorrows,  the  silly  susceptibilities 
of  her  comrades,  the  bickerings  of  Jezebel — (so  she  called  the 
great  actress) — who  took  good  care  not  to  let  her  shine.  He 
confided  his  sufferings  at  the  hands  of  the  Germans:  she  clapped 
her  hands  and  played  chords  to  him.  She  was  kind  and 
•would  not  speak  ill  of  anybody ;  but  that  did  not  keep  her 
from  doing  so,  and  while  she  blamed  herself  for  her  malice, 
when  she  laughed  at  anybody,  she  had  a  fund  of  mocking 
humor  and  that  realistic  and  witty  gift  of  observation  which 
belongs  to  the  people  of  the  South;  she  could  not  resist  it  and 
drew  cuttingly  satirical  portraits.  With  her  pale  lips  she 
laughed  merrily  to  show  her  teeth,  like  those  of  a  puppy,  and 
dark  eyes  shone  in  her  pale  face,  which  was  a  little  discolored 
by  grease  paint. 

They  noticed  suddenly  that  they  had  been  talking  for  more 
than  an  hour.  Christophe  proposed  to  come  for  Corinne — (that 
was  her  stage  name) — in  the  afternoon  and  show  her  over  the 
town.  She  was  delighted  with  the  idea,  and  they  arranged  to 
meet  immediately  after  dinner. 

At  the  appointed  hour,  he  turned  up.  Corinne  was  sitting 
in  the  little  drawing-room  of  the  hotel,  with  a  book  in  her 
hand,  which  she  was  reading  aloud.  She  greeted  him  with 
smiling  eyes  but  did  not  stop  reading  until  she  had  finished 


EEYOLT  445 

her  sentence.  Then  she  signed  to  him  to  sit  down  on  the  sofa 
by  her  side : 

"  Sit  there/'  she  said,  "  and  don't  talk.  I  am  going  over 
my  part.  I  shall  have  finished  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour." 

She  followed  the  script  with  her  finger  nail  and  read  very 
quickly  and  carelessly  like  a  little  girl  in  a  hurry.  He  offered 
to  hear  her  her  words.  She  passed  him  the  book  and  got  up  to 
repeat  what  she  had  learned.  She  floundered  and  would  re- 
peat the  end  of  one  sentence  four  times  before  going  on  to  the 
next.  She  shook  her  head  as  she  recited  her  part;  her  hair- 
pins fell  down  and  all  over  the  room.  When  she  could  not 
recollect  sometimes  some  word  she  was  as  impatient  as  a  naughty 
child;  sometimes  she  swore  comically  or  she  would  use  big 
words — one  word  with  which  she  apostrophized  herself  was 
very  big  and  very  short.  Christophe  was  astonished  by  the 
mixture  of  talent  and  childishness  in  her.  She  would  produce 
moving  tones  of  voice  quite  aptly,  but  in  the  middle  of  a  speech 
into  which  she  seemed  to  be  throwing  her  whole  heart  she 
would  say  a  whole  string  of  words  that  had  absolutely  no 
meaning.  She  recited  her  lesson  like  a  parrot,  without  trou- 
bling about  its  meaning,  and  then  she  produced  burlesque  non- 
sense. She  did  not  worry  about  it.  When  she  saw  it  she  would 
shout  with  laughter.  At  last  she  said :  "  Zut !  ",  snatched  the 
book  from  him,  flung  it  into  a  corner  of  the  room,  and  said : 

"  Holidays !  The  hour  has  struck !  .  .  .  Now  let  us  go 
out." 

He  was  a  little  anxious  about  her  part  and  asked: 

"  You  think  you  will  know  it  ?  " 

She  replied  confidently : 

"Certainly.  What  is  the  prompter  for?"  She  went  into 
her  room  to  put  on  her  hat.  Christophe  sat  at  the  piano  while 
he  was  waiting  for  her  and  struck  a  few  chords.  From  the 
next  room  she  called : 

"  Oh  !  What  is  that  ?     Play  some  more  !     How  pretty  it  is  !  " 

She  ran  in,  pinning  on  her  hat.  He  went  on.  When  he  had 
finished  she  wanted  him  to  play  more.  She  went  into  ecstasies 
with  all  the  little  arch  exclamations  habitual  to  Frenchwomen 
which  they  make  about  Trittun  and  a  cup  of  chocolate  equally. 
Tt  made  Christophe  laugh;  it  was  a  change  from  the  tremendous 


446  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

affected,  clumsy  exclamations  of  the  Germans;  they  were  both 
exaggerated  in  different  directions;  one  made  a  mountain  out 
of  a  mole-hill,  the  other  made  a  mole-hill  out  of  a  mountain; 
the  French  was  not  less  ridiculous  than  the  German,  hut  for 
the  moment  it  seemed  more  pleasant  because  he  loved  the  lips 
from  which  it  came.  Corinne  wanted  to  know  what  he  was 
playing,  and  when  she  learned  that  he  had  composed  it  she 
gave  a  shout.  He  had  told  her  during  their  conversation  in 
the  morning  that  he  was  a  composer,  but  she  had  hardly 
listened  to  him.  She  sat  by  him  and  insisted  on  his  playing 
everything  that  he  had  composed.  Their  walk  was  forgotten. 
It  was  not  mere  politeness  on  her  part;  she  adored  music  and 
had  an  admirable  instinct  for  it  which  supplied  the  deficiencies 
of  her  education.  At  first  he  did  not  take  her  seriously  and 
played  his  easiest  melodies.  But  when  he  had  played  a  passage 
by  which  he  set  more  store  and  saw  that  she  preferred  it  too, 
although  he  had  not  said  anything  about  it,  he  was  joyfully 
surprised.  With  the  naive  astonishment  of  the  Germans  when 
they  meet  a  Frenchman  who  is  a  good  musician  he  said : 

"  Odd.  How  good  your  taste  is  !  I  should  never  have  thought 
it  .  .  ." 

Corinne  laughed  in  his  face. 

He  amused  himself  then  by  selecting  compositions  more  and 
more  difficult  to  understand,  to  see  how  far  she  would  go 
with  him.  But  she  did  not  seem  to  be  put  out  by  his  boldness, 
and  after  a  particularly  new  melody  which  Christophc  himself 
had  almost  come  to  doubt  because  he  had  never  succeeded  in 
having  it  accepted  in  Germany,  lie  was  greatly  astonished  when 
Corinne  begged  him  to  play  it  again,  and  she  got  up  and  began 
to  sing  the  notes  from  memory  almost  without  a  mistake!  He 
turned  towards  her  and  took  her  hands  warmly: 

"But  you  are  a  musician!"'  he  cried. 

She  began  to  laugh  and  explained  that,  she  had  made  her 
debut  as  a  singer  in  provincial  opera  houses,  but  thai  an  im- 
presario of  touring  companies  had  recognized  her  disposition 
towards  the  poetic  theater  and  had  enrolled  her  in  its  services. 
He  exclaimed : 

"What  a  pity!" 


REVOLT  447 

"Why?"  said  she.  "Poetry  also  is  a  sort  of  music." 
She  made  him  explain  to  her  the  meaning  of  his  Licder; 
he  told  her  the  German  words,  and  she  repeated  them  with 
easy  mimicry,  copying  even  the  movements  of  his  lips  and  eyes 
as  he  pronounced  the  words.  When  she  had  these  to  sing  from 
memory,  then  she  made  grotesque  mistakes,  and  when  she 
forgot,  she  invented  words,  guttural  and  barbarously  sonorous, 
which  made  them  both  laugh.  She  did  not  tire  of  making  him 
play,  nor  he  of  playing  for  her  and  hearing  her  pretty  voice; 
she  did  not  know  the  tricks  of  the  trade  and  sang  a  little  from 
the  throat  like  little  girls,  and  there  was  a  curious  fragile 
quality  in  her  voice  that  was  very  touching.  She  told  him 
frankly  what  she  thought.  Although  she  could  not  explain 
why  she  liked  or  disliked  anything  there  was  always  some  grain 
of  sense  hidden  in  her  judgment.  The  odd  thing  was  that  she 
found  least  pleasure  in  the  most  classical  passages  which  were 
most  appreciated  in  Germany;  she  paid  him  a  few  compliments 
out  of  politeness ;  but  they  obviously  meant  nothing.  As  she 
had  no  musical  culture  she  had  not  the  pleasure  which  ama- 
teurs and  even  artists  find  in  what  is  already  heard,  a  pleasure 
which  often  makes  them  unconsciously  reproduce,  or,  in  a  new 
composition,  like  forms  or  formula?  which  they  have  already 
used  in  old  compositions.  Nor  did  she  have  the  German  taste 
for  melodious  sentimentality  (or.  at  least,  her  sentimentality 
was  different;  Christophe  did  not  yet  know  its  failings) — she 
did  not  go  into  ecstasies  over  the  soft  insipid  music  preferred 
in  Germany;  she  did  not -single  out  the  most  melodious  of  his 
Liedcr,—a  melody  which  he  would  have  liked  to  destroy  he- 
cause  his  friends,  only  too  glad  to  be  able  to  compliment 
him  on  something,  were  always  talking  about  it.  Corinne's 
dramatic  instinct  made  her  prefer  the  melodies  which  frankly 
reproduced  a  certain  passion:  he  also  sot  most  store  by  them. 
And  yet  she  did  not  hesitate  to  show  her  lack  of  sympathy  with 
certain  rude  harmonics  which  seemed  quite  natural  to  Chris- 
tophe: they  gave  her  a  sort  of  shock  when  she  earn1  upon  them: 
she  would  stop  then  and  ask  "  if  it  was  really  so."  When  he  said 
"Yes."  then  she  would  rush  at  the  difficulty:  but  she  would 
make  a  little  grimace  which  did  not  escape  Christophe.  Some- 


448  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

times  even  she  would  prefer  to  skip  the  bar.  Then  he  would 
play  it  again  on  the  piano. 

"  You  don't  like  that  ?  "  he  would  ask. 

She  would  screw  up  her  nose. 

"  It  is  wrong,"  she  would  say. 

"  Not  at  all,"  he  would  reply  with  a  laugh.  "  It  is  quite 
right.  Think  of  its  meaning.  It  is  rhymthic,  isn't  it  ?  " 

(He  pointed  to  her  heart.) 

But  she  would  shake  her  head: 

"May  be;  but  it  is  wrong  here."     (She  pulled  her  ear.) 

And  she  would  be  a  little  shocked  by  the  sudden  outbursts 
of  German  declamation. 

"  Why  should  he  talk '  so  loud  ?  "  she  would  ask.  "  He  is 
all  alone.  Aren't  you  afraid  of  his  neighbors  overhearing  him? 
It  is  as  though — (Forgive  me!  You  won't  be  angry?) — he 
were  hailing  a  boat." 

He  was  not  angry;  he  laughed  heartily,  he  recognized  that 
there  was  some  truth  in  what  she  said.  Her  remarks  amused 
him;  nobody  had  ever  said  such  things  before.  They  agreed 
that  declamation  in  singing  generally  deforms  the  natural 
word  like  a  magnifying  glass.  Corinne  asked  Christophe  to 
write  music  for  a  piece  in  which  she  would  speak  to  the  ac- 
companiment of  the  orchestra,  singing  a  few  sentences  every 
now  and  then.  He  was  fired  by  the  idea  in  spite  of  the  diffi- 
culties of  the  stage  setting  which,  he  thought,  Corinne's  musi- 
cal voice  would  easily  overcome,  and  they  made  plans  for  the 
future.  It  was  not  far  short  of  five  o'clock  when  they  thought 
of  going  out.  Night  fell  early.  They  could  not  think  of  going 
for  a  walk.  Corinne  had  a  rehearsal  at  the  tbealer  in  the 
evening;  nobody  was  allowed  to  be  present.  She  made  him 
promise  to  come  and  fetch  her  during  the  next  afternoon  to 
take  the  walk  they  had  planned. 

Next  day  they  did  almost  the  same  again.  He  found  Corinne 
in  front  of  her  mirror,  perched  on  a  high  stool,  swinging  her 
legs;  she  was  trying  on  a  wig.  Her  dresser  was  there  and  a 
hair  dresser  of  the  town  to  whom  she  was  giving  instructions 
about  a  curl  which  she  wished  to  have  higher  up.  As  she 
looked  in  the  glass  she  saw  Christophe  smiling  behind  her 


REVOLT  449 

back;  she  put  out  her  tongue  at  him.  The  hair  dresser  went 
away  with  the  wig  and  she  turned  gaily  to  Christopher 

"  Good-day,  my  friend  !  "  she  said. 

She  held  up  her  cheek  to  be  kissed.  He  had  not  expected 
such  intimacy,  but  he  took  advantage  of  it  all  the  same.  She 
did  not  attach  so  much  importance  to  the  favor;  it  was  to  her 
a  greeting  like  any  other. 

"  Oh !  I  am  happy !  "  said  she.  "  It  will  do  very  well  to- 
night." (She  was  talking  of  her  wig.)  "I  was  so  wretched! 
If  you  had  come  this  morning  you  would  have  found  me  abso- 
lutely miserable." 

He  asked  why. 

It  was  because  the  Parisian  hair  dresser  had  made  a  mistake 
in  packing  and  had  sent  a  wig  which  was  not  suitable  to  the 
part. 

"  Quite  flat,"  she  said.  "  and  falling  straight  down.  When 
I  saw  it  I  wept  like  a  Magdalen.  Didn't  I,  Desiree?" 

"When  I  came  in,"  said  Desiree,  "  I  was  afraid  for'Madame. 
Madame  was  quite  white.  Madame  looked  like  death." 

Christophe  laughed.      Corinne  saw  him  in  her  mirror: 

"  Heartless  wretch ;  it  makes  you  laugh,"  she  said  indig- 
nantly. 

She  began  to  laugh  too. 

He  asked  her  how  the  rehearsal  had  gone.  Everything  had 
gone  off  well.  She  would  have  liked  the  other  parts  to  be  cut 
more  and  her  own  less.  They  talked  so  much  that  they  wasted 
part  of  the  afternoon.  She  dressed  slowly;  she  amused  herself 
by  asking  Christophe's  opinion  about  her  dresses.  Christophe 
praised  her  elegance  and  told  her  naively  in  his  Franco-German 
jargon,  that  he  had  never  seen  anybody  so  "luxurious."  She 
looked  at  him  for  a  moment  and  then  burst  out  laughing. 

"What  have  I  said?"  he  asked.  "Have  I  said  anything 
wrong  ?  " 

"  Yes,  yes,"  she  cried,  rocking  with  laughter.  "  You  have 
indeed." 

At  last  they  went  out.  Her  striking  costume  and  her  ex- 
uberant chatter  attracted  attention.  She  looked  at  everything 
with  her  mocking  eyes  and  made  no  effort  to  conceal  her  im- 
pressions. She  chuckled  at  the  dressmaker!?'  shops,  and  at  the 


450  JEAX-CHRISTOPHE 

picture  post-card  shops  in  which  sentimental  scenes,  comic  and 
obscene  drawings,  the  town  prostitutes,  the  imperial  family,  the 
Emperor  as  a  sea-dog  holding  the  wheel  of  the  Ger mania  and 
defying  the  heavens,  were  all  thrown  together  higgledy-piggledy. 
She  giggled  at  a  dinner-service  decoration  with  Wagner's  cross- 
grained  face,  or  at  a  hair  dresser's  shop-window  in  which  there 
was  the  wax  head  of  a  man.  She  made  no  attempt  to  modify 
her  hilarity  over  the  patriotic  monument  representing  the  old 
Emperor  in  a  traveling  coat  and  a  peaked  cap,  together  with 
Prussia,  the  German  States,  and  a  nude  Genius  of  War.  She 
made  remarks  about  anything  in  the  faces  of  the  people  or  their 
way  of  speaking  that  struck  her  as  funny.  Her  victims  were 
left  in  no  doubt  about  it  as  she  maliciously  picked  out  their 
absurdities.  Her  instinctive  mimicry  made  her  sometimes  imi- 
tate with  her  mouth  and  nose  their  broad  grimaces  and  frowns, 
without  thinking;  and  she  would  blow  out  her  cheeks  as  she 
repeated  fragments  of  sentences  and  words  that  struck  her  as 
grotesque  in  sound  as  she  caught  them.  He;  laughed  heartily 
and  was  not  at  all  embarrassed  by  her  impertinence,  for  he  was 
no  longer  easily  embarrassed.  Fortunately  he  had  no  great 
reputation  to  lose,  or  his  walk  would  have  ruined  it  for  ever. 

They  visited  the  cathedral.  Corinne  wanted  to  go  to  the 
top  of  the  spire,  in  spite  of  her  high  heels,  and  long  dress  which 
swept  the  stairs  or  was  caught  in  a  corner  of  the  staircase;  she 
did  not  worry  about  it.  but  pulled  the  stuff  which  split,  and 
went  on  climbing,  holding  it  up.  She  wanted  very  much  to 
ring  the  bells.  From  the  top  of  the  toAver  she  declaimed  Victor 
Hugo  (he  did  not  understand  it),  and  sang  a  popular  French 
song.  After  that  she  played  the  muezzin.  Dusk  was  falling. 
They  went  doAvn  into  the  cathedral  where  the  dark  shadows 
were  creeping  along  the  gigantic  walls  in  which  the  magic  eyes 
of  the  windows  were  shining.  Kneeling  in  one  of  the  side 
chapels,  Christophe  saw  the  girl  who  bad  shared  bis  box  at 
Hamlet.  She  was  so  absorbed  in  her  prayers  that  she  did  not 
see  him:  he  saw  that  she  was  looking  sad  and  strained.  He 
would  have  liked  to  speak  to  her,  just  to  say.  "  How  do  you 
do?"  but  Corinne  dragged  him  off  like  a  whirlwind. 

They  parted  soon  afterwards.  She  bad  to  get  ready  for  the 
performance,  which  began  early,  as  usual  in  Germany.  He 


REVOLT  451 

had  hardly  reached  home  when  there  was  a  ring  at  the  door 
and  a  letter  from  Corinne  was  handed  in : 

"Luck!  Jezebel  ill!  K"o  performance!  Xo  school!  Come! 
Let  us  dine  together !  Your  friend, 

"  COKINKTTE. 

"  P.  S.     Bring  plenty  of  music  !  " 

It  was  some  time  before  he  understood.  When  he  did  under- 
stand he  was  as  happy  as  Corinne,  and  went  to  the  hotel  at 
once.  He  was  afraid  of  finding  the  whole  company  assembled 
at  dinner;  but  he  saw  nobody.  Corinne  herself  was  not  there. 
At  last  he  heard  her  laughing  voice  at  the  back  of  the  house: 
he  went  to  look  for  her  and  found  her  in  the  kitchen.  She 
had  taken  it  into  her  head  to  cook  a  dish  in  her  own  way,  one 
of  those  southern  dishes  which  fills  the  whole  neighborhood 
with  its  aroma  and  would  awaken  a  stone.  She  was  on  excel- 
lent terms  Avith  the  large  proprietress  of  the  hotel,  and  they 
were  jabbering  in  a  horrible  jargon  that  was  a  mixture  of 
German,  French,  and  negro,  though  there  is  no  word  to  describe 
it  in  any  language.  They  were  laughing  loudly  and  making 
each  other  taste  their  cooking.  Christophe's  appearance  made 
them  noisier  than  ever.  They  tried  to  push  him  out:  but  he 
struggled  and  succeeded  in  tasting  the  famous  dish.  He  made 
a  face.  She  said  he  was  a  barbarous  Teuton  and  that  it  was 
no  use  putting  herself  out  for  him. 

They  went  up  to  the  little  sitting-room  when  the  table  was 
laid:  there  were  only  two  places,  for  himself  and  Corinne.  He 
could  not  help  asking  her  where  her  companions  were.  Corinne 
waved  her  hands  carelessly : 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  Don't  yon  sup  together  ?  " 

"Never!  We  see  enough  of  each  other  at  the  theater!  .  .  . 
And  it  would  be  awful  if  we  had  to  meet  at  meals!  .  .  ." 

Tt  was  so  different  from  German  custom  that  he  was  sur- 
prised and  charmed  by  it. 

"I  thought,"  he  said,  "you  were  a  soc-iablc  people!' 

"Well,"1  said  she,  "  am  T  not  sociable?" 

"  Sociable  means  living   in  society.      We   have   to   see   each 


453  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

other !  Men,  women,  children,  we  all  belong  to  societies  from 
birth  to  death.  We  are  always  making  societies:  we  cat,  sing, 
think  in  societies.  When  the  societies  sneeze,  we  sneeze  too : 
we  don't  have  a  drink  except  with  our  societies." 

"  That  must  be  amusing,"  said  she.  "  Why  not  out  of  the 
same  glass  ? :} 

"Brotherly,  isn't  it?" 

"  That  for  fraternity  !  I  like  being  e  brotherly '  with  people 
I  like :  not  with  the  others  .  .  .  Pooh !  That's  not  society : 
that  is  an  ant  heap." 

"  Well,  you  can  imagine  how  happy  I  am  here,  for  I  think 
as  you  do." 

"  Come  to  us,  then  !  " 

He  asked  nothing  better.  He  questioned  her  about  Paris 
and  the  French.  She  told  him  much  that  was  not  perfectly 
accurate.  Her  southern  propensity  for  boasting  was  mixed 
with  an  instinctive  desire  to  shine  before  him.  According  to 
her,  everybody  in  Paris  was  free :  and  as  everybody  in  Paris 
was  intelligent,  everybody  made  good  use  of  their  liberty,  and 
no  one  abused  it.  Everybody  did  what  they  liked :  thought, 
believed,  loved  or  did  not  love,  as  they  liked;  nobody  had  any- 
thing to  say  about  it.  There  nobody  meddled  with  other  people's 
beliefs,  or  spied  on  their  consciences  or  tried  to  regulate  their 
thoughts.  There  politicians  never  dabbled  in  literature  or  the 
arts,  and  never  gave  orders,  jobs,  and  money  to  their  friends 
or  clients.  There  little  cliques  never  disposed  of  reputation  or 
success,  journalists  were  never  bought;  there  men  of  letters 
never  entered  into  controversies  with  the  church,  that  could  lead 
to  nothing.  There  criticism  never  stifled  unknown  talent,  or 
exhausted  its  praises  upon  recognized  talent.  There  suc- 
cess, success  at  all  costs,  did  not  justify  the  means, 
and  command  the  adoration  of  the  public.  There  were  only 
gentle  manners,  kindly  and  sweet.  There  was  never  any  bit- 
terness, never  any  scandal.  Everybody  helped  everybody  else. 
Every  Avorthy  newcomer  was  certain  to  find  hands  held  out  to 
him  and  the  way  made  smooth  for  him.  Pure  love  of  beauty 
filled  the  chivalrous  and  disinterested  souls  of  the  French,  and 
they  were  only  absurd  in  their  idealism,  which,  in  spite  of  their 
acknowledged  wit,  made  them  the  dupes  of  other  nations. 


REVOLT  453 

Christophe  listened  open-mouthed.  It  was  certainly  mar- 
velous. Corinne  marveled  herself  as  she  heard  her  words. 
She  had  forgotten  what  she  had  told  Christophe  the  day  before 
about  the  difficulties  of  her  past  life.  He  gave  no  more  thought 
to  it  than  she. 

And  yet  Corinne  was  not  only  concerned  with  making  the 
Germans  love  her  country:  she  wanted  to  make  herself  loved, 
too.  A  whole  evening  without  flirtation  v/ould  have  seemed 
austere  and  rather  absurd  to  her.  She  made  eyes  at  Chris- 
tophe; but  it  was  trouble  wasted:  he  did  not  notice  it.  Chris- 
tophe did  not  know  what  it  was  to  flirt.  lie  loved  or  did  not 
love.  When  he  did  not  love  he  was  miles  from  any  thought  of 
love.  He  liked  Corinne  enormously.  He  felt  the  attraction 
of  her  southern  nature;  it  was  so  new  to  him.  And  her  sweet- 
ness and  good  humor,  her  quick  and  lively  intelligence:  many 
more  reasons  than  he  needed  for  loving.  But  the  spirit  blows 
where  it  listeth.  It  did  not  blow  in  that  direction,  and  as  for 
playing  at  love,  in  love's  absence,  the  idea  had  never  occurred 
to  him. 

Corinne  was  amused  by  his  coldness.  She  sat  by  his  side 
at  the  piano  while  he  played  the  music  he  had  brought  with 
him,  and  put  her  arm  round  his  neck,  and  to  follow  the  music 
she  leaned  towards  the  keyboard,  almost  pressing  her  cheek 
against  his.  He  felt  her  hair  touch  his  face,  and  quite  close 
to  him  saw  the  corner  of  her  mocking  eye.  her  pretty  little 
mouth,  and  the  light  down  on  her  tip-tilted  nose.  She  waited, 
smiling — she  waited.  Christophe  did  not  understand  the  invi- 
tation. Corinne  was  in  his  way:  that  was  all  lie  thought  of. 
Mechanically  he  broke  free  from  her  and  moved  his  chair. 
And  when,  a  moment  later,  he  turned  to  speak  to  Corinne,  he 
saw  that  she  was  choking  with  laughter :  her  cheeks  were 
dimpled,  her  lips  were  pressed  together,  and  she  seemed  to  be 
holding  herself  in. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  he  said,  in  his  astonishment. 

She  looked  at  him  and  laughed  aloud. 

He  did  not  understand. 

"Why  are  you  laughing?"  he  asked.  "Did  I  say  anything 
funny  ?  " 

The   more  he   insisted,   the  more    she   laughed.      When   she 


454  JEAN-CHKISTOPHE 

had  almost  finished  she  had  only  to  look  at  his  crestfallen  ap« 
pearance  to  break  out  again.  She  got  up,  ran  to  the  sofa  at 
the  other  end  of  the  room,  and  buried  her  face  in  the  cushions 
to  laugh  her  iill;  her  whole  body  shook  with  it.  He  began  to 
laugh  too,  came  towards  her,  and  slapped  her  on  the  back. 
When  she  had  done  laughing  she  raised  her  head,  dried  the 
tears  in  her  eyes,  and  held  out  her  bunds  to  him. 

"What  a  good  boy  yon  are!  "  she  said. 

"  No  worse  than  another." 

She  went  on,  shaking  occasionally  with  laughter,  still  hold- 
ing his  hands. 

"Frenchwomen  are  not  serious?''  she  asked.  (She  pro- 
nounced it:  " Frangouese") 

"  You  are  making  fun  of  me,"  he  said  good-humoreclly. 

She  looked  at  him  kindly,  shook  his  hands  vigorously,  and 
said: 

"  Friends  ?  " 

"  Friends !  "  said  he,  shaking  her  hand. 

"You  will  think  of  Corinette  when  she  is  gone?  You  won't 
be  angry  with  the  Frenchwoman  for  not  being  serious?" 

"  And  Corinette  won't  be  angry  with  the  barbarous  Teuton 
for  being  so  stupid  ?  " 

"  That  is  why  she  loves  him.  .  .  .  You  will  come  and  see 
her  in  Paris?  " 

"It  is  a  promise.  .  .  .     And  she — she  will  write  to  him?" 

"  I  swear  it.  ...     You  say  :    '  I  swear.'  ': 

"  I  swear." 

"  Xo,  not  like  that.  You  must  hold  up  your  hand."  She 
recited  the  oath  of  the  IToratii.  She  made  him  promise  to 
write  a  play  for  her,  a  melodrama,  which  could  lie  translated 
into  French  and  played  in  Paris  by  her.  She  was  going  away 
next  day  with  her  company.  Tie  promised  to  go  and  see  her 
again  the  day  after  at  Frankfort,  where  they  were  giving  a 
performance. 

They  stayed  talking  for  some  time.  She  presented  Chris- 
tophn  with  a  photograph  in  which  she  was  much  decolletee, 
draped  only  in  a  garment  fastening  below  her  shoulders.  They 
parted  gaily,  and  kissed  like  brother  and  sister.  And,  indeed, 
once  Corinne  had  seen  that  Christophe  was  fond  of  her,  but 


REVOLT  455 

not  at  all  in  love,  she  began  to  be  fond  of  him,  too,  without 
love,  as  a  good  friend. 

Their  sleep  was  not  troubled  by  it.  He  could  not  see  her 
off  next  day,  because  he  was  occupied  by  a  rehearsal.  But  on 
the  day  following  he  managed  to  go  to  Frankfort  as  he  had 
promised.  It  was  a  few  hours'  journey  by  rail.  Corinne  hardly 
believed  Christophe's  promise.  But  he  had  taken  it  scriou^y, 
and  when  the  performance  began  he  wns  there.  AVhen  he 
knocked  at  her  dressing-room  door  during  the  interval,  she 
gave  a  cry  of  glad  surprise  and  threw  her  arms  round  his  neek 
with  her  usual  exuberance.  She  was  sincerely  grateful  to  him 
for  having  come.  Unfortunately  for  Christophe,  she  was  much 
more  sought  after  in  the  city  of  rich,  intelligent  Jews,  who 
could  appreciate  her  actual  beauty  and  her  future  success.  Al- 
most every  minute  there  was  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  it  opened 
to  reveal  men  with  heavy  faces  and  quick  eyes,  who  said  the 
conventional  things  with  a  thick  accent.  Corinne  naturally 
made  eyes,  and  then  she  would  go  on  talking  to  Christophe  in 
the  same  affected,  provoking  voice,  and  that  irritated  him.  And 
he  found  no  pleasure  in  the  cairn  lack  of  modesty  with  which 
she  went  on  dressing  in  his  presence,  and  the  paint  and  grease 
with  which  she  larded  her  arms,  throat,  and  face  filled  him 
with  profound  disgust.  He  was  on  the  point  of  going  away 
without  seeing  her  again  after  the  performance;  but  when  he 
said  good-bye  and  begged  to  lie  excused  from  going  to  the 
supper  that  was  to  be  given  to  her  after  the  play,  she  wns  so 
hurt  by  it  and  so  affectionate,  too,  that  he  could  not  hold  out 
against  her.  She  had  a  time-table  brought,  so  as  to  prove  thai 
he  could  and  must  stay  an  hour  with  her.  lie  only  needed 
to  be  convinced,  and  he  was  at  the  supper.  He  was  even  a  Me 
to  control  his  annoyance  with  the  follies  that  were  indulged 
in  and  his  irritation  at  Corinne's  coquetries  wiih  all  and 
sundry.  It  was  impossible  to  be  angry  with  her.  She  was  an 
honest  girl,  without  any  moral  principles,  lazy,  soiisual,  pleas- 
ure-loving, childishly  coquettish:  but  at  the  same  time  so  loyal, 
so  kind,  and  all  her  faulis  were  so  spontaneous  mid  so  healthy 
that  it  was  only  possible  to  smile  at  them  and  even  to  love 
them.  Christophe,  who  was  silting  opposite  her.  waiched  her 
animation,  her  radiant  eyes,  her  sticky  lips,  with  their  Ital- 


456  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

ian  smile — that  smile  in  which  there  is  kindness,  subtlety,  and 
a  sort  of  heavy  greediness.  He  saw  her  more  clearly  than  he 
had  yet  done.  Some  of  her  features  reminded  him  of  Ada : 
certain  gestures,  certain  looks,  certain  sensual  and  rather  coarse 
tricks — the  eternal  feminine.  But  what  he  loved  in  her  was  her 
•southern  nature,  that  generous  nature  which  is  not  niggardly 
with  its  gifts,  which  never  troubles  to  fashion  drawing-room 
beauties  and  literary  cleverness,  but  harmonious  creatures  who 
are  made  body  and  mind  to  grow  in  the  air  and  the  sun.  When 
he  left  she  got  up  from  the  table  to  say  good-bye  to  him  away 
from  the  others.  They  kissed  and  renewed  their  promises  to 
write  and  meet  again. 

He  took  the  last  train  home.  At  a  station  the  train  coming 
from  the  opposite  direction  was  waiting.  In  the  carriage 
opposite  his — a  third-class  compartment — Christophe  saw  the 
young  Frenchwoman  who  had  been  with  him  to  the  perform- 
ance of  Hamlet.  She  saw  Christophe  and  recognized  him. 
They  were  both  astonished.  They  bowed  and  did  not  move, 
and  dared  not  look  again.  And  yet  he  had  seen  at  once  that 
she  was  wearing  a  little  traveling  toque  and  had  an  old  valise 
by  her  side.  It  did  not  occur  to  him  that  she  was  leaving 
the  country.  He  thought  she  must  be  going  away  for  a  few 
days.  He  did  not  know  whether  he  ought  to  speak  to  her. 
He  stopped,  turned  over  in  his  mind  what  to  say,  and  was 
just  about  to  lower  the  window  of  the  carriage  to  address  a 
few  words  to  her,  when  the  signal  was  given.  He  gave  up 
the  idea.  A  few  seconds  passed  before  the-  train  moved.  They 
looked  straight  at  each  other.  Each  was  alone,  and  their  faces 
were  pressed  against  the  windows  and  they  looked  into  each 
other's  eyes  through  the  night.  They  were  separated  by  two 
windows.  If  they  had  reached  out  their  hands  they  could 
have  touched  each  other.  So  near.  So  far.  The  carriages 
shook  heavily.  She  was  still  looking  at  him,  shy  no  longer, 
now  that  they  were  parting.  They  were  so  absorbed  in  look- 
ing at  each  other  that  they  never  even  thought  of  bowing  for 
the  last  time.  She  was  slowly  borne  away.  He  saw  her  dis- 
appear, and  the  train  which  bore  her  plunged  into  the  night. 
Like  two  circling  worlds,  they  had  passed  close  to  each  other  in 
infinite  space,  and  now  they  sped  apart  perhaps  for  eternity. 


REVOLT  457 

When  she  had  disappeared  he  felt  the  emptiness  that  her 
strange  eyes  had  left  in  him,  and  he  did  not  understand  why; 
hut  the  emptiness  was  there.  Sleepy,  with  eyes  half-closed, 
lying  in  a  corner  of  the  carriage,  he  felt  her  eyes  looking  into 
his,  and  all  other  thoughts  ceased,  to  let  him  feel  them  more 
keenly.  The  image  of  Corinne  fluttered  outside  his  heart  like 
an  insect  breaking  its  wings  against  a  window;  but  he  did 
not  let  it  in. 

He  found  it  again  when  he  got  out  of  the  train  on  his  arri- 
val, when  the  keen  night  air  and  his  walk  through  the  streets 
of  the  sleeping  town  had  shaken  off  his  drowsiness.  He  scowled 
at  the  thought  of  the  pretty  actress,  with  a  mixture  of  pleasure 
and  irritation,  according  as  he  recalled  her  affectionate  ways 
or  her  vulgar  coquetries. 

"  Oh !  these  French  people,"  he  growled,  laughing  softly, 
while  he  was  undressing  quietly,  so  as  not  to  waken  his  mother, 
who  was  asleep  in  the  next  room. 

A  remark  that  he  had  heard  the  other  evening  in  the  box 
occurred  to  him : 

"  There  are  others  also." 

At  his  first  encounter  with  France  she  laid  before  him  the 
enigma  of  her  double  nature.  But,  like  all  Germans,  he  did 
not  trouble  to  solve  it,  and  as  he  thought  of  the  girl  in  the 
train  he  said  quietly: 

"  She  does  not  look  like  a  Frenchwoman.'" 

As  if  a  German  could  say  what  is  French  and  what  Is 
not. 

French  or  not,  she  filled  his  thoughts ;  for  he  woke  in  the 
middle  of  the  night  with  a  pang:  he  had  just  remembered  the 
valise  on  the  seat  by  the  girl's  side:  and  suddenly  the  idea 
that  she  had  gone  forever  crossed  his  mind.  The  idea  must 
have  come  to  him  at  the  time,  but  he  had  not  thought  of  it.  It 
filled  him  with  a  strange  sadness.  He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"What  does  it  matter  to  me?"  he  said.  "It  is  not  my 
affair." 

He  went  to  sleep. 

But  next  day  the  first  person  he  met  when  he  went  out  was 
Mannheim,  who  called  him  "  Bliicher."  and  asked  him  if  he 


458  JEAN-CHinSTOPHE 

had  marie  Tip  his  mind  to  conquer  all  France.  From  the  gar- 
rulous newsmonger  he  learned  that  the  story  of  the  box  had  had 
a  success  exceeding  all  Mannheim's  expectations. 

"  Thanks  to  you  !  Thanks  to  you  !  "  cried  Mannheim.  "  You 
are  a  great  man.  I  am  nothing  compared  with  you." 

"What  have  I   done?"  said   Christophe. 

"You  are  wonderful!''  Mannheim  replied.  "I  am  jealous 
of  you.  To  shut  the  box  in  the  Griinebaums'  faces,  and  then 
to  ask  the  French  governess  instead  of  them — no,  that  takes 
the  cake!  I  should  never  have  thought  of  that!" 

"She  was  the  Griinebaums'  governess?"  said  Christophc  in 
amazement. 

"  Yes.  Pretend  you  don't  know,  pretend  to  be  innocent. 
You'd  better!  .  .  .  My  father  is  beside  himself.  The  Griine- 
baums arc  in  a  rage!  ...  It  was  not  for  long:  they  have 
sacked  the  girl." 

"  What !  "  cried  Christophe.  "  They  have  dismissed  her  ? 
Dismissed  her  because  of  me?" 

"Didn't  you  know?"  said  Mannheim.  "Didn't  she  tell 
you  ?  " 

Christophc  was  in  despair. 

"  You  mustn't  be  angry,  old  man,"  said  Mannheim.  "  It 
does  not  matter.  Besides,  one  had  only  to  expect  that  the 
Griinebaums  would  find  out  .  .  ." 

"  What  ?  "  cried  Christophe.     "  Find  out  what  ?  " 

"  That  she  was  your  mistress,  of  course  !  " 

"  But  I  do  not  even  know  her.     T  don't  know  Avho  she  is." 

Mannheim  smiled,  as  if  to  say: 

"  You  take  me  for  a  fool." 

Christophe  lost  his  temper  and  bade  Mannheim  do  him  tho 
honor  of  believing  what  he  said.  Mannheim  said: 

"Then  it  is  even  more  humorous." 

Christophe  worried  about  it,  and  talked  of  going  to  the 
Griinebaums  and  telling  them  the  facts  and  justifying  the 
girl.  Mannheim  dissuaded  him. 

"My  dear  fellow.''  he  said,  "anything  you  may  say  will 
only  convince  them  of  the  contrary.  Besides,  it  is  too  late. 
The  girl  has  gone  away." 

Christophe  was  utterly  sick  at  heart  and  tried  to  trace  the 


BEVOT/F  459 

young  Frenchwoman.  He  wanted  to  write  to  her  to  beg  licr 
pardon.  But  nothing  was  known  of  her.  He  applied  to  the 
Griinebaums,  but  they  snubbed  him.  They  did  not  know 
themselves  where  she  had  gone,  and  they  did  not  eare.  The 
idea  of  the  harm  he  had  done  in  trying  to  do  good  tortured 
Christopher  he  was  remorseful.  But  added  to  his  remorse 
was  a  mysterious  attraction,  which  shone  upon  him  from  the 
eyes  of  the  woman  who  was  gone.  Attraction  and  remorse 
both  seemed  to  be  blotted  out,  engulfed  in  the  flood  of  the 
day's  new  thoughts.  But  they  endured  in  the  depths  of  his 
heart.  Christophe  did  not  forget  the  woman  whom  he  called 
his  victim,  lie  had  sworn  to  meet  her  again.  He  knew  how 
small  were  the  chances  of  his  ever  seeing  her  again:  and  he 
was  sure  that  he  would  see  her  again. 

As  for  Cormne,  she  never  answered  his  letters.  But  three 
months  later,  Avhen  he  had  given  up  expecting  to  hear  from 
her,  he  received  a  telegram  of  forty  words  of  utter  nonsense, 
in  which  she  addressed  him  in  little  familiar  terms,  and 
asked  "  if  they  were  still  fond  of  each  other."  Then,  after 
nearly  a  year's  silence,  there  came  a  scrappy  letter  scrawled  in 
her  enormous  childish  zigzag  writing,  in  which  she  tried  to 
play  the  lady, — a  few  affectionate,  droll  words.  And  there 
she  left  it.  She  did  not  forget  him,  but  she  had  no  time 
to  think  of  him. 

Still  under  the  spell  of  Corinne  and  full  of  the  ideas  they 
had  exchanged  about  art,  Christophe  dreamed  of  writing  the 
music  for  a  play  in  which  Corinne  should  act  and  sing  a  few 
airs — a  sort  of  poetic  melodrama.  That  form  of  art  once  so 
much  in  favor  in  Germany,  passionately  admired  by  Mozart. 
and  practised  by  Beethoven.  Weber.  Mendelssohn  and  Schu- 
mann, and  all  the  great  classics,  had  fallen  info  discredit 
since  the  triumph  of  Wagnerism,  which  claimed  to  have  realized 
the  definite  formula  of  the  theater  and  music.  The  \Va^m>rian 
pedants,  not  content  with  proscribing  everv  ?iew  melodrama. 
busied  themselves  with  dressing  up  the  old  melodramas  and 
operas.  They  carefully  effaced  everv  trace  ol'sp<>keii  dialogue  and 
wrote  for  Mozart.  Beethoven,  or  \Veher.  recitations  in  their  own 
manner:  they  were  convinced  that  thev  were  doinur  a  service  to 


460  JEAX-CHRISTOPHE 

the  fame  of  the  masters  and  filling  out  their  thoughts  by  the 
pious  deposit  of  their  dung  upon  masterpieces. 

Christophe,  who  had  heen  made  more  sensible  of  the  heavi- 
ness, and  often  the  ugliness,  of  Wagnerian  declamation  by 
Corinne,  had  for  some  time  been  debating  whether  it  was  not 
nonsense  and  an  offense  against  nature  to  harness  find  yoke 
together  the  spoken  word  and  the  word  sung  in  the  theater : 
it  was  like  harnessing  a  horse  and  a  bird  to  a  cart.  Speech 
and  singing  each  had  its  rhythm.  It  was  comprehensible  that 
an  artist  should  sacrifice  one  of  the  two  arts  to  the  triumph 
of  that  which  he  preferred.  But  to  try  to  find  a  compromise 
between  them  was  to  sacrifice  both :  it  was  to  want  speech  no 
longer  to  be  speech,  and  singing  no  longer  to  be  singing;  to 
want  singing  to  let  its  vast  flood  be  confined  between  the  banks 
of  monotonous  canals,  to  want  speech  to  cloak  its  lovely  naked 
limbs  with  rich,  heavy  stuffs  which  must  paralyze  its  gestures 
and  movements.  Why  not  leave  both  with  their  spontaneity 
and  freedom  of  movement?  Like  a  beautiful  girl  walking 
tranquilly,  lithely  along  a  stream,  dreaming  as  she  goes:  the 
gay  murmur  of  the  water  lulls  her  dreams,  and  unconsciously 
she  brings  her  steps  and  her  thoughts  in  tune  with  the  song 
of  the  stream.  So  being  both  free,  music  find  poesy  would  go 
side  by  side,  dreaming,  their  dreams  mingling.  Assuredly  all 
music  was  not  good  for  such  a  union,  nor  all  poetry.  The  oppo- 
nents of  melodrama  had  good  ground  for  attack  in  the  coarse- 
ness of  the  attempts  which  had  been  made  in  that  form,  and  of 
the  interpreters.  Christophe  had  for  long  shared  their  dis- 
like: the  stupidity  of  the  actors  who  delivered  these  recitations 
spoken  to  an  instrumental  accompaniment,  without  bothering 
about  the  accompaniment,  without  trying  to  merge  their  voices 
in  it,  rather,  on  the  contrary,  trying  to  prevent  anything  being 
heard  but  themselves,  was  calculated  to  revolt  any  musical  ear. 
But  since  he  had  tasted  the  beauty  of  Oorimie's  harmonious 
voice — that  liquid  and  pure  voice  which  played  upon  music 
like  a  ray  of  light  on  water,  which  wedded  every  turn  of  a 
melody,  which  was  like  the  most  fluid  and  most  free  singing, — 
he  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  beauty  of  a  new  art. 

Perhaps  he  was  right,  but  lie  was  still  too  inexperienced  to 
venture  without  peril  upon  a  form  which — if  it  is  meant  to 


REVOLT  4G1 

be  beautiful  and  really  artistic — is  the  most  difficult  of  all. 
That  art  especially  demands  one  essential  condition,  the  per- 
fect harmony  of  the  combined  efforts  of  the  poet,  the  musicians. 
and  the  actors.  Christophe  had  no  tremors  about  it  :  he 
hurled  himself  blindly  at  an  unknown  art  of  which  the  laws 
were  only  known  to  himself. 

His  first  idea  had  been  to  clothe  in  music  a  fairy  fantasy  of 
Shakespeare  or  an  act  of  the  second  part  of  Faust.  But  the 
theaters  showed  little  disposition  to  make  the  experiment.  It 
would  be  too  costly  and  appeared  absurd.  They  were  quite 
willing  to  admit  Christophe's  efficiency  in  music,  but  that  he 
should  take  upon  himself  to  have  ideas  about  poetry  and  the 
theater  made  them  smile.  They  did  not  take  him  seriously. 
The  world  of  music  and  the  world  of  poesy  were  like  two  for- 
eign and  secretly  hostile  states.  Christophe  had  to  accept  the 
collaboration  of  a  poet  to  be  able  to  set  foot  upon  poetic  ter- 
ritory, and  he  wras  not  allowed  to  choose  his  own  poet.  He 
would  not  have  dared  to  choose  himself.  He  did  not  trust  his 
taste  in  poetry.  He  had  been  told  that  he  knew  nothing  about 
it;  and,  indeed,  he  could  not  understand  the  poetry  which  was 
admired  by  those  about  him.  With  his  usual  honesty  and 
stubbornness,  he  had  tried  hard  sometimes  to  feel  the  beauty  of 
some  of  these  works,  but  he  had  always  been  bewildered  and  a 
little  ashamed  of  himself.  Xo,  decidedly  he  was  not  a  poet. 
In  truth,  he  loved  passionately  certain  old  poets,  and  that 
consoled  him  a  little.  But  no  doubt  he  did  not  love  them  as 
they  should  be  loved.  Had  he  not  once  expressed  the  ridicu- 
lous idea  that  those  poets  only  are  great  who  remain  great  even 
when  they  are  translated  into  prose,  and  even  into  the  prose 
of  a  foreign  language,  and  that  words  have  no  value  apart 
from  the  soul  which  they  express?  His  friends  had  laughed 
at  him.  Mannheim  had  called  him  a  goose.  He  did  imt  try 
to  defend  himself.  As  every  day  lie  saw.  through  the  example 
of  writers  who  talk  of  music,  the  absurdity  of  artists  who 
attempt  to  image  any  art  other  than  their  own.  lie  resigned 
himself — though  a  little  incredulous  at  heart — to  his  incom- 
petence in  poetry,  and  he  shut  his  eyes  and  accepted  the  judg- 
ments of  those  whom  he  thought  were  better  informed  than 
himself.  So  he  let  his  friends  of  the  Review  impose  one  of 


462  JEAX-CHKI STOPIIE 

their  number  on  him,  a  great  man  of  a  decadent  coterie, 
Stephen  von  Ilellmuth,  \vlio  brought  him  an  Iphigenia.  It 
was  at  the  time  when  German  poets  (like  their  colleagues  in 
France)  were  recasting  all  the  Creek  tragedies.  Stephen  von 
Ilellnmth's  work  was  one  of  those  astounding  Ciricco-Gerinan 
plays  in  which  Ibsen,  Homer,  and  Oscar  Wilde  are  compounded 
— and,  of  course,  a  few  manuals  of  archaeology.  Agamemnon 
was  neurasthenic  and  Achilles  impotent:  they  lamented  their 
condition  at  length,  and  naturally  their  outcries  produced  no 
change.  The  energy  of  the  drama  was  concentrated  in  the  role 
of  Iphigenia — a  nervous,  hysterical,  and  pedantic  Iphigenia, 
who  lectured  the  hero,  declaimed  furiously,  laid  bare  for  the 
audience  her  Nietzsehian  pessimism  and,  glutted  with  death,  cut 
her  throat,  shrieking  with  laughter. 

Nothing  could  be  more  contrary  to  Christophe's  mind  than 
fcuch  pretentious,  degenerate,  Ostrogothic  stuff,  in  Greek  dress. 
It  was  hailed  as  a  masterpiece  by  everybody  about  him.  He 
was  cowardly  and  was  ovcrpersuaded.  In  truth,  he  was  burst- 
ing with  music  and  thinking  much  more  of  his  music  than 
of  the  text.  The  text  was  a  new  bed  into  which  to  let  loose 
the  flood  of  his  passions.  He  was  as  far  as  possible  from  the 
state  of  abnegation  and  intelligent  impersonality  proper  to 
musical  translation  of  a  poetic  work.  He  was  thinking  only 
of  himself  and  not  at  all  of  the  work.  He  never  thought  of 
adapting  himself  to  it.  lie  was  under  an  illusion:  he  saw  in 
the  poem  something  absolutely  different  from  what  was  actually 
in  it — just  as  when  he  was  a  child  he  used  to  compose  in  his 
mind  a  play  entirely  different  from  that  which  was  upon  the 
stage. 

It  was  not  until  it  came  to  rehearsal  that  he  saw  the  real 
play.  One  day  he  was  listening  to  a  scene,  and  he  thought  it 
so  stupid  that  he  fancied  the  actors  mus!  be  spoiling  it,  and 
went  so  far  as  to  explain  it  to  them  in  the  poet's  presence;  but 
also  to  explain  if  to  the  poet  himself,  who  was  defending  his 
interpretation.  The  author  refused  bluntly  to  hear  him,  and 
said  with  some  asperity  that  he  thought  he  knew  what  he  had 
meant  to  write.  Chris)  ophe  would  not  give  in.  and  maintained 
that  Ilellmuth  knew  nothing  alioiit  it.  The  general  merriment 
told  him  that  he  was  making  himself  ridiculous.  He  said  no 


KKYOLT  4<;:J 

more,  agreeing  that  after  all  it  was  not  he  who  hud  written 
the  poem.  Then  he  saw  the  appalling  emptiness  of  the  play 
and  was  overwhelmed  hy  it:  he  wondered  how  he  could  ever 
have  been  persuaded  to  try  it.  He  called  himself  an  idiot  and 
tore  his  hair.  lie  tried  in  vain  to  reassure  himself  by  saying: 
"You  know  nothing  about  it;  it  is  not  your  business.  Keep 
to  your  music."  lie  was  so  much  ashamed  of  certain  idiotic- 
things  in  it,  of  the  pretentious  pathos,  the  crying  falsity  of 
the  words,  the  gestures  and  attitudes,  that  sometimes,  when 
he  was  conducting  the  orchestra,  he  hardly  had  the  strength  to 
raise  his  baton.  He  wanted  to  go  and  hide  in  the  prompter's 
box.  He  was  too  frank  and  too  little  politic  to  conceal  what 
he  thought.  Every  one  noticed  it :  his  friends,  the  actors,  and 
the  author.  Hellmuth  said  to  him  with  a  frigid  smile: 

"  Is  it  not  fortunate  enough  to  please  you  ?  " 

Christophe  replied  honestly: 

"  Truth  to  tell,  no.     I  don't  understand  it." 

"  Then  you  did  not  read  it  when  you  set  it  to  music?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Christophe  naively,  "but  I  made  a  mistake.  I 
understood  it  differently." 

"  It  is  a  pity  you  did  not  write  what  you  understood  your- 
self." 

"Oh!    If  only  I  could  have  done  so!  ''  said  Christophe. 

The  poet  was  vexed,  and  in  his  turn  criticised  the  music. 
He  complained  that  it  was  in  the  way  and  prevented  his  words 
being  heard. 

If  the  poet  did  not  understand  the  musician  or  the  musician 
the  poet,  the  actors  understood  neither  the  one  nor  the  oilier, 
and  did  not  care.  They  were  onlv  asking  for  sentences  in  their 
parts  on  which  to  bring  in  their  usual  elfects.  They  had  no 
idea  of  adapting  their  declamation  to  the  formality  of  the  piece 
and  the  musical  rhythm.  They  went  one  way.  the  music  an- 
other. It  was  as  though  they  were  constantly  singing  out  of 
tune.  Christophe  ground  his  teeth  and  shuimd  the  note  at 
them  until  he  was  hoarse.  They  let  him  shout  and  went  on 
imperturbably,  not  even  understanding  what  he  wanted  them 
to  do. 

Christophe  would  have  flung  the  whole  thing  up  if  the  re- 
hearsals had  not  been  so  far  advanced,  and  he  had  not  been 


4G4  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

bound  to  go  on  by  fear  of  legal  proceedings.  Mannheim,  to 
whom  he  confided  his  discouragement,  laughed  at  him: 

"  What  is  it?  "  he  asked.  "  It  is  all  going  well.  You  don't 
understand  each  other?  What  does  that  matter?  Who  has 
ever  understood  his  work  but  the  author?  It  is  a  toss-up 
whether  he  understands  it  himself !  " 

Christ ophe  was  worried  about  the  stupidity  of  the  poem, 
which,  he  said,  would  ruin  the  music.  Mannheim  made  no 
difficulty  about  admitting  that  there  was  no  common  sense  in 
the  poem  and  that  Hellmuth  was  "  a  muff/'  but  he  would  not 
worry  about  him :  Hellmuth  gave  good  dinners  and  had  a 
pretty  wife.  What  more  did  criticism  want? 

Christophe  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  said  that  he  had 
no  time  to  listen  to  nonsense. 

"  It  is  not  nonsense !  "  said  Mannheim,  laughing.  "  How 
serious  people  are !  They  have  no  idea  of  what  matters  in 
life." 

And  he  advised  Christophe  not  to  bother  so  much  about  Hell- 
muth's  business,  but  to  attend  to  his  own.  He  wanted  him 
to  advertise  a  little.  Christophe  refused  indignantly.  To  a 
reporter  who  came  and  asked  for  a  history  of  his  life,  he 
replied  furiously: 

"  It  is  not  your  affair !  " 

And  when  they  asked  for  his  photograph  for  a  review,  he 
stamped  with  rage  and  shouted  that  he  was  not,  thank  God ! 
an  emperor,  to  have  his  face  passed  from  hand  to  hand.  It 
was  impossible  to  bring  him  into  touch  with  influential  people. 
He  never  replied  to  invitations,  and  when  he  had  been  forced 
by  any  chance  to  accept,  he  would  forget  to  go  or  would  go 
with  such  a  bad  grace  that  he  seemed  to  have  set  himself  to 
be  disagreeable  to  everybody. 

But  the  climax  came  when  lie  quarreled  with  his  review,  two 
days  before  the  performance. 

The  thing  was  bound  to  happen.  Mannheim  had  gone  on 
revising  Christophers  articles,  and  he  no  longer  scrupled  about 
deleting  whole  lines  of  criticism  and  replacing  them  with  com- 
pliments. 

One  day,  out  visiting,  Christophe  met  a  certain  virtuoso — a 


REVOLT  465 

foppish  pianist  whom  he  had  slaughtered.  The  man  came  and 
thanked  him  with  a  smile  that  showed  all  his  white  teeth.  He 
replied  brutally  that  there  was  no  reason  for  it.  The  other 
insisted  and  poured  forth  expressions  of  gratitude.  Christophe 
cut  him  short  by  saying  that  if  he  was  satisfied  with  the  article 
that  was  his  affair,  but  that  the  article  had  certainly  not  been 
written  with  a  view  to  pleasing  him.  And  he  turned  his  back 
on  him.  The  virtuoso  thought  him  a  kindly  boor  and  went 
away  laughing.  But  Christophe  remembered  having  received  a 
card  of  thanks  from  another  of  his  victims,  and  a  suspicion 
flashed  upon  him.  He  went  out,  bought  the  last  number  of  the 
Review  at  a  news-stand,  turned  to  his  article,  and  read  .  .  . 
At  first  he  wondered  if  he  were  going  mad.  Then  he  under- 
stood, and,  mad  with  rage,  he  ran  to  the  office  of  the  Dionysos. 

Waldhaus  and  Mannheim  were  there,  talking  to  an  actress 
whom  they  knew.  They  had  no  need  to  ask  Christophe  what 
brought  him.  Throwing  a  number  of  the  Review  on  the  table, 
Christophe  let  fly  at  them  without  stopping  to  take  breath,  with 
extraordinary  violence,  shouting,  calling  them  rogues,  rascals, 
forgers,  thumping  on  the  floor  with  a  chair.  Mannheim  began 
to  laugh.  Christophe  tried  to  kick  him.  Mannheim  took 
refuge  behind  the  table  and  rolled  with  laughter.  But  Wald- 
haus took  it  very  loftibr.  With  dignity,  formally,  he  tried  to 
make  himself  heard  through  the  row,  and  said  that  he  would 
not  allow  any  one  to  talk  to  him  in  such  a  tone,  that  Christophe 
should  hear  from  him,  and  he  held  out  his  card.  Christophe 
flung  it  in  his  face. 

"  Mischief-maker ! — I  don't  need  your  card  to  know  what 
you  are.  .  .  .  You  are  a  rascal  and  a  forger !  .  .  .  And  you 
think  I  would  fight  with  you  ...  a  thrashing  is  all  you  de- 
serve !  .  .  ." 

His  voice  could  be  heard  in  the  street.  People  stopped  to 
listen.  Mannheim  closed  the  windows.  The  actress  tried  to 
escape,  but  Christophe  was  blocking  the  way.  Waldhaus  was 
pale  and  choking.  Mannheim  was  stuttering  and  stammering 
and  trying  to  reply.  Christophe  did  not  let  them  speak.  lie  let 
loose  upon  them  every  expression  he  could  think  of,  and  never 
stopped  until  he  was  out  of  breath  and  had  come  to  an  end  of 
his  insults.  Waldhaus  and  Mannheim  onlv  found  their  tongues 


*6G  JEAST-CHRISTOPHE 

after  he  had  gone.  Mannheim  quickly  recovered  himself: 
insults  slipped  from  him  like  water  from  a  duck's  back.  But 
Waldhaus  was  still  sore:  his  dignity  had  been  outraged,  and 
what  made  the  affront  more  mortifying  was  that  there  had  been 
witnesses.  He  would  never  forgive  it.  His  colleagues  joined 
chorus  with  him.  Mannheim  only  of  the  staff  of  the  Peview 
was  not  angry  with  Christophc.  He  had  had  his  fill  of  enter- 
tainment out  of  him:  it  did  not  seem  to  him  a  heavy  price 
to  pay  for  his  pound  of  flesh,  to  suffer  a  few  violent  words.  It 
had  been  a  good  joke.  If  he  had  been  the  butt  of  it  he  would 
have  been  the  first  to  laugh.  And  so  he  was  quite  ready 
to  shake  hands  with  Christophc  as  though  nothing  line!  hap- 
pened. But  Christophe  was  more  rancorous  and  rejected  all 
advances.  Mannheim  did  not  cart;.  Christophe  was  a  toy 
from  which  he  had  extracted  all  the  amusement  possible.  He 
was  beginning  to  want  a  new  puppet.  From  that  very  day  all 
was  over  between  them.  But  that  did  not  prevent  Mannheim 
still  saying,  whenever  Christophe  was  mentioned  in  his  pres- 
ence, that  they  were  intimate  friends.  And  perhaps  he  thought 
they  were. 

Two  days  after  the  quarrel  the  first  performance  of  Iphi- 
g cnia  took  place.  It  was  an  utter  failure.  Waldhaus'  review 
praised  the  poem  and  made  no  mention  of  the  music.  The 
other  papers  and  reviews  made  merry  over  it.  They  laughed 
and  hissed.  The  piece  was  withdrawn  after  the  third  perform- 
ance, but  the  jokes  at  its  expense  did  not  disappear  so  quickly. 
People  were  only  too  glad  of  the  opportunity  of  having  a  fling 
at  Christophc,  and  for  several  weeks  the  Ipl/ige^ia  remained 
an  unfailing  subject  for  joking.  They  knew  that  Christophe 
had  no  weapon  of  defense,  and  they  took  advantage  of  it.  The 
only  thing  which  held  them  back  a  little  was  his  position  nt 
the  Court.  Although  his  relation  with  the  Grand  Duke  had 
become  quite  cold,  for  the  Prince  had  several  times  made  re- 
marks to  which  ho  had  paid  no  attention  whatever,  he  still 
went  to  the  Palace  at  intervals,  and  still  enjoyed,  in  the  eye 
of  the  public,  a  sort  of  official  protection,  though  it  was  more 
visionary  than  real,  lie  took  upon  himself  to  destroy  even 
that  last  support. 


REVOLT  467 

He  suffered  from-  the  criticisms.  They  were  concerned 
not  only  with  his  music,  but  also  with  his  idea  of  a  new 
form  of  art,  which  the  writers  did  not  take  the  trouble 
to  understand.  It  was  very  easy  to  travesty  it  and  make 
fun  of  it.  Christophe  was  not  yet  wise  enough  to  know  that 
the  best  reply  to  dishonest  critics  is  to  make  none  and  to  go 
on  working.  For  some  months  past  he  had  fallen  into  th>> 
bad  habit  of  not  letting  any  unjust  attack  go  unanswered.  lie 
wrote  an  article  in  which  he  did  not  spare  certain  of  his  adver- 
saries. The  two  papers  to  which  he  took  it  returned  it  with 
ironically  polite  excuses  for  being  unable  to  publish  it.  Chris- 
tophe stuck  to  his  guns.  He  remembered  that  the  socialist 
paper  in  the  town  had  made  advances  to  him.  He  knew  one 
of  the  editors.  They  used  to  meet  and  talk  occasionally.  Chris- 
tophe was  glad  to  find  some  one  who  would  talk  freely  about 
power,  the  army  and  oppression  and  archaic  prejudices.  But 
they  could  not  go  far  with  each  other,  for  the  socialist  always 
came  back  to  Karl  Marx,  about  whom  Christophe  cared  not  a 
rap.  Moreover,  Christophe  used  to  find  in  his  speeches  about  the 
free  man — besides  a  materialism  which  was  not  much  to  his 
taste — a  pedantic-  severity  and  a  despotism  of  thought,  a  secret 
cult  of  force,  an  inverse  militarism,  all  of  which  did  not  sound 
very  different  from  what  he  heard  every  day  in  German. 

However,  he  thought  of  this  man  and  his  paper  when  he 
saw  all  other  doors  in  journalism  closed  to  him.  He  knew  that 
his  doing  so  would  cause  a  scandal.  The  paper  was  violent. 
malignant,  and  always  being  condemned.  But  as  Christophe 
never  read  it,  he  only  thought  of  the  boldness  of  its  ideas,  of 
which  he  was  not  afraid,  and  not  of  the  baseness  of  its  lone. 
which  would  have  repelled  him.  Besides,  he  was  so  angry  at 
seeing  the  other  papers  in  alliance  to  suppress  him  that  perhaps 
he  would  have  gone  on  even  if  he  had  been  warned.  He  wanted 
to  show  people  that  he  was  not  so  easily  got  rid  of.  So  he 
took  his  article  to  the  socialist  paper,  which  received  it  with 
open  arms.  The  next  day  the  article  appeared,  and  the  paver 
announced  in  large  letters  that  it  had  engaged  the  support  of 
the  young  and  talented  maestro.  Jean-Christophe  Kratl't,  whose 
keen  sympathy  with  the  demands  of  the  working  classes  was 
well  known. 


468  JEAN-CHBISTOPHE 

Christophe  read  neither  the  note  nor  the  article,  for  he  had 
gone  out  before  dawn  for  a  walk  in  the  country,  it  being  Sun- 
day. He  was  in  fine  fettle.  As  he  saw  the  sun  rise  he  shouted, 
laughed,  yodeled,  leaped,  and  danced.  No  more  review,  no 
more  criticisms  to  do !  It  was  spring  and  there  was  once  more 
the  music  of  the  heavens  and  the  earth,  the  most  beautiful  of 
all.  No  more  dark  concert  rooms,  stuffy  and  smelly,  unpleas- 
ant people,  dull  performers.  Now  the  marvelous  song  of  the 
murmuring  forests  was  to  be  heard,  and  over  the  fields  like 
waves  there  passed  the  intoxicating  scents  of  life,  breaking 
through  the  crust  of  the  earth  and  issuing  from  the  grave. 

He  went  home  with  his  head  buzzing  with  light  and  music, 
and  his  mother  gave  him  a  letter  which  had  been  brought  from 
the  Palace  while  he  was  away.  The  letter  was  in  an  imper- 
sonal form,  and  told  Herr  Krafft  that  he  was  to  go  to  the 
Palace  that  morning.  The  morning  was  past,  it  was  nearly 
one  o'clock.  Christophe  was  not  put  about. 

"  It  is  too  late  now."  he  said.     "  It  will  do  to-morrow." 

But  his  mother  said  anxiously : 

"  No,  no.  You  cannot  put  off  an  appointment  with  His 
Highness  like  that :  you  must  go  at  once.  Perhaps  it  is  a 
matter  of  importance." 

Christophe  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  Important !  As  if  those  people  could  have  anything  im- 
portant to  say !  .  .  .  He  wants  to  tell  me  his  ideas  about  music. 
That  will  be  funny !  .  .  .  If  only  he  has  not  taken  it  into  his 
head  to  rival  Siegfried  Meyer1  and  wants  to  show  me  a 
Hymn  to  Aegis!  I  vow  that  I  will  not  spare  him.  I  shall  say: 
'  Stick  to  politics.  You  are  master  there.  You  will  always  be 
right.  But  beware  of  art !  In  art  you  are  seen  without  your 
plumes,  your  helmet,  your  uniform,  your  money,  your  titles, 
your  ancestors,  your  policemen — and  just  think  for  a  moment 
what  will  be  left  of  you  then  ! ' : 

Poor  Louisa  took  him  quite  seriously  and  raised  her  hands 
in  horror. 

"  You  won't  say  that !  .  .  .    You  are  mad  !    Mad  !  " 

It   amused  him  to   make   her  uneasy   by   playing  upon   her 

\\  nickname  sjivon  by  (ionium  pamphleteers  to  II.  M.  (His  Ma- 
jesty) the  Emperor. 


REVOLT  469 

credulity  until  he  became  so  extravagant  that  Louisa  began 
to  see  that  he  was  making  fun  of  her. 

"  You  are  stupid,  my  boy !  " 

He  laughed  and  kissed  her.  He  was  in  a  wonderfully  good 
humor.  On  his  walk  he  had  found  a  beautiful  musical  theme, 
and  he  felt  it  frolicking  in  him  like  a  fish  in  Avater.  He  re- 
fused to  go  to  the  Palace  until  he  had  had  something,  to  eat. 
He  was  as  hungry  as  an  ape.  Louisa  then  supervised  his  dress- 
ing, for  he  was  beginning  to  tease  her  again,  pretending  that 
he  was  quite  all  right  as  he  was  with  his  old  clothes  and  dusty 
boots.  But  he  changed  them  all  the  same,  and  cleaned  his 
boots,  whistling  like  a  blackbird  and  imitating  all  the  instru- 
ments in  an  orchestra.  When  he  had  finished  his  mother  in- 
spected him  and  gravely  tied  his  tic  for  him  again.  For  once 
in  a  way  he  was  very  patient,  because  he  was  pleased  with  him- 
self— which  was  not  very  usual.  He1  went  off  saying  that  he 
was  going  to  elope  with  Princess  Adelaide — the  Grand  Duke's 
daughter,  quite  a  pretty  woman,  who  was  married  to  a  German 
princeling  and  had  come  to  stay  with  her  parents  for  a  few 
weeks.  She  had  shown  sympathy  for  Christophe  when  he  was 
a  child,  and  he  had  a  soft  side  for  her.  Louisa  used  to  declare 
that  he  was  in  love  with  her,  and  he  would  pretend  to  be  so  in 
fun. 

He  did  not  hurry :  he  dawdled  and  looked  into  the  shops,  and 
stopped  to  pat  some  dog  that  he  knew  as  it  lay  on  its  side  and 
yawned  in  the  sun.  He  jumped  over  the  harmless  railings 
which  inclosed  the  Palace  square — a  great  empty  square,  sur- 
rounded with  houses,  with  two  little  fountains,  two  symmetrical 
bare  flower-beds,  divided,  as  by  a  parting,  by  a  gravel  path, 
carefully  raked  and  bordered  by  orange  trees  in  tubs.  In  the 
middle  was  the  bronze  statue  of  some  unknown  Grand  I  hike  in 
the  costume  of  Louis  Philippe,  on  a  pediment  adorned  at  the 
four  corners  by  allegorical  figures  representing  the  Virtues. 
On  a  seat  one  solitary  man  was  dozing  over  his  paper.  Behind 
the  silly  moat  of  the  earthworks  of  the  Palace  two  sleepy  cannon 
yawned  upon  the  sleepy  town.  Christophe  laughed  at  the 
whole  thing. 

He  entered  the  Palace  without  troubling  to  take  on  a  more 
official  manner.  At  most  he  stopped  humming,  hut  his  thoughts 


4  TO  .IKAN-CIIKISTOI'JIK 

went  dancing  on  inside  him.  lie  threw  his  hat  on  the  table 
in  the  hall  and  familiarlv  greeted  the  old  usher,  whom  he  had 
known  since  he  was  a  child.  (The  old  man  had  been  there 
on  the  day  when  Christ ophe  had  lirst  entered  the  Palace,  on  the 
evening  when  he  had  seen  Ilasslcr.)  F>ut  to-day  the  old  man, 
who  always  vised  to  reply  good-hum oredly  to  Christophers  dis- 
respectful sallies,  now  seemed  a  little  haughty.  Christophe 
paid  no  heed  to  it.  A  little  farther  on.  in  the  ante-chamber,  he 
met  a  clerk  of  the  chancery,  who  was  usually  full  of  conver- 
sation and  very  friendly.  He  was  surprised  to  see  him  hurry 
past  him  to  avoid  having  to  talk.  However,  he  did  not  attach 
any  significance  to  it.  and  went  on  and  asked  to  be  shown  in. 

He  went  in.  They  had  just  finished  dinner.  His  Highness 
was  in  one  of  the  drawing-rooms.  He  was  leaning  against  the 
mantelpiece,  smoking,  and  talking  to  his  guests,  among  whom 
Christophe  saw  lii.s  princess,  who  was  also  smoking.  She  was 
lying  back  in  an  armchair  and  talking  in  a  loud  voice  to  some 
officers  who  made  a  circle  about  her.  The  gathering  was  lively. 
They  were  all  very  merry,  and  when  Christophe  entered  he 
heard  the  Grand  Duke's  thick  laugh.  "Rut  he  stopped  dead 
when  he  saw  Christophe.  He  growled  and  pounced  on  him. 

"  Ah  !  There  yon  are  !  "  he  said.  "'  You  have  condescended 
to  come  at  last?  Do  you  think  you  can  go  on  making  fun  of 
me  any  longer;'  You're  a  blackguard,  sir!"1 

Christophe  was  so  staggered  by  this  brutal  attack  that  it 
was  some  tune  before  he  could  utter  a  word,  lie  was  thinking 
that:  he  was  only  late,  and  that  that  could  not  have  provoked 
such  violence.  He  murmured: 

"What  have  1  done.  Your  Highness?" 

His  Highness  did   not  listen  and   went   on  angrily: 

"  Be  silent !  I  will  not  lie  insulted  by  a  blackguard  !  "  Chris- 
tophe turned  pale,  and  gulped  so  as  to  try  to  speak,  for  he 
was  choking,  lie  made  an  ell'orl.  and  said: 

"Your  Highness,  you  have  no  right — you  have  no  right  to 
insult  me  without  telling  me  what  I  have  done."' 

The  Grand  Duke  turned  to  his  secretary,  who  produced  a 
paper  from  his  pocket  and  held  it  out  to  him.  He  was  in  such 
a  state  of  exasperation  as  could  not  be  explained  only  by  his 
antrer:  the  fumes  of  i_rood  wine  had  their  share  in  it,  too.  He 


EEVOLT  471 

came  and  stood  in  front  of  Christophe,  and  like  a  toreador  with 
his  cape,  furiously  waved  the  crumpled  newspaper  in  his  face 
and  shouted : 

"  Your  muck,  sir !  ...  You  deserve  to  have  your  nose 
rubbed  in  it !  " 

Christophe  recognized  the  socialist  paper. 

"  I  don't  see  what  harm  there  is  in  it,"  he  said. 

"  What !  What !  "  screamed  the  Grand  Duke.  "  You  are  im- 
pudent !  .  .  .  This  rascally  paper,  which  insults  me  from  day 
to  day,  and  spews  out  filthy  insults  upon  me !  .  .  ." 

"  Sire,"  said  Christophe,  "  I  have  not  read  it." 

"  You  lie !  "  shouted  the  Grand  Duke. 

"  You  shall  not  call  me  a  liar,"  said  Christophe.  "  I  have 
not  read  it.  I  am  only  concerned  with  reviews,  and  besides,  I 
have  the  right  to  write  in  whatever  paper  I  like." 

"  You  have  no  right  but  to  hold  your  tongue.  I  have  been 
too  kind  to  you.  I  have  heaped  kindness  upon  you,  you  and 
yours,  in  spite  of  your  misconduct  and  your  father's,  .which 
would  have  justified  me  in  cutting  you  off.  I  forbid  you  to 
go  on  writing  in  a  paper  which  is  hostile  to  me.  And  further: 
I  forbid  you  altogether  to  write  anything  in  future  without  my 
authority.  I  have  had  enough  of  your  musical  polemics.  I 
will  not  allow  any  one  who  enjoys  my  patronage  to  spend  his 
time  in  attacking  everything  which  is  dear  to  people  of  taste 
and  feeling,  to  all  true  Germans.  You  would  do  better  to 
write  better  music,  or  if  that  is  impossible,  to  practise  your 
scales  and  exercises.  I  don't  want  to  have  anything  to  do  with  a 
musical  Bebel  who  amuses  himself  by  decrying  all  our  national 
glories  and  upsetting  the  minds  of  the  people.  We  know  what 
is  good,  thank  God.  We  do  not  need  to  wait  for  you  to  tell 
us.  Go  to  your  piano,  sir.  or  leave  us  in  peace !  " 

Standing  face  to  face  with  Christophe  the  fat  man  glared 
at  him  insultingly.  Christophe  was  livid,  and  tried  to  speak. 
His  lips  moved  ;  he  stammered  : 

"  I  am  not  your  slave.  I  shall  say  what  T  like  and  write 
what  T  like  .  .  ." 

He  choked.  He  was  almost  weeping  with  shame  and  rage. 
His  legs  were  trembling.  He  jerked  his  elbow  and  upset  an 
ornament  on  a  table  by  his  side.  He  felt  that  he  was  in  a 


472  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

ridiculous  position.  He  heard  people  laughing.  He  looked 
down  the  room.,  and  as  through  a  mist  saw  the  princess  watch- 
ing the  scene  and  exchanging  ironically  commiserating  remarks 
with  her  neighbors.  He  lost  count  of  what  exactly  happened. 
The  Grand  Duke  shouted.  Christophe  shouted  louder  than  he 
without  knowing  what  he  said.  The  Prince's  secretary  and 
another  official  came  towards  him  and  tried  to  stop  him.  He 
pushed  them  away,  and  while  he  talked  he  waved  an  ash-tray 
which  he  had  mechanically  picked  up  from  the  table  against 
which  he  was  leaning.  He  heard  the  secretary  say : 

"  Put  it  down  !     Put  it  down  !  " 

And  he  heard  hints  If  shouting  inarticulately  and  knocking 
on  the  edge  of  the  table  with  the  ash-tray. 

"Go!"  roared  the  Grand  Duke,  beside  himself  with  rage. 
"Go!  Go!  I'll  have  you  thrown  out!" 

The  officers  had  come  tip  to  the  Prince  and  were  trying  to 
calm  him.  The  Grand  Duke  looked  apoplectic.  His  eyes  were 
starting  from  his  head,  he  shouted  to  them  to  throw  the  rascal 
out.  Christophe  saw  red.  He  longed  to  thrust  his  fist  in  the 
Grand  Duke's  face;  but  he  was  crushed  under  a  weight  of  con- 
flicting feelings:  shame,  fury,  a  remnant  of  shyness,  of  German 
loyalty,  traditional  respect,  habits  of  humility  in  the  Prince's 
presence.  He  tried  to  speak;  he  could  not.  He  tried  to  move; 
he  could  not.  He  could  not  see  or  hear.  He  suffered  them 
to  push  him  along  and  left  the  room. 

He  passed  through  the  impassive  servants  who  had  come  tip 
to  the  door,  and  had  missed  nothing  of  the  quarrel.  He  had 
to  go  thirty  yards  to  cross  the  ante-chamber,  and  it  seemed  a 
lifetime.  The  corridor  grew  longer  and  lousier  as  he  walked 
tip  it.  He  would  never  get  out !  .  .  .  The  light  of  day  which 
he  saw  shining  downstairs  through  the  glass  door  was  his 
haven.  He  went  stumbling  down  the  stairs.  He  forgot  that 
he  was  bareheaded.  The  old  usher  reminded  him  to  take  his 
hat.  He  had  to  gather  all  his  forces  to  leave  the  castle,  cross 
the  court,  reach  his  home.  His  teeth  were  chattering  when  he 
opened  the  door.  His  mother  was  terrified  by  his  face  and  his 
trembling.  He  avoided  her  and  refused  to  answer  her  ques- 
tions. He  went  up  t<:  his  room,  shut  himself  in.  and  lay  clown. 
He  was  shaking  so  that  he  could  not  undress  His  breathing 


REVOLT  -±73 

came  in  jerks  and  his  whole  body  seemed  shattered.  ...  Oh ! 
If  only  he  could  see  no  more,  feel  no  more,  no  longer  have 
to  bear  with  his  wretched  body,  no  longer  have  to  struggle 
against  ignoble  life,  and  fall,  fall,  breathless,  without  thought, 
and  no  longer  be  anywhere !  .  .  .  With  frightful  difficulty 
he  tore  off  his  clothes  and  left  them  on  the  ground,  and 
then  flung  himself  into  his  bed  and  drew  the  coverings  over 
him.  There  was  no  sound  in  the  room  save  that  of  the  little 
iron  ber1  rattling  on  the  tiled  floor. 

Louisa  listened  at  the  door.  She  knocked  in  vain.  She  called 
softly.  There  was  no  reply.  She  waited,  anxiously  listening 
through  the  silence.  Then  she  went  away.  Once  or  twice 
during  the  day  she  came  and  listened,  and  again  at  night,  before 
she  went  to  bed.  Day  passed,  and  the  night.  The  house  was 
still.  Christophe  was  shaking  with  fever.  Every  now  and 
then  he  wept,  and  in  the  night  he  got  up  several  times  and 
shook  his  fist  at  the  wall.  About  two  o'clock,  in  an  access  of 
madness,  he  got  up  from  his  bed,  sweating  and  half  naked.  He 
wanted  to  go  and  kill  the  Grand  Duke.  He  was  devoured  by 
hate  and  shame.  His  body  and  his  heart  writhed  in  the  lire  of 
it.  Nothing  of  all  the  storm  in  him  could  be' heard  outside; 
not  a  word,  not  a  sound.  With  clenched  teeth  he  fought"  it 
down  and  forced  it  back  into  himself. 

Next  morning  he  came  down  as  usual.  He  was  a  wreck.  He 
said  nothing  and  his  mother  dared  not  question  him.  She 
knew,  from  the  gossip  of  the  neighborhood.  All  day  he  stayed 
sitting  by  the  fire,  silent,  feverish,  and  with  bent  head,  like  a 
little  old  man.  And  when  he  was  alone  he  wept  in  silence. 

In  the  evening  the  editor  of  the  socialist  paper  came  to  see 
him.  Naturally  he  had  heard  and  wished  to  have  details. 
Christophe  was  touched  by  his  coining,  and  interpreted  it 
naively  as  a  mark  of  sympathy  and  a  desire  for  forgiveness 
on  the  part  of  those  who  had  compromised  him.  lie-  in;ide  a 
point  of  seeming  to  regret  nothing  and  he  let  himself  go  and 
said  everything  that  was  rankling  in  him.  It  was  some  solace 
for  him  to  talk  freely  to  a  man  who  shared  his  hatred  of  oppres- 
sion. The  other  urged  him  on.  lie  sa\v  a  good  chance  for  his 
journal  in  the  event,  and  an  opportunity  for  a  scandalous  ar- 


474  JEAN-CHEISTOPHE 

tide,  for  which  he  expected  Christophe  to  provide  him  with 
material  if  he  did  not  write  it  himself;  for  he  thought  that 
after  such  an  explosion  the  Court  musician  would  put  his  very 
considerable  political  talents  and  his  no  less  considerable  little 
tit-bits  of  secret  information  about  the  Court  at  the  service 
of  "  the  cause."  As  he  did  not  plume  himself  on  his  subtlety 
he  presented  the  thing  rawly  in  the  crudest  light.  Christophe 
started.  He  declared  that  he  would  write  nothing  and  said  that 
any  attack  on  the  Grand  Duke  that  he  might  make  would  be 
interpreted  as  an  act  of  personal  vengeance,  and  that  he  would 
be  more  reserved  now  that  he  was  free  than  when,  not  being 
free,  he  ran  some  risk  in  saying  what  he  thought.  The  journal- 
ist could  not  understand  his  scruples.  He  thought  Christophe 
narrow  and  clerical  at  heart,  but  he  also  decided  that  Christophe 
was  afraid.  He  said : 

"  Oh,  well !  Leave  it  to  us.  I  will  write  it  myself.  You 
need  not  bother  about  it." 

Christophe  begged  him  to  say  nothing,  but  he  had  no  means 
of  restraining  him.  Besides,  the  journalist  declared  that  the 
affair  was  not  his  concern  only :  the  insult  touched  the  paper, 
which  had  the  right  to  avenge  itself.  There  was  nothing  to  be 
said  to  that.  All  that  Christophe  could  do  was  to  ask  him  on 
his  word  of  honor  not  to  abuse  certain  of  his  confidences  which 
had  been  made  to  his  friend  and  not  to  the  journalist.  The 
other  made  no  difficulty  about  that.  Christophe  was  not  reas- 
sured by  it.  He  knew  too  well  how  imprudent  he  had  been. 
When  he  was  left  alone  he  turned  over  everything  that  he  had 
said,  and  shuddered.  Without  hesitating  for  a  moment,  he 
wrote  to  the  journalist  imploring  him  once  more  not  to  repeat 
what  he  had  confided  to  him.  (The  poor  wretch  repeated  it 
in  part  himself  in  the  letter.) 

Next  day,  as  lie  opened  the  paper  with  feverish  haste,  the 
first  thing  he  read  was  his  story  at  great  length  on  the  front 
page.  Everything  that  he  had  said  on  the  evening  before  was 
immeasurably  enlarged,  having  suffered  that  peculiar  deforma- 
tion which  everything  has  to  suffer  in  its  passage  through  the 
mind  of  a  journalist.  The  article  attacked  the  Grand  Duke 
and  the  Court  with  low  invective.  Certain  details  which  it 
gave  were  too  personal  to  Christophe.  too  obviously  known  only 


REVOLT  475 

to  him,  for  the  article  not  to  be  attributed  to  him  in  its  en- 
tirety. 

Christophe  was  crushed  by  this  fresh  blow.  As  he  read  a 
cold  sweat  came  out  on  his  face.  When  he  had  finished  he  was 
dumfounded.  He  wanted  to  rush  to  the  office  of  the  paper, 
but  his  mother  withheld  him,  not  unreasonably  being  fearful  of 
his  violence.  He  was  afraid  of  it  himself.  He  felt  that  if  he 
went  there  he  would  do  something  foolish;  and  he  stayed — and 
did  a  very  foolish  thing.  He  wrote  an  indignant  letter  to  the 
journalist  in  which  he  reproached  him  for  his  conduct  in  insult- 
ing terms,  disclaimed  the  article,  and  broke  with  the  party. 
The  disclaimer  did  not  appear. 

Christophe  wrote  again  to  the  paper,  demanding  that  his 
letter  should  be  published.  They  sent  him  a  copy  of  his  first 
letter,  written  on  the  night  of  the  interview  and  confirming  it. 
They  asked  if  they  were  to  publish  that,  too.  He  felt  that  he 
was  in  their  hands.  Thereupon  he  unfortunately  met  the  indis- 
creet interviewer  in  the  street.  He  could  not  help  telling  him  of 
his  contempt  for  him.  Next  day  the  paper,  without  a  spark  of 
shame,  published  an  insulting  paragraph  about  the  servants  of 
the  Court,  who  even  when  they  are  dismissed  remain  servants 
and  are  incapable  of  being  free.  A  few  allusions  to  recent 
events  left  no  room  for  doubt  that  Christophe  was  meant. 

When  it  became  evident  to  everybody  that  Christophe'  had 
no  single  support,  there  suddenly  cropped  up  a  host  of  enemies 
whose  existence  he  had  never  suspected.  All  those  whom  he 
had  offended,  directly  or  indirectly,  either  by  personal  criticism 
or  by  attacking  their  ideas  and  taste,  now  took  the  offensive 
and  avenged  themselves  with  interest.  The  general  public 
whom  Christophe  had  tried  to  shake  out  of  their  apathy  were 
quite  pleased  to  see  the  insolent  young  man,  who  had  pre- 
sumed to  reform  opinion  and  disturb  the  rest  of  people  of 
property,  taken  down  a  peg.  Christophe  was  in  the  water. 
Everybody  did  their  best  to  duck  him. 

They  did  not  come  down  upon  him  all  at  once.  One  tried 
first,  to  spy  out  the  land.  Christophe  made  no  response,  and 
he  struck  more  lustily.  Others  followed,  and  then  the  whole 
gang  of  them.  Some  joined  in  the  sport  simply  for  fun,  like 


I7G  JEAX-CHRISTOP1LE 

puppies  who  think  it  funny  to  leave  their  mark  in  inappropriate 
places.  Th^y  wore  the  Hying  squadron  of  incompetent  journal- 
ists, who,  knowing  nothing,  try  to  hide  their  ignorance  by  be- 
lauding the  victor?  and  belaboring  the  vanquished.  Others 
brought  the  weigiit  of  their  principles  and  they  shouted  like 
deaf  people.  Nothing  was  left  of  anything  when  they  had 
passed.  They  were  the  critics — with  the  criticism  which  kills. 

Fortunately  for  Christophe,  he  did  not  read  the  papers.  A 
few  devoted  friends  took  care  to  send  him  the  most  insulting. 
But  he  left  them  in  a  heap  on  his  desk  and  never  thought  of 
opening  them.  It  was  only  towards  the  end  of  it  that  his  eyes 
were  attracted  by  a  great  red  mark  round  an  article.  He 
read  that  bis  I.icJcr  were  like  the  roaring  of  a  wild  beast;  that 
his  symphonies  seemed  to  have  come  from  a  madhouse;  that 
his  art  was  hysterical,  bis  harmony  spasmodic,  as  a  change 
from  the  dryness  of  his  heart  and  the  emptiness  of  his  thought. 
The  critic,  who  was  well  known,  ended  with  these  words: 

"  ITerr  KrafTt  as  a  journalist;  has  lately  given  astounding 
proof  of  his  strle  and  taste,  which  roused  irresistible  merriment 
in  musical  circles.  Tie  was  then  given  the  friendly  advice 
rather  to  devote  himself  to  composition.  .But  the  latest  products 
of  his  muse  have  shown  that  this  advice,  though  well-meant, 
was  bad.  Herr  KrafTt  should  certainly  devote  himself  to  jour- 
nalism." 

After  reading  the  article,  which  prevented  Christophe  work- 
ing the  whole  morning,  naturally  he  began  to  look  for  the  other 
hostile  papers,  and  became  utterly  demoralized.  But  Louisa, 
who  hnd  a  mania  for  moving  everything  lying  about,  by  way 
of  "tidying  up."  bad  already  burnt  d  them,  lie  was  irritated  at 
first  and  then  comforted,  and  he  held  out  the  last  of  the 
papers  to  her.  and  said  that  she  had  better  do  the  same  with 
that. 

Other  rebuffs  hurt,  him  more.  A  quart*  tie  which  ho  had 
sent  in  manuscript  to  a  well-known  society  at  Frankfort  was 
rejected  unanimously  and  returned  without  explanation.  An 
overture  which  an  orchestra  a!  Cologne  seemed  disposed  to  per- 
form was  returned  after  a  month  ns  unplayable.  But  the  worst 
of  all  was  inflicted  on  him  bv  an  <>rehe-(  ral  society  in  the  town. 
Tl:i-  h'apcUnii'isli'r.  11.  Kiijihrrst.  irs  conductor,  was  quite  a 


REVOLT  4TT 

good  musician,  but  like  many  conductors,  he  had  no  curiosity 
of  mind.  He  suffered  (or  rather  he  carried  to  extremes)  the 
laziness  peculiar  to  his  class,  which  consists  in  going  on  and 
on  investigating  familiar  works,  while  it  shuns  any  really  new 
work  like  the  plague.  He  was  never  tired  of  organizing  Beetho- 
ven, Mozart,  or  Schumann  festivals:  in  conducting  these  works 
he  had  only  to  let  himself  be  carried  along  by  the  purring  of 
the  familiar  rhythms.  On  the  other  hand,  contemporary  music 
was  intolerable  to  him.  He  dared  not  admit  it  and  pretended 
to  be  friendly  towards  young  talent;  in  fact,  whenever  he  was 
brought  a  work  built  on  the  old  lines — a  sort  of  hotch-potch  of 
works  that  had  been  new  fifty  years  before— he  would  receive 
it  very  well,  and  would  even  produce  it  ostentatiously  and  force  it 
upon  the  public.  It  did  not  disturb  either  his  effects  or  the  way 
in  which  the  public  was  accustomed  to  be  moved.  On  the  other 
hand,  he  was  filled  with  a  mixture  of  contempt  and  hatred  for 
anything  which  threatened  to  disturb  that  arrangement  and 
put  him  to  extra  trouble.  Contempt  would  predominate  if 
the  innovator  had  no  chance  of  emerging  from  obscurity.  But 
if  there  were  any  danger  of  his  succeeding,  then  hatred  would 
predominate — of  course  until  the  moment  when  he  had  gained 
an  established  success. 

Christophe  was  not  yet  in  that  position:  far  from  it.  And 
so  he  was  much  surprised  when  he  was  informed,  by  indirect 
overtures,  that  ITerr  H.  Euphrat  would  be  very  glad  to  pro- 
duce one  of  his  compositions,  It  was  all  the  more  unex- 
pected as  he  knew  that  the  Kapellmeister  was  an  intimate  friend 
of  Brahms  and  others  whom  he  had  maltreated  in  his  criticism?. 
Being  honest  himself,  he  credited  his  adversaries  with  the 
same  generous  feelings  which  he  would  have  had  himself.  ITe 
supposed  that  now  that  he  was  down  they  wished  to  show  him 
that  they  were  above  petty  spite.  ITe  was  touched  by  it.  He 
wrote  effusively  to  ITerr  Euphrat  and  sent  him  a  symphonic 
poem.  The  conductor  replied  through  his  secretary  coldly  but 
politely,  acknowledging  the  receipt  of  his  work,  and  adding 
that,  in  accordance  with  the  rules  of  the  society,  the  symphony 
would  be  given  out  to  the  orchestra  immediately  and  put  to 
the  test  of  a  general  rehearsal  before  it  could  be  accepted  for 
public  hearing.  A  rule  is  a  rule.  Cbristophe  had  to  bow  to  it. 


478  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

though  it  was  a  pure  formality  which  served  to  weed  out  the 
lucubrations  of  amateurs  which  were  sometimes  a  nuisance. 

A  few  weeks  later  Christophe  was  told  that  his  composition 
was  to  be  rehearsed.  On  principle  everything  was  done  privately 
and  even  the  author  was  not  permitted  to  be  present  at  the 
rehearsal.  But  by  a  generally  agreed  indulgence  the  author 
was  always  admitted;  only  he  did  not  show  himself.  Every- 
body knew  it  and  everybody  pretended  not  to  know  it.  On 
the  appointed  day  one  of  his  friends  brought  Christophe  to 
the  hall,  where  he  sat  at  the  back  of  a  box.  He  was  surprised 
to  see  that  at  this  private  rehearsal  the  hall — at  least  the  ground 
floor  seats — were  almost  all  filled ;  a  crowd  of  dilettante  idlers 
and  critics  moved  about  and  chattered  to  each  other.  The 
orchestra  had  to  ignore  their  presence. 

They  began  with  the  Brahms  Rhapsody  for  alto,  chorus  of 
male  voices,  and  orchestra  on  a  fragment  of  the  Harzreise 
im  Winter  of  Goethe.  Christophe,  who  detested  the  majestic 
sentimentality  of  the  work,  thought  that  perhaps  the  "  Brahm- 
ins" had  introduced  it  politely  to  avenge  themselves  by  forcing 
him  to  hear  a  composition  of  which  he  had  written  irreverently. 
The  idea  made  him  laugh,  and  his  good  humour  increased 
when  after  the  Rhapsody  there  came  two  other  productions  by 
known  musicians  whom  he  had  taken  to  task;  there  seemed  to 
be  no  doubt  about  their  intentions.  And  while  he  could  not 
help  making  a  face  at  it  he  thought  that  after  all  it  was  quite 
fair  tactics;  and,  failing  the  music,  he  appreciated  the  joke. 
It  even  amused  him  to  applaud  ironically  with  the  audience, 
which  made  manifest  its  enthusiasm  for  Brahms  and  his  like. 

At  last  it  came  to  Christophe's  symphony.  He  saw  from 
the  way  the  orchestra  and  the  people  in  the  hall  were  looking  at 
his  box  that  they  were  aware  of  his  presence.  He  hid  himself. 
He  waited  with  the  catch  at  his  heart  which  every  musician 
feels  at  the  moment  when  the  conductor's  wand  is  raised  and 
the  waters  of  the  music  gather  in  silence  before  bursting  their 
dam.  He  had  never  yet  heard  his  work  played.  How  would 
the.  creatures  of  his  dreams  live?  How  would  their  voices 
sound?  He  felt  their  roaring  within  him;  and  he  leaned  over 
the  abyss  of  sounds  waiting  fearfully  for  what  should  come 
forth.  ' 


REVOLT  479 

What  did  come  forth  was  a  nameless  thing,  a  shapeless  hotch- 
potch. Instead  of  the  bold  columns  which  were  to  support  the 
front  of  the  building  the  chords  came  crumbling  down  like  a 
building  in  ruins;  there  was  nothing  to  be  seen  but  the  dust 
of  mortar.  For  a  moment  Christophe  was  not  quite  sure 
whether  they  were  really  playing  his  work.  He  cast  back  for  the 
train,  the  rhythm  of  his  thoughts;  he  could  not  recognize  it; 
it  went  on  babbling  and  hiccoughing  like  a  drunken  man 
clinging  close  to  the  wall,  and  he  was  overcome  with  shame, 
as  though  he  had  himself  been  seen  in  that  condition.  It  was 
of  no  avail  to  think  that  he  had  not  written  such  stuff;  when 
an  idiotic  interpreter  destroys  a  man's  thoughts  he  has  always 
a  moment  of  doubt  when  he  asks  himself  in  consternation  if  he 
is  himself  responsible  for  it.  The  audience  never  asks  such 
a  question ;  the  audience  believes  in  the  interpreter,  in  the 
singers,  in  the  orchestra  whom  they  are  accustomed  to  hear  as 
they  believe  in  their  newspaper;  they  cannot  make  a  mistake; 
if  they  say  absurd  things,  it  is  the  absurdity  of  the  author.  This 
audience  was  the  less  inclined  to  doubt  because  it  liked  to 
believe.  Christophe  tried  to  persuade  himself  that  the  Kapell- 
meister was  aware  of  the  hash  and  would  stop  the  or- 
chestra and  begin  again.  The  instruments  were  not  playing 
together.  The  horn  had  missed  his  beat  and  had  come  in  a 
bar  too  late;  he  went  on  for  a  few  minutes,  and  then  stopped 
quietly  to  clean  his  instrument.  Certain  passages  for  the  oboe 
had  absolutely  disappeared.  It  was  impossible  for  the  most 
skilled  ear  to  pick  up  the  thread  of  the  musical  idea,  or  even 
to  imagine  that  there  was  one.  Fantastic  instrumentations,  hu- 
moristic  sallies  became  grotesque  through  the  coarseness  of  the 
execution.  It  was  lamentably  stupid,  the  work  of  an  idiot,  of 
a  joker  who  knew  nothing  of  music.  Christophe  tore  his  hair. 
He  tried  to  interrupt,  but  the  friend  who  was  with  him  held 
him  back,  assuring  him  that  the  Ilerr  Kapellmeister  must  surely 
see  the  faults  of  the  execution  and  would  put  everything  right 
— that  Christophe  must  not  show  himself  and  that  if  he  made 
any  remark  it  would  have  a  very  bad  effect.  He  made  Chris- 
tophe sit  at  the  very  back  of  the  box.  Christophe  obeyed,  but  he 
beat  his  head  with  his  fists;  and  every  fresh  monstrosity  drew 
from  him  a  groan  of  indignation  and  misery. 


480  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

"The  wretches!     The  wretches!     .     .     ." 
He  groaned,  and  squeezed  his  hands  tight  to  keep  himself 
from  crying  out. 

Xow  mingled  with  the  wrong  notes  there  came  up  to  him 

the  muttering  of  the  audience,  who  were  beginning  to  be  rest- 
less. At  first  it  was  only  a  tremor;  but  soon  Christophe  was 
left  without  a  doubt;  they  were  laughing.  The  musicians  of 
the  orchestra  had  given  the  signal ;  some  of  them  did  not  con- 
ceal their  hilarity.  The  audience,  certain  then  that  the  music 
was  laughable,  rocked  with  laughter.  Tin's  merriment  became 
general;  it  increased  at  the  return  of  a  very  rhythmical  motif 
which  the  double-basses  accentuated  in  a  burlesque  fashion.  Only 
the  Kapellmeister  went  on  through  the  uproar  inperturbably 
beating  time. 

At  last  they  reached  the  end  (the  best  things  come  to  an 
end).  It  was  the  turn  of  the  audience.  They  exploded  with 
delight,  an  explosion  which  lasted  for  several  minutes.  Some 
hissed;  others  applauded  ironically:  the  wittiest  of  all  shouted 
"Encore!"  A  bass  voice  coming  from  a  sing*1  box  began  to 
imitate  the  grotesque  motif.  Oilier  jokers  followed  suit  and 
imitated  it  also.  Some  one  shouted  "Author!"  It  was  long 
since  these  witty  folk  had  been  so  highly  entertained. 

When  the  tumult  was  calmed  down  a  little  the  Kapellmeister, 
standing  quite  impassive  with  his  face  turned  towards  the 
audience  though  lie  was  pretending  not  to  see  it — (the  audience 
was  still  supposed  to  be  non-existeni ) — made  a  sign  to  the 
audience  that  he  was  about  to  speak.  There  war-  a  rry  of  "  Ssh." 
and  silence.  Tie  waited  a  moment  longer;  then — (his  voice 
was  curt.  cold,  and  cult  ing)  : 

"Gentlemen."  he  said,  "I  should  certainly  not  have  let  Unit 
be  played  through  to  the  end  if  1  had  not  wished  to  make  an 
example  of  the  gentleman  who  has  dared  to  write'  offensively 
of  the  great  Brahms." 

That  was  all;  and  jnmninir  down  from  his  stand  he  went  out 
amid  cheers  from  the  delighted  audience.  They  tried  to  recall 
him;  the  applause  went  on  for  a  few  minute?  longer.  But  he 
did  not  return.  The  orchestra  went  away.  The  audience  de- 
cided to  go  too.  The  concert  was  over. 

It  had  been  a  good  day. 


BEVOLT  481 

Christophe  had  gone  already.  Hardly  had  he  seen  the 
•wretched  conductor  leave  his  desk  when  he  had  rushed  from  the 
box;  he  plunged  down  the  stairs  from  the  first  floor  to  meet 
him  and  slap  his  face.  His  friend  who  had  brought  him  fol- 
lowed and  tried  to  hold  him  back,  but  Christophe  brushed  him 
aside  and  almost  threw  him  downstairs; — (lie  had  reason  to 
believe  tbat  the  fellow  was  concerned  in  the  trick  which  had 
been  played  him).  Fortunately  for  H.  Euphrat  and  himself  the 
door  leading  to  the  stage  was  shut;  and  his  furious  knocking 
could  not  make  them  open  it.  However  the  audience  wras  begin- 
ning to  leave  the  hall.  Christophe  could  not  stay  there.  He 
fled. 

He  was  in  an  indescribable  condition.  He  walked  blindly, 
waving  his  arms,  rolling  his  eyes,  talking  aloud  like  a  madman ; 
he  suppressed  his  cries  of  indignation  and  rage.  The  street 
was  almost  empty.  The  concert  hall  had  been  built  the  year 
before  in  a  new  neighborhood  a  little  way  out  of  the  town ; 
and  Christophe  instinctively  fled  towards  the  country  across 
the  empty  fields  in  which  were  a  few  lonely  shanties  and  scaf- 
foldings surrounded  by  fences.  His  thoughts  were  murderous; 
he  could  have  killed  the  man  who  had  put  such  an  affront  upon 
him.  Alas!  and  when  he  had  killed  him  would  there  be  any 
change  in  the  animosity  of  those  people  whose  insulting  laugh- 
ter was  still  ringing  in  his  ears?  They  were  too  many;  he 
could  do  nothing  against  them ;  they  were  all  agreed — they  who 
were  divided  about  so  many  things — to  insult  and  crush  him. 
It  was  past  understanding:  there  was  hatred  in  them.  What 
had  he  done  to  them  all?  There  were  beautiful  tilings  in  him, 
things  to  do  good  and  make  the  heart  big:  he  had  tried  to 
say  them,  to  make  others  enjoy  them:  he  thought  they  would  be 
happy  like  himself.  Even  if  they  did  not  like  them  they  should 
be  grateful  to  him  for  his  intentions;  they  coidd.  if  need  he. 
show  him  kindly  where  he  had  been  wrong:  but  that  they  i-hould 
take  such  a  malignant  joy  in  insulting  and  odiously  travestying 
his  ideas,  in  trampling  them  underfoot,  and  killing  him 
by  ridicule,  how  was  it  possible?  In  his  excitement  he  exag- 
gerated their  hatred  ;  he  thought  it  much  more  serious  than 
such  mediocre  people  could  ever  be.  He  sobbed:  ''  What  have 
I  done  to  them?  ''  He  choked,  he  thought  that  all  was  lost,  just 


482  JEAX-CHRISTOPITK 

as  ho  did  when  he  was  a  child  coming  into  contact  for  the  first 
time  with  human  wickedness. 

And  when  he  looked  about  him  he  suddenly  saw  that  he  had 
reached  the  edge  of  the  mill-race,  at  the  very  spot  where  a  few 
years  before  his  father  had  been  drowned.  And  at  once  he 
thought  of  drowning  himself  too.  Tic  was  just  at  the  point  of 
making  the  plunge. 

But  as  he  leaned  over  the  steep  bank,  fascinated  by  the  calm 
clean  aspect  of  the  water,  a  tiny  bird  in  a  tree  by  his  side 
began  to  sing — to  sing  madly.  He  held  his  breath  to  listen. 
The  water  murmured.  The  ripening  corn  moaned  as  it  waved 
tinder  the  soft  caressing  wind;  the  poplars  shivered.  Behind 
the  hedge  on  the  road,  out  of  sight,  bees  in  hives  in  a  garden 
filled  the  air  with  their  scented  music.  From  the  other  side  of 
the  stream  a  cow  was  chewing  the  cud  and  gazing  with  soft 
eyes.  A  little  fair-haired  girl  was  sitting  on  a  wall,  with  a  light 
basket  on  her  shoulders,  like  a  little  angel  with  wings,  and  she 
was  dreaming,  and  swinging  her  bare  legs  and  humming  aim- 
lessly. Far  away  in  a  meadow  a  white  dog  was  leaping  and 
running  in  wide  circles.  Christophc  leaned  against  a  tree  and 
listened  and  watched  the  earth  in  Spring;  he  was  caught  up  by 
the  peace  and  joy  of  these  creatures;  he  could  forget,  he  could 
forget.  Suddenly  he  clasped  the  tree  with  his  arms  and  leaned 
his  cheek  against  it.  lie  threw  himself  on  the  ground;  he 
buried  his  face  in  the  grass;  he  laughed  nervously,  happily. 
All  the  beauty,  the  grace,  the  charm  of  life  wrapped  him  round, 
imbued  his  soul,  and  he  sucked  them  up  like  a  sponge.  He 
thought : 

"  Why  are  you  so  beautiful,  and  they — men — so  ugly  ?  " 

Xo  matter!  He  loved  it.  lie  loved  it.  he  felt  that  he  would 
always  love  it,  and  that  nothing  could  ever  take  it  from  him. 
He  held  the  earth  to  his  breast.  He  held  life  to  his  breast: 

"I  love  you!  You  are  mine.  They  cannot  take  you  from 
me.  Let  them  do  what  they  will!  Let  them  make  me  suffer! 
.  .  .  Suffering  also  is  life!" 

Christophe  began  bravely  to  work  again.  He  refused  to  have 
anything  more  to  do  with  "men  of  letters''' — well  named — 
makers  of  phrases,  the  sterile  babblers,  journalists,  critics, 


REVOLT  483 

the  exploiters  and  traffickers  of  art.  As  for  musicians  he  would 
waste  no  more  time  in  battling  with  their  prejudices  and 
jealousy.  They  did  not  want  him?  Very  well!  lie  did  not 
want  them,  lie  had  his  work  to  do ;  he  would  do  it.  The 
Court  had  given  him  back  his  liberty;  lie  was  grateful  for  it. 
He  was  grateful  to  the  people  for  their  hostility;  he  could  work 
in  peace. 

Louisa  approved  with  all  her  heart.  She  had  no  ambition; 
she  was  not  a  Kraftt ;  she  was  like  neither  his  father  nor  his 
grandfather.  She  did  not  want'  honors  or  reputation  for  her 
son.  She  would  have  liked  him  to  be  rich  and  famous;  but  if 
those  advantages  could  only  be  bought  at  the  price  of  so  much 
unpleasantness  she  much  preferred  not  to  bother  about  them. 
She  had  been  more  upset  by  Christophe's  grief  over  his  rupture 
with  the  Palace  than  by  the  event  itself;  and  she  was  heartily 
glad  that  he  had  quarreled  with  the  review  and  newspaper 
people.  She  had  a  peasant's  distrust  of  blackened  paper ;  it  was 
only  a  waste  of  time  and  made  enemies.  She  had  sometimes 
heard  his  young  friends  of  the  Keview  talking  to  Christophe; 
she  had  been  horrified  by  their  malevolence ;  they  tore  every- 
thing to  pieces  and  said  horrible  things  about  everybody;  and 
the  worse  things  they  said  the  better  pleased  they  were.  She 
did  not  like  them.  Xo  doubt  they  were  very  clever  and  very 
learned,  but  they  were  not  kind,  and  she  was  very  glad  that 
Christophe  saw  no  more  of  them.  She  was  full  of  common 
sense:  what  good  were  they  to  him? 

"  They  may  say,  write,  and  think  what  they  like  of  me.'"'  said 
Christophe.  "They  cannot  prevent  my  being  myself.  'What  do 
their  ideas  or  their  art  matter  to  me?  I  deny  them  !  " 

It  is  all  very  fine  to  deny  the  world.  But  the  world  is  not 
so  easily  denied  by  a  young  man's  boasting.  Christophe  was 
sincere,  but  he  was  under  illusion;  he  did  not  know  himself. 
lie  was  not  a  monk  ;  lie  had  not  the  temperament  for  renounc- 
ing the  world,  and  besides  he  was  not  old  enough  to  do  so. 
At  first  he  did  not  suffer  much,  he  was  plunged  in  composi- 
tion; and  while  his  work  lasted  he  did  not  fed  the  want  of  any- 
thing. But  when  he  came  to  the  period  of  depression  which  fol- 


484  JEAN-CHRTSTOrHE 

lows  tlie  completion  of  a  work  and  lasts  until  a  new  work  takes 
possession  of  the  mind,  he  looked  about  him  and  was  horrified 
by  his  loneliness,  lie  asked  himself  why  he  wrote.  While  a 
man  is  writing  he  never  asks  himself  that  question:  he  must 
write,  there  is  no  arguing  about  it.  And  then  he  finds  himself 
with  the  work  that  lie  has  begotten  :  the  great  instinct  which 
caused  it  to  spring  forth  is  silent:  he  does  not  understand  why 
it  was  born  :  he  hardly  recognizes  it,  it  is  almost  a  stranger  to 
him;  he  longs  to  forget  it.  And  that  is  impossible  as  long 
as  it  is  not  published  or  played,  or  living  its  own  life  in  the 
world.  Till  then  it  is  like  a  new-born  child  attached  to  its 
mother,  a  living  thing  bound  fast  to  his  living  flesh;  it  must 
be  amputated  at  all  costs  or  it  will  not  live.  The  more  Chris- 
tophe  composed  the  more  he  suffered  under  the  weight  of  these 
creatures  who  had  sprung  forth  from  himself  and  could  neither 
live  nor  die.  He  was  haunted  by  them.  Who  could  deliver 
him  from  them?  Some  obscure  impulse  would  stir  in  these 
children  of  his  thoughts;  they  longed  desperately  to  break 
away  from  him  to  expand  into  other  souls  like  the  quick  and 
fruitful  seed  which  the  wind  scatters  over  the  universe.  Must 
lie  remain  imprisoned  in  his  sterility?  lie  raged  against  it. 

Since  every  outlet — theaters,  concerts — was  closed  to  him, 
and  nothing  would  induce  him  to  approach  those  managers  who 
had  once  failed  him.  there  was  nothing  left  but  for  him  to  pub- 
lish his  writings,  but  he  could  not  flatter  himself  that  it  would 
be  easier  to  find  a  publisher  to  produce  his  work  than  an  or- 
chestra to  play  it.  The  two  or  three  clumsy  attempts  that  lie 
had  made  were  enough;  rather  than  expose  himself  to  another 
rebuff,  or  to  bargain  with  one  of  these  music  merchants  and 
put  up  with  his  patroni/ing  airs,  he  preferred  to  publish  it  at 
his  own  expense.  It  was  an  act  of  madness;  he  had  some  small 
savings  out  of  his  Court  salary  and  the  proceeds  of  a  few 
concerts,  but  the  source  from  which  the  money  had  come  was 
dried  up  and  it  would  be  a  long  time  before  he  could  find 
another;  and  he  should  have  been  prudent  enough  to  be  careful 
with  his  scanty  funds  which  had  to  help  him  over  the  difficult 
period  upon  which  he  was  entering.  Not  only  did  he  not  do 
so;  but,  as  his  savings  were  not  enough  to  cover  the  expenses  of 


REVOLT  48.-, 

publication,  he  did  not  shrink  from  getting  into  debt.  Louisa 
dared  not  say  anything;  she  found  him  absolutely  unreasonable, 
and  did  not  understand  how  anybody  could  spend  money  for 
the  sake  of  seeing  his  name  on  a  book ;  but  since  it  was  a  way 
of  making  him  be  patient  and  of  keeping  him  with  her,  she 
was  only  too  happy  for  him  to  have  that  satisfaction. 

Instead  of  offering  the  public  compositions  of  a  familiar 
and  undisturbing  kind,  in  which  it  could  feel  at  home,  Chris- 
topho  chose  from  among  his  manuscripts  a  suite  very  individual 
in  character,  which  he  valued  highly.  They  were  piano  piei-es 
mixed  with  Licder,  some  very  short  and  popular  in  style,  others 
very  elaborate  and  almost  dramatic.  The  whole  formed  a 
series  of  impressions,  joyous  or  mild,  linked  together  naturally 
and  written  alternately  for  the  piano  and  the  voice,  alone  or 
accompanied.  "  For,"  said  Christophe,  "  when  I  dream,  I  do 
not  always  formulate  what  I  feel.  I  suffer,  I  am  happy,  and 
have  no  words  to  say;  but  then  comes  a  moment  when  I  must 
say  what  I  am  feeling,  and  I  sing  without  thinking  of  what  I 
am  doing;  sometimes  I  sing  only  vague  words,  a  few  discon- 
nected phrases,  sometimes  whole  poems :  then  I  begin  to  dream 
again.  And  so  the  day  goes  by;  and  I  have  tried  to  give  the 
impression  of  a  day.  Why  these  gathered  impressions  com- 
posed only  of  songs  or  preludes?  There  is  nothing  more  false 
or  less  harmonious.  One  must  try  to  give  the  free  play  of  the 
soul."  He  had  called  his  suite:  .-1  Day.  Tbe  different  parts 
of  the  composition  bore  sub-titles,  shortly  indicating  the  suc- 
cession of  his  inward  dreams.  Christophe  had  written  mysteri- 
ous dedications,  initials,  dates,  which  only  he  could  understand, 
as  they  reminded  him  of  poetic  moments  or  beloved  faces:  the 
gay  Corinne,  the  languishing  Sabine,  and  the  little  unknown 
Frenchwoman. 

Besides  this  work  he  selected  thirty  of  his  Jjr<lrr- — tlvse 
which  pleased  him  most,  and  consequently  pleased  the  public 
least.  He  avoided  choosing  the  most  ''melodious"  of  his 
melodies,  but  he  did  choose  the  most  characteristic.  (The  pub- 
lic always  has  a  horror  of  anything  "  characteristic."  Char- 
acterless things  are  more  likely  to  please  them.) 

These  Lieder  were  written  to  poems  of  old  feilesian  poets  of 


486  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

the  seventeenth  century  that  Christophc  had  read  by  chance  in 
a  popular  collection,  and  whose  loyalty  he  had  loved.  Two 
especially  were  dear  to  him,  dear  as  brothers,  two  creatures  full 
of  genius  and  both  had  died  at  thirty :  the  charming  Paul 
Fleming,  the  traveler  to  the  Caucasus  and  to  Ispahan,  who  pre- 
served his  soul  pure,  loving  and  serene  in  the  midst  of  the 
savagery  of  war,  the  sorrows  of  life,  and  the  corruption  of  his 
time,  and  Johann  Christian  Gunther,  the  unbalanced  genius 
who  wore  himself  out  in  debauchery  and  despair,  casting  his 
life  to  the  four  winds.  He  had  translated  Giinther's  cries 
of  provocation  and  vengeful  irony  against  the  hostile  God  who 
overwhelms  His  creatures,  his  furious  curses  like  those  of  a 
Titan  overthrown  hurling  the  tlumder  back  against  the  heavens. 
He  had  selected  Fleming's  love  songs  to  Anemone  and  Basilene, 
soft  and  sweet  as  flowers,  and  the  rondo  of  the  stars,  the 
Tanzlied  (dancing  song)  of  hearts  glad  and  limpid — and  the 
calm  heroic  sonnet  To  Himself  (An  Sicli),  which  Christophe 
used  to  recite  as  a  prayer  every  morning. 

The  smiling  optimism  of  the  pious  Paul  Gerhardt  also  had 
its  charm  for  Christophe.  It  was  a  rest  for  him  on  recovering 
from  his  own  sorrows.  He  loved  that  innocent  vision  of  nature 
as  God,  the  fresh  meadows,  where  the  storks  walk  gravely  among 
the  tulips  and  white  narcissus,  by  little  brooks  singing  on  the 
sands,  the  transparent  air  wherein  there  pass  the  wide-winged 
swallows  and  flying  doves,  the  gaiety  of  a  sunbeam  piercing  the 
rain,  and  the  luminous  sky  smiling  through  the  clouds,  and 
the  serene  majesty  of  the  evening,  tbe  sweet  peace  of  the 
forests,  the  cattle,  the  bowers  and  the  fields.  He  had  had  the 
impertinence  to  set  to  music  several  of  tbose  mystic  canticles 
which  are  si  ill  sung  in  Protestant  communities.  And  be  had 
avoided  preserving  the  choral  character.  Far  from  it:  he  had 
a  horror  of  it ;  he  had  given  them  a  free  and  vivacious  char- 
acter. Old  Gerhardt  would  have  shuddered'  at  the  devilish 
pride  which  was  breathed  forth  now  in  certain  lines  of  his 
Song  of  the  Christian  Traveler,  or  the  pagan  delight  which 
made  this  peaceful  stream  of  his  Song  of  Summer  bubble  over 
like  a  torrent. 

The  collection  was  published  without  any  regard  for  common 
sense,  of  course.  The  publisher  whom  Christophe  paid  for 


REVOLT  487 

printing  and  storing  his  LicJcr  had  no  other  claim  to  his  choice 
than  that  of  being  his  neighbor.  He  was  not  equipped  for 
such  important  work;  the  printing  went  on  for  months;  there 
were  mistakes  and  expensive  corrections.  Christophe  knew 
nothing  about  it  and  the  whole  thing  cost  more  by  a  third  than 
it  need  have  done;  the  expenses  far  exceeded  anything  he  had 
anticipated.  Then  when  it  was  done,  Christophe  found  an 
enormous  edition  on  his  hands  and  did  not  know  what  to  do 
with  it.  The  publisher  had  no  customers;  he  took  no  steps  to 
circulate  the  work.  And  his  apathy  was  quite  in  accord  with 
Christophe' s  attitude.  When  he  asked  him,  to  satisfy  his  con- 
science, to  write  him  a  short  advertisement  of  it.  Christophe 
replied  that  "he  did  not  want  any  advertisement;  if  his  music 
was  good  it  would  speak  for  itself."  The  publisher  religiously 
respected  his  wishes;  he  put  the  edition  away  in  his  warehouse. 
It  was  well  kept;  for  in  six  months  not  a  copy  was  sold. 

While  he  was  waiting  for  the  public  to  make  up  its  mind 
Christophe  had  to  find  some  way  of  repairing  the  hole  he  had 
made  in  his  means;  and  he  could  not  be  nice  about  it,  for  he 
had  to  live  and  pay  his  debts.  Xot  only  were  his  debts  larger 
than  he  had  imagined  but  he  saw  that  the  moneys  on  which 
he  had  counted  were  less  than  he  had  thought.  Had  he  lost 
money  without  knowing  it  or— what  was  infinitely  more  proba- 
ble— had  he  reckoned  up  wrongly?  (He  had  never  been  able  to 
add  correctly.)  It  did  not  matter  much  why  the  money  was 
missing;  it  was  missing  without  a  doubt.  Louisa  had  to 
give  her  all  to  help  her  son.  He  was  bitterly  remorseful  and 
tried  to  pay  her  back  as  soon  as  possible  and  at  all  costs.  He 
tried  to  get  lessons,  though  it  was  painful  to  him  to  ask  and 
to  put  up  with  refusals.  He  was  out  of  favor  altogether:  he 
found  it  very  difficult  to  obtain  pupils  again.  And  so  when  it 
was  suggested  that  he  should  teach  at  a  school  he  was  only  too 
glad. 

It  was  a  semi-religious  institution.  The  director,  an  astute 
gentleman,  had  seen,  though  he  was  no  musician,  how  useful 
Christophe  might  be.  and  how  cheaply  in  his  present  position. 
He  was  pleasant  and  paid  very  little.  When  Christophe  ven- 
tured to  make  a  timid  remark  the  director  told  him  with  a 


488  JEAK-CHRISTOPHE 

kindly  smile  that  as  ho  no  longer  held  an  official  position  he 
could  not  very  well  expect  more. 

It  was  a  sad  task!  It  was  not  so  much  a  matter  of  teaching 
the  pupils  music  as  of  making  their  parents  and  themselves 
he-Here  that  they  had  learned  it.  The  chief  thing  was  to  make 
them  able  to  sing  at  the  ceremonies  to  which  the  puhlic  were  ad- 
mitted. It  did  not  matter  how  it  was  done.  Christophe  was 
in  despair:  he  had  not  even  the  consolation  of  telling  himself 
as  he  fulfilled  his  task  that  he  was  doing  useful  work;  his 
conscience  reproached  him  with  it  as  hypocrisy.  He  tried  to 
give  the  children  more  solid  instruction  and  to  make  them 
acquainted  with  and  love  serious  music;  hut  they  did  not  care 
for  it  a  hit.  Christophe  could  not  succeed  in  making  them 
listen  to  it;  he  had  no  authority  over  them;  in  truth  he  was  not 
made  for  teaching  children.  He  took  no  interest  in  their 
floundering:  he  tried  to  explain  to  them  all  at  once  the  theory 
of  music.  When  he  had  to  give  a  piano  lesson  he  would  set  his 
pupil  a  symphony  of  Beethoven  which  he  would  play  as  a 
duet  with  her.  Naturally  that  could  not  succeed;  he  would 
explode  angrily,  drive  the  pupil  from  the  piano  and  go  on 
playing  alone  for  a  long  time.  He  was  just  the  same  with  his 
private  pupils  outside  the  school.  Ho  had  not  an  ounce  of 
patience;  for  instance  he  would  toll  a  young  lady  who  prided 
herself  on  her  aristocratic  appearance1  and  position,  that  she 
played  like  a  kitchen  maid ;  or  he  would  even  write  to  her 
mother  and  say  that  he  gare  it  up.  that  it  would  kill  him  if 
he  went  on  long  hothering  about  a  girl  so  devoid  of  talent.  All 
of  which  did  not  improve  his  position.  His  few  pupils  left 
him:  ho  could  not  keep  any  of  them  more  than  a  few  months. 
His  mother  argued  with  him:  he  would  argue  will)  himself. 
Louisa  made  him  promise  that  at  least  ho  would  not  break  with 
the  school  he  had  joined:  for  if  he  lost  that  position  ho  did  not 
jcnow  what  he  should  do  for  a  living.  And  so  ho  restrained 
himself  in  spite  of  bis  disgtfst:  he  was  most  oxemplarily 
punctual.  T>ut  how  could  he  conceal  his  thoughts  when  a 
donkey  of  a  pupil  blundered  for  the  tenth  time  in  some  pas- 
sages, or  when  he  had  to  conch  his  class  for  the  next  concert 
in  some  foolish  chorus! — (For  he  was  not  even  allowed  to  choose 


REVOLT  48f> 

his  programme:  his  taste  was  not  trusted) — He  was  not  exactly 
zealous  about  it  all.  And  yet  he  went  stubbornly  on,  silent, 
frowning,  only  betraying  his  secret  wrath  by  occasionally 
thumping  on  his  desk  and  making  his  pupils  jump  in  their 
seats.  But  sometimes  the  pill  was  too  bitter:  he  could  not 
bear  it  any  longer.  In  the  middle  of  the  chorus  he  would  in- 
terrupt the  singers: 

"Oh!  Stop!  Stop!     I'll  play  you  some  Wagner  instead." 

They  asked  nothing  better.  They  played  cards  behind  his 
back.  There  was  always  someone  who  reported  the  matter  to 
the  director:  and  Christophe  would  be  reminded  that  he  was 
not  there  to  make  his  pupils  like  music  but  to  make  them 
sing.  He  received  his  scoldings  with  a  shudder;  but  he  ac- 
cepted them  :  lie  did  not  want  to  lose  his  work.  Who  would 
have  thought  a  few  years  before,  when  his  career  looked  so 
assured  and  brilliant  (when  he  had  done  nothing),  that  he 
would  be  reduced  to  such  humiliation  just  as  he  was  beginning 
to  be  worth  something? 

Among  the  hurts  to  his  vanity  that  he,  came  by  in  his  work 
at  the  school,  one  of  the  most  painful  was  having  to  call  on 
his  colleagues.  He  paid  two  calls  at  random  :  and  they  bored 
him  so  that  he  had  not  the  heart  to  go  on.  The  two  privileged 
persons  were  not  at  all  pleased  about  it.  but  the  others  were 
personally  affronted.  They  all  regarded  Christophe  as  their 
inferior  in  position  and  intelligence:  and  they  assumed  a 
patronizing  manner  towards  him.  Sometimes  he  was  over- 
whelmed by  it.  for  they  seemed  to  be  so  sure  of  themselves  and 
the  opinion  they  had  of  him  that  he  began  to  share  it:  he  felt 
stupid  with  them  :  what  could  he  have  found  to  sav  to  them  ? 
They  were  full  of  their  profession  and  saw  nothing  beyond  it. 
They  were  not  num.  If  only  they  had  been  books!  But  they 
were  only  notes  to  books,  philological  commentaries. 

Christophe  avoided  meeting  them.  But  sometimes  he  was 
forced  to  do  so.  The  director  was  at  home  once  a  inonih  in 
the  afternoon:  and  lie  insisted  on  all  his  people  being  there. 
Christophe.  who  had  cut  the  tirst  afternoon,  without  excuse, 
in  the  vain  hope  that  his  absence  would  not  he  noticed,  was 
°ver  afterwards  the  object  of  sour  attention.  Next  time  he  was 


490  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

lectured  by  his  mother  and  decided  to  go;  he  was  as  solemn 
about  it  as  though  he  were  going  to  a  funeral. 

He  found  himself  at  a  gathering  of  the  teachers  of  the 
school  and  other  institutions  of  the  town,  and  their  wives 
and  daughters.  They  were  all  huddled  together  in  a  room  too 
small  for  them,  and  grouped  hierarchically.  They  paid  no 
attention  to  him.  The  group  nearest  him  was  talking  of 
pedagogy  and  cooking.  All  the  wives  of  the  teachers  had  cu- 
linary recipes  which  they  set  out  with  pedantic  exuberance 
and  insistence.  The  men  were  no  less  interested  in  these  mat- 
ters and  hardly  less  competent.  They  were  as  proud  of  the 
domestic  talents  of  their  wives  as  they  of  their  husbands'  learn- 
ing. Christophe  stood  by  a  window  leaning  against  the  wall, 
not  knowing  how  to  look,  now  trying  to  smile  stupidly,  now 
gloomy  with  a  fixed  stare  and  unmoved  features,  and  he  was 
bored  to  death.  A  little  away  from  him,  sitting  in  the  recess 
of  the  window,  was  a  young  woman  to  whom  nobody  was  talk- 
ing and  she  was  as  bored  as  he.  They  both  looked  at  the  room 
and  not  at  each  other.  It  was  only  after  some  time  that  they 
noticed  each  other  just  as  they  both  turned  away  to  yawn,  both 
being  at  the  limit  of  endurance.  Just -at  that  moment  their 
eyes  met.  They  exchanged  a  look  of  friendly  understanding. 
He  moved  towards  her.  She  said  in  a  low  voice : 

"  Are  you   amused  ?  " 

He  turned  his  back  on  the  room,  and,  looking  out  of  the 
window,  put  out  his  tongue.  She  burst  out  laughing,  and 
suddenly  waking  up  she  signed  to  him  to  sit  down  by  her  side. 
They  introduced  themselves ;  she  was  the  wife  of  Professor 
Reinhart,  who  lectured  on  natural  history  at  the  school,  and 
was  newly  come  to  the  town,  where  they  knew  nobody.  She 
was  not  beautiful ;  she  had  a  large  nose,  ugly  teeth,  and  she 
lacked  freshness;  but  she  had  keen,  clever  eyes  and  a  kindly 
smile.  She  chattered  like  a  magpie:  he  answered  her  solemnly; 
she  had  an  amusing  frankness  and  a  droll  wit:  they  laugh- 
ingly exchanged  impressions  out  loud  without  bothering  about 
the  people  round  them.  Their  neighbors,  who  had  not  deigned  to 
notice  their  existence  when  it  would  have  been  charitable  to 
help  them  out  of  their  loneliness,  now  threw  angry  looks 


REVOLT  491 

at  them;  it  was  in  bad  taste  to  be  so  much  amused.  But  they 
did  not  care  what  the  others  might  think  of  them ;  they  were 
taking  their  revenge  in  their  chatter. 

In  the  end  Frau  Reinhart  introduced  her  husband  to  Chris- 
tophe.  He  was  extremely  ugly ;  he  had  a  pale,  greasy,  pock- 
marked, rather  sinister  face,  but  he  looked  very  kind.  He 
spoke  low  down  in  his  throat  and  pronounced  his  words  sen- 
tentiously,  stammeringly,  pausing  between  each  syllable. 

They  had  been  married  a  few  months  only  and  these  two 
plain  people  were  in  love  with  each  other;  they  had  an  affec- 
tionate way  of  looking  at  each  other,  talking  to  each  other, 
taking  each  other's  hands  in  the  presence  of  everybody — which 
was  comic  and  touching.  If  one  wanted  anything  the  other 
would  want  it  too.  And  so  they  invited  Christophe  to  go  and 
sup  with  them  after  the  reception.  Christophe  began  jokingly 
to  beg  to  be  excused;  he  said  that  the  best  thing  to  do  that 
evening  would  be  to  go  to  bed ;  he  was  quite  worn  out  with 
boredom,  as  tired  as  though  he  had  walked  ten  miles.  But 
Frau  Reinhart  said  that  he  could  not  be  left  in  that  condition; 
it  would  be  dangerous  to  spend  the  night  with  such  gloomy 
thoughts.  Christophe  let  them  drag  him  off.  In  his  loneliness 
he  was  glad  to  have  met  these  good  people,  who  were  not  very 
distinguished  in  their  manners  but  were  simple  and  geiniitlich. 

The  Reinharts'  little  house  was  gcmiitlich  like  them- 
selves. It  was  a  rather  chattering  Gcmilt,  a  Geiniit  with 
inscriptions.  The  furniture,  the  utensils,  the  china  all  talked, 
and  went  on  repeating  their  joy  in  seeing  their  "  charming 
guest,"  asked  after  his  health,  and  gave  him  pleasant  and  vir- 
tuous advice.  On  the  sofa — which  was  very  hard — was  a  little 
cushion  which  murmured  amiably: 

"  Only  a  quarter  of  an  hour!  "     (Xiir  ein  Vicrtehtiindchcn.) 

The  cup  of  coffee  which  was  handed  to  Christophe  insisted 
on  his  taking  more: 

"Just  a  drop!"      (NorJi   cin   ScliliickcJirn.') 

The  plates  seasoned  the  cooking  with  morality  and  otherwise 
the  cooking  was  quite  excellent.  One  plate  said  : 

"  Think  of  everything :  otherwise  no  good  will  come  to  you !  " 


492  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

Anothor : 

"  Affection  and  gratitude  please  everybody.  Ingratitude 
pleases  nobody." 

Although  Christophe  did  not  smoke,  the  ash-tray  on  the 
mantelpiece  insisted  on  introducing  itself  to  him: 

"A  little  resting  place  for  burning  cigars/"  (Ruhepldtzchen 
fit, r  b re nnende  C i<j a rrc, n.} 

He  wanted  to  wash  his  hands.  The  soap  on  the  washstand 
said : 

"  For  our  charming  guest."      (Fiir  unsercn  Helen  Gast.) 

And  the  sententious  towel,  like  a  person  who  has  nothing  to 
say,  but  thinks  he  must  say  something  all  the  same,  gave  him 
this  reflection,  full  of  good  sense  but  not  very  apposite,  that 
"  to  enjoy  the  morning  you  must  rise  early." 

" Morgenstund  lint  Gold  im  J\fiut(l.'' 

At  length  Christophe  dared  not  even  turn  in  his  chair  for 
fear  of  hearing  himself  addressed  by  other  voices  coming  from 
every  part  of  the  room.  He  wanted  to  say: 

"Be  silent,  you  little  monsters!  We  don't  understand  each 
other." 

And  lie  burst  out  laughing  erazily  and  then  tried  to  explain 
to  his  host  and  hostess  that  he  was  thinking  of  the  gathering 
at  the  school.  Tie  would  not  have  hurt  them  for  the  world. 
And  he  was  not  very  sensible  of  the  ridiculous.  Very  soon  he 
grew  accustomed  to  the  loquacious  cordiality  of  these  people 
and  their  belongings,  lie  could  have  tolerated  anything  in 
them!  They  were  so  kind!  They  were  not  tiresome  either; 
if  they  bad  no  taste  they  were  not  lacking  in  intelligence. 

They  were  a  little  lost  in  the  place  to  which  they  had  come. 
The  intolerable  susceptibilities  of  the  little  provincial  town 
did  not  allow  people  to  enter  it  as  though  it  were  a  mill,  with- 
out having  proper! v  asked  for  the  honor  of  becoming  part  of 
it.  The  rJeinharts  bad  not  sullieiently  attended  to  the  provin- 
cial code  which  regulated  the  duties  of  new  arrivals  in  the  town 
towards  those'  who  bad  settled  in  it  before  them.  Reinhart 
would  have  submitted  to  it  mechanically.  But  his  wife,  to 
whom  such  drudgery  was  oppressive — she  disliked  being  put  out 
—postponed  her  duties  Iroin  day  to  day.  She  had  selected 
those  calls  which  bored  her  least,  to  be  paid  first,  or  she  had 


REVOLT  493 

put  the  others  off  indefinitely.  The  distinguished  persons  who 
were  comprised  in  the  last  category  choked  with  indignation 
at  such  a  want  of  respect.  Angelica  Eeinhart — (her  husband 
called  her  Lili) — was  a  little  free  in  her  manners;  she  could  not 
take  on  the  official  tone.  She  would  address  her  superiors  in 
the  hierarchy  familiarly  and  make  them  go  red  in  the  face 
with  indignation;  and  if  need  be  she  was  not  afraid  of  contra- 
dicting them.  She  had  a  quick  tongue  and  always  had  to  say 
whatever  was  in  her  head;  sometimes  she  made  extraordinarily 
foolish  remarks  at  which  people  laughed  behind  her  back;  and 
also  she  could  be  malicious  whole-heartedly,  and  that  made  her 
mortal  enemies.  She  would  bite  her  tongue  as  she  was  saying 
rash  things  and  wish  she  had  not  said  them,  but  it  was  too 
late.  Her  husband,  the  gentlest  and  most  respectful  of  men, 
would  chide  her  timidly  about  it.  She  would  kiss  him  and 
say  that  she  was  a  fool  and  that  he  was  right.  TUit  the  next 
moment  she  would  break  out  again ;  and  she  would  always  say 
things  at  the  least  suitable  moment;  she  would  have  burst  if 
she  had  not  said  them.  She  was  exactly  the  sort  of  woman  to 
get  on  with  Christophe. 

Among  the  many  ridiculous  things  which  she  ought  not  to 
have  said,  and  consequently  was  always  saying,  was  her  trick  of 
perpetually  comparing  the  way  things  were  done  in  Germany 
and  the  way  they  were  done  in  France.  She  was  a  German — 
(nobody  more  so)— but  she  had  been  brought  up  in  Alsace 
among  French  Alsatians,  and  she  had  felt  the  attraction  of 
Latin  civilization  which  so  many  Germans  in  the  annexed 
countries,  even  those  who  seem  the  least  likely  to  fu-1  it,  cannot 
resist.  Perhaps,  to  tell  the  truth,  the  attraction  had  become 
stronger  out  of  a  spirit  of  contradiction  since  Angelica  had 
married  a  North  German  and  lived  with  him  in  purely  German 
society. 

She  opened  up  her  usual  subject  of  discussion  on  her  first 
evening  with  Cbristophe.  She  loved  the  pleasant  freedom 
of  conversation  in  France.  Cb.ristopho  echoed  her.  France  to 
him  was  Corinne;  bright  blue  eyes,  smiling  lips,  frank  free 
manners,  a  musical  voice;  he  loved  to  know  more  about  it. 

Lili  "Reinhart  clapped  her  bands  on  finding  herself  so  thor- 
oughly agreeing  with  Christophe, 


494  JEAN-CHKISTOPHE 

"  It  is  a  pity,"  she  said,  "  that  my  little  French  friend  has 
gone,  hut  she  could  not  stand  it;  she  has  gone." 

The  image  of  Corinne  was  at  once  blotted  out.  As  a  match 
going  out  suddenly  makes  the  gentle  glimmer  of  the  stars  shine 
out  from  the  dark  sky,  another  image  and  other  eyes  appeared. 

"Who?"  asked  Christophe  with  a  start,  "the  little  gover- 
ness ?  " 

"  What  ?  "  said  Fran  Eeinhart,  "  you  knew  her  too  ?  " 

He  described  her;  the  two  portraits  were  identical. 

"  You  knew  her  ?  "  repeated  Christophe.  "  Oh  !  Tell  me 
everything  you  know  about  her !  .  .  ." 

Frau  Eeinhart  began  by  declaring  that  they  were  bosom 
friends  and  had  no  secrets  from  each  other.  But  when  she 
had  to  go  into  detail  her  knowledge  was  reduced  to  very 
little.  They  had  met  out  calling.  Frau  Eeinhart  had  made 
advances  to  the  girl;  and  with  her  usual  cordiality  had  invited 
her  to  come  and  see  her.  The  girl  had  come  two  or  three  times 
and  they  had  talked.  But  the  curious  Lili  had  not  so  easily 
succeeded  in  finding  out  anything  about  the  life  of  the  little 
Frenchwoman:  the  girl  was  very  reserved;  she  had  had  to  worm 
her  story  out  of  her,  bit  by  bit.  Frau  Eeinhart  knew  that 
she  was  called  Antoinette  Jeannin;  she  had  no  fortune,  and  no 
friends,  except  a  younger  brother  who  lived  in  Paris  and  to 
whom  she  was  devoted.  She  used  always  to  talk  of  him;  he  was 
the  only  subject  about  which  she  could  talk  freely;  and  Lili 
Ecinbart  had  gained  her  confidence  by  showing  sympathy  and 
pity  for  the  boy  living  alone  in  Paris  without  relations,  without 
friends,  at  a  boarding  school.  It  was  partly  to  pay  for  his 
education  that  Antoinette  bad  accepted  a  post- abroad.  But  the 
two  children  could  not  live  without  each  other:  they  wanted  to 
be  with  each  other  every  day,  and  the  least  delay  in  the 
delivery  of  their  letters  used  to  make  them  quite  ill  with 
anxiety.  Antoinette  was  always  worrying  about  her  brother, 
the  poor  child  could  not  always  manage  to  hide  his  sadness 
and  loneliness  from  her:  every  one  of  his  complaints  used  to 
sound  through  Antoinette's  heart  and  seemed  like  to  break  it: 
the  thought  that  he  was  suffering  used  to  torture  her  and  she 
used  often  to  imagine  that  he  was  ill  and  would  not  say  so. 
Frau  Eeinhart  in  her  kindness  had  often  had  to  rebuke  her 


REVOLT  495 

for  her  groundless  fears,  and  she  used  to  succeed  in  restoring 
her  confidence  for  a  moment.  She  had  not  been  able  to  find 
out  anything  about  Antpinette's  family  or  position  or  her 
inner  self.  The  girl  was  wildly  shy  and  used  to  draw  into 
herself  at  the  first  question.  The  little  she  said  showed  that 
she  was  cultured  and  intelligent;  she  seemed  to  have  a  preco- 
cious knowledge  of  life;  she  seemed  to  be  at  once  naive  and 
undeceived,  pious  and  disillusioned.  She  had  not  been  happy 
in  the  town  in  a  tactless  and  unkind  family.  She  used  not  to 
complain,  but  it  was  easy  to  see  that  she  used  to  suffer — Fran 
Eeinhart  did  not  exactly  know  why  she  had  gone.  It  had  been 
said  that  she  had  behaved  badly.  Angelica  did  not  believe 
it;  she  was  ready  to  swear  that  it  was  all  a  disgusting  calumny, 
worthy  of  the  foolish  rotten  town.  But  there  had  been  stories; 
it  did  not  matter  what,  did  it? 

"  No,"  said  Christophe,  bowing  his  head. 

"  And  so  she  has  gone." 

"And  what  did  she  say — anything  to  you  when  she  went?" 

"  Ah !  "  said  Lili  Reinhart,  "  I  had  no  chance.  I  had  gone 
to  Cologne  for  a  few  days  just  then !  When  I  came  back — Zu 
spat"  (too  late). — She  stopped  to  scold  her  maid,  who  had 
brought  her  lemon  too  late  for  her  tea. 

And  she  added  sententiously  with  the  solemnity  which  the 
true  German  brings  naturally  to  the  performance  of  the  fa- 
miliar duties  of  daily  life: 

"  Too  late,  as  one  so  often  is  in  life !  " 

(It  was  not  clear  whether  she  meant  the  lemon  or  her  inter- 
rupted story.) 

She  went  on : 

"  When  I  returned  I  found  a  line  from  her  thanking  me  for 
all  I  had  done  and  telling  me  that  she  was  going;  she  was 
returning  to  Paris;  she  gave  no  address." 

"And  she  did  not  write  again?" 

"  Not  again." 

Once  more  Christophe  saw  her  sad  face  disappear  into  the 
night;  once  more  he  saw  her  eyes  for  a  moment  just  as  he 
had  seen  them  for  the  last  time  looking  at  him  through  the 
carrit  ge  window. 

The  enigma  of  France  was  once  more  set  before  him  more 


40(i  JFAX-CT1RISTOPIIF 

insistently  than  ever.  Christophe  never  tired  of  asking  Fran 
Rehihart  about  the  country  which  she  pretended  to  know  so 
well.  And  Frau  Peinhart  who  had  never  In -en  there  was  not, 
reluctant  to  tell  him  about  it.  Reinhart.  a  good  patriot,  full 
of  prejudices  against  France,  which  he  knew  better  than  his 
wife,  sometimes  used  to  qualify  her  remarks  when  her  enthu- 
siasm went  too  far;  but  she  would  repeal  her  assertions  only  the 
more  vigorously,  and  Christopho.  knowing-  noihing  ai  all  about 
it,  hacked  her  up  confidently. 

What,  was  more  precious  even  than  Lili  Roinhart's  memories 
were  her  books.  She  had  a  small  library  of  French  hooks: 
school  hooks,  a  few  novels,  a  few  volumes  bought  at  random. 
Christophe,  greedy  of  knowledge  and  ignorant  of  France, 
thought  them  a  treasure  when  Keinhart  went  and  got  them  for 
him  and  put  them  at  his  disposal. 

ITe  began  with  volumes  of  select  passages,  old  school  hooks, 
which  had  been  used  by  Lili  Rcinhart  or  her  husband  in  their 
school  days.  Reinhart  had  assured  him  that  he  must  begin 
with  them  if  he  wished  to  find  his  way  about  French  literature, 
which  was  absolutely  unknown  to  him.  Christophe  was  full 
of  respect  for  those  who  knew  more  than  himself,  and  obeyed 
religiously;  and  that  very  evening  he  began  to  read.  He  tried 
first  of  all  to  take  stock  of  the  riches  in  his  possession. 

ITe  made  the  acquaintance  of  certain  French  writers,  namely  : 
Thedore-ITcnri  Barrau.  Francois  Petis  do  la  Croix.  Frederic 
Baudry,  Emile  "Dolerot,  Charles-Augusto-Desire  Filon,  Sam- 
uel Descombax.  and  Prosper  Baur.  lie  read  the  poetry 
of  Abbe  -Joseph  Keyre.  Pierre  Lachamhaudic.  the  Due  de 
Xivernois.  Andre  van  llasselt.  Andrieux,  Madame  Colei. 
Constance-Marie  Prinees>e  de  Salm-Dyck.  TIenriette  Hoi- 
lard,  Gabriel-.Tcan-Bapt  iste-Ernest-Wilfrid  Legouve.  1  lip- 
polyto  A'ioleau.  .lean  Rehoul.  .lean  Racine,  .lean  de  Bcranger. 
Frederic  Bechard.  (Justavc  Xadaud.  Hdouard  Ploiivier.  Eugene 
Mnniiel.  Hugo.  Millcvoye.  (Mieiieilolle.  James  Lacour  "Delatre. 
Felix  Cliavannes.  Fraiicis-fidouard-Joachim,  known  as  Francois 
(*i»ppee.  and  Louis  Uehnontet.  ((hristo])he  was  lost,  drowned, 
submerged  under  such  a  deluge  of  poetry  and  turned  to  prose. 
lie  found  C.ustave  de  Moliuari.  Flechier.  Ferdinand-fidouard 
Buisson.  Merimee.  ^laltc'-Iiniu.  Voltaire.  Lame-Fleurv.  Dumas 


REVOLT  107 

pere,  J.-J.  Rousseau,  Mezieres,  Mirabeau.  de  Mazade,  Claretie. 
Cortambert,  Frederic  II,  and  M.  de  Vogue.  Tlie  most 
often  quoted  of  Frencli  historians  was  Maximilian  Samson- 
Frederic  Schoell.  In  the  French  anthology  Christophe 
found  the  Proclamation  of  the  New  German  Empire; 
and  he  read  a  description  of  the  Germans  by  Frederic-Constant 
de  Rougemont,  in  which  lie  learned  that  "  the  German  was  born 
to  live  in  the  region  of  tlie  soul.  He  has  not  the  light  MOW;?/ 
gaiety  of  the  Frenchman.  His  is  a  great  soul;  hi*  affections  are 
tender  and  profound.  lie  is  indefatigable  in  toil  and  persever- 
ing in  enterprise.  There  is  ??o  more  moral  or  long-lived  people. 
Germany  has  an  extraordinary  number  of  writers.  She  has  the 
genius  of  art.  ^Yhile  the  inhabitants  of  other  countries  pride 
themselves  on  being  French,  English,  Spanish,  tJie  German  on 
tlie  oilier  hand  embraces  all  humanity  in  his  love.  And  though 
its  position  is  the  very  center  of  Europe  the  German  nation 
seems  to  be  at  once  the  heart  and  tlie  higher  reason  of 
humanity/' 

Christophe  closed  the  book,     lie  was  astonished  and  tired. 
He  thought: 

"The  French  are  good  fellows:  but  they  are  not  strong." 
He  took  another  volume.  It  was  on  a  higher  plane :  it  was 
meant  for  high  schools.  Mussct  occupied  three  pages,  and 
Victor  Duruy  thirty,  Lamartine  seven  pages  and  Thiers  almost 
forty.  The  whole  of  the  Cid  was  included — or  almost  the 
whole: — (ten  monologues  of  Don  Diegue  and  Rodrigue  had 
been  suppressed  because  they  were  too  long.) — Lanfrey  exalted 
Prussia  against  Xapoleon  I  and  so  he  had  not  been  cut  down  ; 
he  alone  occupied  more  space  than  all  the  great  classics  of  the 
eighteenth  century.  Copious  narrations  of  the  French  defeats 
of  1870  had  been  extracted  from  La  Debacle  of  Zola.  .Neither 
Montaigne,  nor  La  Rochefoucauld,  nor  La  Bruye.re.  nor  Diderot, 
nor  Stendhal,  nor  Balzac,  nor  Flaubert  appeared.  On  the  other 
hand,  Pascal,  who  did  not  appear  in  the  other  book,  found  a 
place  in  this  as  a  curiosity:  and  Christophe  learned  by  the 
way  that  the  convulsionary  "  was  one  of  the  futln'rs  of  Port- 
Royal,  a  girls'  school,  near  J'ari* 

*The  anthologies  of  French  literature  which  Jean-C'hristophe  bor- 
rowed from  his  friends  the  Keinharis  were: 


-198  JEAX-CHRISTOPHE 

Christophe  was  on  the  point  of  throwing  the  hook  away; 
his  head  was  swimming;  he  could  not  sec.  He  said  to  himself: 
"  I  shall  never  get  through  with  it."  He  could  not  formulate 
any  opinion.  He  turned  over  the  leaves  idly  for  hours  without 
knowing  what  he  was  reading.  He  did  not  read  French  easily, 
and  when  he  had  labored  to  make  out  a  passage,  it  was  almost 
always  something  meaningless  and  highfalutin. 

And  yet  from  the  chaos  there  darted  flashes  of  light,  like 
rapier  thrusts,  words  that  looked  and  stabbed,  heroic  laughter. 
Gradually  an  impression  emerged  from  his  first  reading, 
perhaps  through  the  biased  scheme  of  the  selections.  Volun- 
tarily or  involuntarily  the  German  editors  had  selected  those 
pieces  of  French  which  could  seem  to  establish  by  the  testimony 
of  the  French  themselves  the  failings  of  the  French  and  the 
superiority  of  the  Germans.  But  they  had  no  notion  that  what 
they  most  exposed  to  the  eyes  of  an  independent  mind  like 
Christophe's  was  the  surprising  liberty  of  these  Frenchmen 
who  criticised  everything  in  tlieir  own  country  and  praised 
their  adversaries.  Michel et  praised  Frederick  II,  Lanfrey  the 
English  of  Trafalgar,  Charms  the  Prussia  of  181:5.  Xo  enemy 
of  Xapolcon  had  ever  dared  to  speak  of  him  so  harshly.  Xoth- 
ing  was  too  greatly  respected  to  escape  their  disparagement. 
Even  under  the  great  King  the  previous  poets  had  had  their 
freedom  of  speech.  Moliere  spared  nothing.  La  Fontaine 
laughed  at  everything.  Even  Boileau  gibed  at  the  nobles.  Vol- 
taire derided  war,  flogged  religion,  scoffed  at  his  counti'v.  Mor- 
alists, satirists,  pamphleteers,  comic  writers,  they  all  vied  one 
w7ith  another  in  gay  or  somber  audacity.  Want  of  respect  was 
universal.  The  honest  German  editors  were  sometimes  scared 
by  it,  they  had  to  throw  a  rope  to  tlieir  consciences  by 
trying  to  excuse  Pascal,  who  lumped  together  cooks,  porters, 
soldiers,  and  camp  followers;  they  protested  in  a  note  that 
Pascal  would  not  have  written  thus  if  he  had  been  acquainted 

I.  Selected  I-'reurJi   /nixxu IK-*  for  tfic  line  of  xccoiHluri/  schools,  by 
Hubert  II.  Wingerath.  Ph.  I).,  dim-tor  of  the  real-school  of  Saint  John 
at  Strasburi,'.     Part    II:    Middle  forms. — 7th    Edition.    IDOL*.    Dinnont- 
Schauberg. 

II.  I..    Herri;:  and  (1.   F.  I'urtruy  :   Litcrarii  I-'nnice.  arranged   by  E. 
Tenderin.tr.     director     of     the     ival-iryniiiasium     of     the     Johaimeum, 
Hamburg. — 1!)04.  Brunswick. 


KEVOLT  499 

with  the  noble  armies  of  modern  times.  They  did  not  fail  to 
remind  the  reader  how  happily  Lessing  had  corrected  the 
Fables  of  La  Fontaine  by  following,  for  instance,  the  advice 
of  the  Genevese  Rousseau  and  changing  the  piece  of  cheese  of 
Master  Crow  to  a  piece  of  poisoned  meat  of  which  the  vile  fox 
dies. 

"May  you  never  gain  anything  but  poison.  You  cursed 
flatterers!  " 

They  blinked  at  naked  truth ;  but  Christophe  was  pleased  with 
it;  he  loved  this  light.  Here  and  there  he  was  even  a  little 
shocked;  he  was  not  used  to  such  unbridled  independence 
which  looks  like  anarchy  to  the  eyes  even  of  the  freest  of 
Germans,  who  in  spite  of  everything  is  accustomed  to  order 
and  discipline.  And  he  was  led  astray  by  the  way  of  the 
French;  he  took  certain  tilings  too  seriously;  and  other  things 
which  were  implacable  denials  seemed  to  him  to  be  amusing 
paradoxes.  No  matter !  Surprised  or  shocked  he  was  drawn 
on  little  by  little.  He  gave  up  trying  to  classify  his  impres- 
sions; he  passed  from  one  feeling  to  another;  he  lived.  The 
gaiety  of  the  French  stories — Chamfort,  Segur,  Dumas  pere, 
Merimee  all  lumped  together — delighted  him :  and  every  now 
and  then  in  gusts  there  would  creep  forth  from  the  printed 
page  the  wild  intoxicating  scent  of  the  Revolutions. 

It  was  nearly  dawn  when  Louisa,  who  slept  in  the  next  room, 
woke  up  and  saw  the  light  through  the  chinks  of  Christophe's 
door.  She  knocked  on  the  wall  and  asked  if  he  were  ill.  A 
chair  creaked  on  the  floor:  the  door  opened  and  Christophe 
appeared,  pale,  in  his  nightgown,  with  a  candle  and  a  book 
in  his  hand,  making  strange,  solemn,  and  grotesque  gestures. 
Louisa  was  in  terror  and  got  up  in  her  bed,  thinking  that  lie 
was  mad.  He  began  to  laugh,  and,  waving  his  candle,  he  do- 
claimed  a  scene  from  Moliere.  In  the  middle  of  a  sentence  he 
gurgled  with  laughter;  he  sat  at  the  foot  of  his  mother's  bed 
to  take  breath;  the  candle  shook  in  his  hand.  Louisa  was  re- 
assured, and  scolded  him  forcibly : 

"What  is  the  matter  with  you?  What  is  it?  Go  to  bed- 
My  poor  boy,  are  you  going  out  of  your  senses?" 

But  he  began  again : 

"  You  must  listen  to  this '  " 


500  JKAX-CHRISTOPHE 

And  ho  sat  by  her  bedside  and  read  the  play,  going  back  to 
the  beginning  again.  He  seemed  to  sec  Corinne;  lie  heard  her 
mocking  tones,  cutting  and  sonorous.  Louisa  protested: 

"Go  away!  Go  away!  You  Avill  catch  cold.  How  tiresome 
you  are.  Let  me  go  to  sleep  !  "' 

He  went  on  relentlessly,  lie  raised  his  voice,  waved  his  arms, 
choked  with  laughter:  and  he  asked  his  mother  if  she  did  not 
think  it  wonderful.  Louisa  turned  her  back  on  him,  buried 
herself  in  the  bedclothes,  stopped  her  ears,  and  said: 

"Do  leave  me  alone!  .  .  ." 

But  she  laughed  inwardly  at  hearing  his  laugh.  At  last  she 
gave  up  pretesting.  And  when  Christophe  had  finished  the 
act,  and  asked  her,  without  eliciting  any  reply,  if  she  did  not 
think  what  he  had  read  interesting,  he  bent  over  her  and  saw 
that  she  was  asleep.  Then  he  smiled,  gently  kissed  her  hair, 
and  stole  back  to  his  own  room. 

He  borrowed  more  and  more  books  from  the  Beinharts1 
library.  There  were  all  sorts  of  books  in  it.  Ohristophe  de- 
voured them  all.  He  wanted  so  much  to  love  the  country  of 
Corinne  and  the  unknown  young  woman.  He  had  so  much 
enthusiasm  to  get  rid  of  that  he  found  a  use  for  it  in  his 
reading.  Even  in  second-rate  works  there  were  sentences  and 
pages  which  had  the  effect  on  him  of  a  gust  of  fresh  air.  He 
exaggerated  the  effect,  especially  when  he  was  talking  to  Fran 
Reinhart,  who  always  went  a  little  better  than  he.  Although 
she  was  as  ignorant  as  a  tisli.  she  delighted  to  contrast  French 
and  German  culture  and  to  decry  the  German  to  the  advan- 
tage of  the  French,  just  to  annoy  her  husband  and  to  avenge 
herself  for  the  boredom  she  had  to  suffer  in  the  little  town. 

Reinhart  was  really  amused.  Notwithstanding  his  learning, 
he  had  stopped  short  at  the  ideas  he  had  learned  at  school.  To 
him  the  French  were  a  clever  people,  skilled  in  practical  things, 
amiable,  talkative,  but  frivolous,  susceptible,  and  boastful,  in- 
capable of  being  serious,  or  sincere,  or  of  feeling  strongly — a 
people  without  music,  without  philosophy,  without  poetry  (ex- 
cept for  I'Arl  I.'oetiqni',  Beranger  and  Francois  Coppee) — a  peo- 
ple of  pathos,  much  gesticulation,  exaggerated  speech,  and  por- 
nography. There  were  not  words  strong  enough  for  the  do- 


REVOLT  501 

nunciation  of  Latin  immorality;  and  for  want  of  a  better  he 
always  came  back  to  frivolity,  which  for  him.  as  for  the  ma- 
jority of  his  compatriots,  had  a  particularly  unpleasant  mean- 
ing. And  lie  would  end  with  the  usual  couplet  in  praise  of  the 
noble  German  people, — the  moral  people  ("  lly  lit  at,"  Herder  has 
said,  "it  is  distinguished  from  all  other  nations.") — the  faith- 
ful people  (treues  Yolk  .  .  .  Trcu  meaning  everything:  sin- 
cere, faithful,  loyal  and  upright) — the  People  par  exccll<'ncr, 
as  Fiehte  says — German  Force,  the  symbol  of  justice  and  truth 
— German  thought — the  German  Gcmtit — the  German  language, 
the  only  original  language,  the  only  language  that,  like  the 
race  itself,  has  preserved  its  purity— German  women.  German 
wine,  German  song  .  .  .  "  Germany,  Germany  above  everything 
in  the  world! " 

Christophe  would  protest.  Frau  Reinhart  would  cry  out. 
They  would  all  shout.  They  did  not  get  on  the  less  for  it. 
They  knew  quite  well  that  they  were  all  three  good  Germans. 

Christophe  used  often  to  go  and  talk,  dine  and  walk  with 
his  new  friends.  Lili  Reinhart  made  much  of  him.  and  used 
to  cook  dainty  suppers  for  him.  She  was  delighted  to  have  the 
excuse  for  satisfying  her  own  greediness.  She  paid  him  all 
sorts  of  sentimental  and  culinary  attentions.  For  Christophe's 
birthday  she  made  a  cake,  on  which  were  tweniy  candles  and 
in  the  middle  a  little  wax  figure  in  Greek  costume  which  was 
supposed  to  represent  Iphigenia  holding  a  bouquet.  Chris- 
tophe, who  was  profoundly  German  in  spite  of  himself,  was 
touched  by  these  rather  blunt  and  not  very  refined  marks  of 
true  affection. 

The  excellent  Rcinharts  found  other  more  subtle  ways  of 
showing  their  real  friendship.  On  his  wife's  instigation 
Reinhart,  who  could  hardly  read  a  note  of  music,  had  bought 
twenty  copies  of  (.'hristophe's  Licilcr — (the  first  to  leave 
the  publisher's  shop) — be  bad  sent  them  to  dill'erent 
parts  of  Germany  to  university  acquaintances.  He  bad 
also  sent  a  certain  number  to  the  libraries  of  Ix.iipxig 
and  Berlin,  with  which  he  bad  dealings  through  his 
classbooks.  For  the  moment  at  least  their  touching  enter- 
prise, of  which  Christophe  knew  nothing,  bore  no  fruit.  The 
Lieder  which  had  been  scatten  d  broadcast  seemed  to  miss  fire; 


502  JEAN-CHBISTOPHE 

nol)ody  talked  of  them;  and  the  Reinharts,  who  were  hurt  hy 
this  indifference,  were  glad  they  had  not  told  Christophe  about 
what  they  had  done,  for  it  wonld  have  given  him  more  pain 
than  consolation.  But  in  truth  nothing  is  lost,  as  so  often 
appears  in  life;  no  effort  is  in  vain.  For  years  nothing  hap- 
pens. Then  one  day  it  appears  that  your  idea  has  made  its 
way.  It  was  impossible  to  he  sure  that  Christophe's  Liedcr 
had  not  reached  the  hearts  of  a  few  good  people  buried  in  the 
country,  Avlio  were  too  timid  or  too  tired  to  tell  him  so. 

One  person  wrote  to  him.  Two  or  three  months  after  the 
Reinharts  had  sent  them,  a  letter  came  for  Christophe.  Tt 
was  warm,  ceremonious,  enthusiastic,  old-fashioned  in  form, 
and  came  from  a  little  town  in  Thuringia,  and  was  signed 
"  Uni versit'd'ls  Miisikdirektor  Professor  Dr.  Peter  Sclnilz." 

It  was  a  great  joy  for  Christophe,  and  even  greater  for  the 
Eeinharts,  when  at  their  house  lie  opened  the  letter,  which  he 
had  left  lying  in  his  pocket  for  two  days.  They  read  it  to- 
gether. Reinhart  made  signs  to  his  wife  which  Christ ophe  did 
not  notice.  He  looked  radiant,  until  suddenly  Reinhart  saw 
his  face  grow  gloom}-,  and  he  stopped  dead  in  the  middle  of  his 
reading. 

"  Well,  why  do  you  stop  ?  "  he  asked. 

(They  used  the  familiar  dn.} 

Christophe  flung  the  letter  on  the  table  angrily. 

"  No.     It  is  too  much  !  "  he  said. 

"  What  is  ?  " 

"  Read ! " 

He  turned  away  and  went  and  sulked  in  a  corner. 

Reinhart  and  his  wife  read  the  letter,  and  could  find  in  it 
only  fcnent  admiration. 

"  I  don't  see,"  he  paid  in  astonishment. 

"You  don't  see?  You  don't  see?  .  .  ."  cried  Christophe, 
taking  the  letter  and  thrusting  it  in  his  face.  "  Can't  you 
read?  Don't  you  see  that  he  is  a  '  liraltniiu' '' ? 

And  then  Rcinhart  noticed  that  in  one  sentence  the  Univer- 
sitats  Musikdireklor  compared  Christophers  Lirdcr  with  those 
of  Brahms.  Christophe  moaned: 

"A  friend!  I  have  found  a  friend  at  last!  .  .  .  And  I 
have  hardlv  found  him  when  I  have  lost  him !  .  .  „" 


REVOLT  503 

The  comparison  revolted  him.  If  they  had  let  him,  he 
would  have  replied  with  a  stupid  letter,  or  perhaps,  upon  re- 
flection, he  would  have  thought  himself  very  prudent  and 
generous  in  not  replying  at  all.  Fortunately,  the  Reinharts 
were  amused  by  his  ill-humor,  and  kept  him  from  committing 
any  further  absurdity.  They  succeeded  in  making  him  write 
a  letter  of  thanks.  lUit  the  letter,  written  reluctantly,  was  cold 
and  constrained.  The  enthusiasm  of  iYter  Schulz  was  not 
shaken  by  it.  He  sent  two  or  three  more  letters,  brimming 
over  with  affection.  Christophe  was  not  a  good  correspondent, 
arid  although  he  was  a  little  reconciled  to  his  unknown  friend 
by  the  sincerity  and  real  sympathy  which  he  could  feel  behind 
his  words,  he  let  the  correspondence  drop.  Schulz  wrote  no 
more.  Christophe  never  thought  about  him. 

lie  now  saw  the  Reinhart  s  every  day  and  frequently  s&veral 
times  a  day.  They  spent  almost  all  the  evenings  together. 
After  spending  the  day  alone  in  concentration  he  had  a  physi- 
cal need  of  talking,  of  saying  everything  that  was  in  his  mind, 
even  if  he  were  not  understood,  and  of  laughing  with  or  with- 
out reason,  of  expanding  and  stretching  himself. 

He  played  for  them.  Having  no  other  means  of  showing  his 
gratitude,  he  would  sit  at  the  piano  and  play  for  hours  to- 
gether. Fran  Reinhart  was  no  musician,  and  she  had  ditli- 
culty  in  keeping  herself  from  yawning;  but  she  sympathized 
with  Christophe,  and  pretended  to  be  interested  in  everything 
he  played.  Reinhart  was  not  much  more  of  a  musician  than  his 
wife,  but  was  sometimes  touched  quite  materiallv  by  certain 
pieces  of  music,  certain  passages,  certain  bars,  and  then  he 
would  1)0  violently  moved  sometimes  even  to  tears,  and  that 
seemed  silly  to  him.  The  rest  of  the  time  he  felt  nothing:  it 
was  just  music  to  him.  That  was  the  general  rule,  lie  was 
never  moved  except  bv  the  hast  good  passages  of  a  composition 
— absolutely  insignificant  passages.  Both  of  them  persuaded 
themselves  that  they  understood  C'hristophe,  and  Chrisiophe 
tried  to  pretend  that  it  was  so.  Everv  now  and  then  he  would 
be  seized  by  a  wicked  desire  to  make  fun  of  ibein.  He  would 
lay  traps  for  them  and  play  things  without  any  meaning,  inapt 
potpourris:  and  he  would  let  'hem  think  that  he  had  com- 


504  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

posed  them.  Then,  when  they  had  admired  it,  he  would  tell 
them  what  it  was.  Then  they  would  grow  wary,  and  when 
Christophe  played  them  a  piece  with  an  air  of  mystery,  they 
would  imagine  that  he  was  trying  to  catch  them  again,  and 
they  would  criticise  it.  Christophe  would  let  them  go  on  and 
back  them  up,  and  argue  that  such  music  was  worthless,  and 
then  he  would  hreak  out : 

"  Eascals !  You  are  right !  .  .  .  It  is  my  own !  "  He 
would  be  as  happy  as  a  boy  at  having  taken  them  in.  Frau 
Keinhart  would  be  cross  and  come  and  give  him  a  little  slap; 
but  he  would  laugh  so  good-humoredly  that  they  would  laugh 
with  him.  They  did  not  pretend  to  be  infallible.  And  as 
they  had  no  leg  to  stand  on,  Lili  Keinhart  would  criticise  every- 
thing and  her  husband  would  praise  everything,  and  so  they 
were  certain  that  one  or  other  of  them  would  always  be  in 
agreement  with  Christophe. 

For  the  rest,  it  was  not  so  much  the  musician  that  attracted 
them  in  Christophe  as  the  crack-brained  boy,  with  his  affec- 
tionate ways  and  true  reality  of  life.  The  ill  that  they  had 
heard  spoken  of  him  had  rather  disposed  them  in  his  favor. 
Like  him,  they  were  rather  oppressed  by  the  atmosphere  of  tht 
little  town;  like  him,  they  were  frank,  they  judged  for  them- 
selves, and  they  regarded  him  as  a  great  baby,  not  very  clever 
in  the  ways  of  life,  and  the  victim  of  his  own  frankness. 

Christophe  was  not  under  many  illusions  concerning  his  new 
friends,  and  it  made  him  sad  to  think  that  they  did  not  under- 
stand the  depths  of  his  character,  and  that  they  would  never 
understand  it.  But  he  was  so  much  deprived  of  friendship  and 
he  stood  in  such  sore  need  of  it,  that  he  was  infinitely  grateful 
to  them  for  wanting  to  like  him  a  little.  He  had  learned 
wisdom  in  his  experiences  of  the  last  year;  he  no  longer 
thought  he  had  the  right  to  be  overwise.  Two  years  earlier 
he  would  not  have  been  so  patient.  He  remembered  with  amuse- 
ment and  remorse  his  severe  judgment  of  the  honest  and  tire- 
some Eulers!  Alas!  How  wisdom  had  grown  in  him!  He 
sighed  a  little.  A  secret  voice  whispered:  "Yes,  but  for  how 
long?" 

That  made  him  smile  and  consoled  him  a  little.  What 
would  he  not  have  given  to  have  a  friend,  one  friend  who 


REVOLT  505 

would  understand  him  and  share  his  soul !  But  although  he 
was  still  young  he  had  enough  experience  of  the  world  to  know 
that  his  desire  was  one  of  those  which  are  most  difficult  to 
realize  in  life,  and  that  he  could  not  hope  to  he  happier  than 
the  majority  of  the  true  artists  who  had  gone  before  him.  lie 
had  learned  the  histories  of  some  of  them.  Certain  hooks,  bor- 
rowed from  the  Reinharts,  had  told  him  about  the  terrible 
trials  through  which  the  German  musicians  of  the  seventeenth 
century  had  passed,  and  the  calmness  and  resolution  with  which 
one  of  these  great  souls — the  greatest  of  all,  the  heroic  Schiitz — 
had  striven,  as  unshakably  he  went  on  his  way  in  the  midst 
of  wars  and  burning  towns,  and  provinces  ravaged  by  the 
plague,  with  his  country  invaded,  trampled  underfoot  by  the 
hordes  of  all  Europe,  and — worst  of  all — broken,  worn  out, 
degraded  by  misfortune,  making  no  fight,  indifferent  to  every- 
thing, longing  only  for  rest.  He  thought:  ".With  such  an 
example,  what  right  has  any  man  to  complain?  They  had 
no  audience,  they  had  no  future;  they  wrote  for  themselves  and 
God.  What  they  wrote  one  day  would  perhaps  be  destroyed 
by  the  next.  And  yet  they  went  on  writing  and  they  were  not 
sad.  Nothing  made  them  lose  their  intrepidity,  their  joviality. 
They  were  satisfied  with  their  song;  they  asked  nothing  of 
life  but  to  live,  to  earn  their  daily  bread,  to  express  their 
ideas,  and  to  find  a  few  honest  men,  simple,  true,  not  artists, 
who  no  doubt  did  not  understand  them,  but  had  confidence  in 
them  and  won  their  confidence  in  return.  ITow  dared  he 
have  demanded  more  than  they?  There  is  a  minimum  of  hap- 
piness which  it  is  permitted  to  demand.  But  no  man  has  the 
right  to  more;  it  rests  with  a  man's  self  to  gain  the  surplus  of 
happiness,  not  with  others." 

Such  thoughts  brought  him  new  serenity,  and  he  loved  his 
good  friends  the  Reinharts  the  more  for  them.  He  had  no 
idea  that  even  this  affection  was  to  be  denied  him. 

He  reckoned  without  the  malevolence  of  small  town?.  They 
are  tenacious  in  their  spite — all  the  more  tenacious  because  their 
spite  is  aimless.  A  healthy  hatred  which  knows  what  it  wants 
is  appeased  when  it  has  achieved  its  end.  But  men  who  are 
mischievous  from  boredom  never  lav  down  their  arms,  for 


500  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

they  arc  always  bored.  Christophe  was  a  natural  prey  for 
their  want  cf  occupation.  lie  was  beaten  without  a  doubt; 
but  he  was  bold  enough  not  to  seem  crushed.  lie  did  not 
bother  anybody,  but  then  he  did  not  bother  about  anybody. 
He  asked  nothing.  They  were  impotent  against  him.  He 
was  happy  wiih  his  new  friends  and  indifferent  to  anything 
that  was  said  or  thought  of  him.  That  was  intolerable.— Frau 
Eeinhart  roused  even  more  irritation.  Her  open  friendship 
with  Christophe  in  the  face  of  the  whole  town  seemed,  like  his 
attitude,  to  bo  a  defiance  of  public  opinion.  But  the  good  Lili 
Reinhart  defied  nothing  and  nobody.  She  had  no  thought  to 
provoke  others;  she  did  what  she  thought  fit  without  asking 
anybody  else's  advice.  That  was  the  worst  provocation. 

All  their  doings  were  watched.  They  had  no  idea  of  it. 
He  was  extravagant,  she  scatter-brained,  and  both  even  want- 
ing in  prudence-  when  they  wont  out  together,  or  even  at  home 
in  the  evening,  when  they  leaned  over  the  halcony  talking  and 
laughing.  They  drifted  innocently  into  a  familiarity  of  speech 
and  manner  which  could  easily  supply  food  for  calumnv. 

One  morning  Christophc  received  an  anonymous  letter.  He 
was  accused  in  basely  insulting  terms  of  being  Krau  Hoin- 
hart's  lover.  His  arms  fell  by  his  sides.  He  had  never  had 
the  least  thought  of  love  or  even  of  flirtation  with  her.  He 
was  too  honest.  He  had  a  Puritanical  horror  of  adultery. 
The  very  idea  of  such  a  dirty  sharing  gave  him  a  physical  and 
moral  feeling  of  nausea.  To  take  the  wife  of  a  friend  would 
have  been  a  crime  in  his  eyes,  and  Lili  l\einhart  would  have 
been  the  last  person  in  the  world  Avith  Avhom  he  could  have 
been  tempted  to  commit  such  an  offense.  Tin?  poor  Avoman 
was  not  beautiful,  and  he  Avould  not  have  had  even  the  excuse 
of  passion. 

He  Avent  to  his  friends  ashamed  and  embarrassed.  They 
also  Avero  embarrassed.  Haeh  of  them  had  received  a  similar 
letter,  but  they  had  not  dared  to  toll  each  other,  and  all  three 
of  them  Avcre  on  their  guard  and  watched  each  other  and  dared 
not  move  or  speak,  and  they  just  talked  nonsense.  If  Lili 
Ueinhart's  natural  carelessness  took-  the  ascendant  for  a  mo- 
ment, or  if  she  began  to  laugh  and  talk  wildly,  suddenly  a 
look  from  her  husband  or  Christophe  would  stop  her  dead; 


REVOLT  507 

the  letter  would  cross  her  mind;  she  would  stop  in  the  middle 
of  a  familiar  gesture  and  prow  uneasy.  Christophe  and  Bein- 
hart  were  in  the  same  plight.  And  each  of  them  was  thinking: 
"  Do  the  others  know  ?  " 

However,  tliey  said  nothing  to  each  other  and  tried  to  go 
on  as  though  nothing  had  happened. 

But  the  anonymous  letters  went  on.  growing  more  and  more 
insulting  and  dirty.  They  were  plunged  into  a  condition  of 
depression  and  intolerable  shame.  They  hid  themselves  when 
they  received  the  letters,  and  had  not  the  strength  to  burn 
them  unopened.  They  opened  them  with  trembling  hands, 
and  as  they  unfolded  the  letters  their  hearts  would  sink;  and 
when  they  read  what  they  feared  to  read,  with  some  new  vari- 
ation on  the  same  theme — the  injurious  and  ignoble  inven- 
tions of  a  mind  bent  on  causing  a  hurt — they  wept  in  silence. 
They  racked  their  brains  to  discover  who  the  wretch  might  be 
who  so  persistently  persecuted  them. 

One  day  Fran  Beinhart,  at  the  end  of  her  letter,  confessed 
the  persecution  of  which  she  was  the  victim  to  her  husband, 
and  with  tears  in  his  eyes  he  confessed  that  he  was  suffering 
in  the  same  way.  Should  they  mention  it  to  Christophe? 
They  dared  not.  But  they  had  to  warn  him  to  make  him  be 
cautious. — At  the  first  words  that  Fran  Beinhart  said  to  him, 
with  a  blush,  she  saw  to  her  horror  that  Christophe  had  also 
received  letters.  Such  utter  malignance  appalled  them.  Fran 
Beinhart  had  710  doubt  that  the  whole  town  was  in  the  secret. 
Instead  of  helping  each  other,  they  only  undermined  each 
other's  fortitude.  They  did  not  know  what  to  do.  Chris- 
tophe talked  of  breaking  somebody's  head. — But  whose?  And 
besides,  that  would  be  to  justify  the  calumny!  .  .  .  Inform 
the  police  of  the  letters? — That  would  make  their  insinuations 
public.  .  .  .  Pretend  to  ignore  them?  It  was  no  longer  pos- 
sible. Their  friendly  relations  were  now  disturbed.  It  was 
useless  for  Beinhart  to  have  absolute  faith  in  the  honesty  of 
his  wife  and  Christophe.  He  suspected  them  in  spite  of  him- 
self. He  felt  that  his  suspicions  were  shameful  and  absurd, 
and  tried  hard  not  to  pay  any  heed  to  them,  and  to  leave  Chris- 
tophe and  his  wife  alone  together.  But  he  suffered,  and  his 
wife  saw  that  he  was  suffering. 


508  JEAN-CHEISTOPHE 

It  was  even  worse  for  her.  She  had  never  thought  of  flirt- 
ing with  Chnstophe,  any  more  than  he  had  thought  of  it  with 
her.  The  calumnious  letters  brought  her  imperceptibly  to  the 
ridiculous  idea  that  after  all  Christophe  was  perhaps  in  love 
with  her;  and  although  he  was  never  anywhere  near  showing 
any  such  feeling  for  her,  she  thought  she  must  defend  herself, 
not  by  referring  directly  to  it,  but  by  clumsy  precautions, 
which  Christophe  did  not  understand  at  first,  though,  when  he 
did  understand,  he  was  beside  himself.  It  was  so  stupid  that 
it  made  him  laugh  and  cry  at  the  same  time !  He  in  love 
with  the  honest  little  woman,  kind  enough  as  she  was,  but 
plain  and  common !  .  .  .  And  to  think  that  she  should  be- 
lieve it !  ...  And  that  he  could  not  deny  it,  and  tell  her 
and  her  husband: 

"  Come !  There  is  no  danger !  Be  calm  !  .  .  ."  But  no ; 
he  could  not  offend  these  good  people.  And  besides,  he  was 
beginning  to  think  that  if  she  held  out  against  being  loved  by 
him  it  was  because  she  was  secretly  on  the  point  of  loving  him. 
The  anonymous  letters  had  had  the  fine  result  of  having  given 
him  so  foolish  and  fantastic  an  idea. 

The  situation  had  become  at  once  so  painful  and  so  silly 
that  it  was  impossible  for  this  to  go  on.  Beside?.  Lili  TJein- 
hart,  who,  in  spite  of  her  brave  words,  had  no  strength  of 
character,  lost  her  head  in  the  face  of  the  dumb  hostility  of 
the  little  town.  They  made  shamefaced  excuses  for  not 
meeting  : 

"  Frau  T?einhart  was  unwell.  .  .  .  Eeinhart  was  busy.  .  .  . 
They  were  going  away  for  a  few  days.  .  .  ." 

Clumsy  lies  which  were  always  unmasked  by  chance,  which 
seemed  to  take  a  malicious  pleasure  in  doing  so. 

Christophe  was  more  frank,  and  said: 

"  Let  us  part,  my  friends.     We  arc  not  strong  enough." 

The  Eeinharts  wept. — But  they  were  happier  when  the  breach 
was  made. 

The  town  had  its  triumph.  This  time  Christophe  was  quite 
alone.  It  had  robbed  him  of  his  last  breath  of  air : — the  af- 
fection, however  humble,  without  which  no  heart  can  live. 


REVOLT  509 

III 

DELIVERANCE 

HE  had  no  one.  All  his  friends  had  disappeared.  His  dear 
Gottfried,  who  had  come  to  his  aid  in  times  of  difficulty,  and 
whom  now  he  so  sorely  needed,  had  gone  some  months  before. 
This  time  forever.  One  evening  in  the  summer  of  the  last  year  a 
letter  in  large  handwriting,  bearing  the  address  of  a  distant  vil- 
lage, had  informed  Louisa  that  her  brother  had  died  upon  one  of 
his  vagabond  journeys  which  the  little  peddler  had  insisted 
on  making,  in  spite  of  his  ill  health.  He  was  buried  there  in 
the  cemetery  of  the  place.  The  last  manly  and  serene  friend- 
ship which  could  have  supported  Christophe  had  been  swal- 
lowed up.  He  was  left  alone  with  his  old  mother,  who  cared 
nothing  for  his  ideas — could  only  love  him  and  not  understand 
him.  About  him  was  the  immense  plain  of  Germany,  the 
green  ocean.  At  every  attempt  to  climb  out  of  it  he  only 
slipped  back  deeper  than  ever.  The  hostile  town  watched  him 
drown.  .  .  . 

And  as  he  was  struggling  a  light  flashed  upon  him  in  the 
middle  of  the  night,  the  image  of  Hassler,  the  great  musician 
whom  he  had  loved  so  much  when  he  was  a  child.  His  fame 
shone  over  all  Germany  now.  He  remembered  the  promises 
that  Hassler  had  made  him  then.  And  he  clung  to  this  piece 
of  wreckage  in  desperation.  Hassler  could  save  him !  Hassler 
must  save  him!  What  was  he  asking?  Xot  help,  nor  money. 
nor  material  assistance  of  any  kind.  Xothing  but  understand- 
ing. Hassler  had  been  persecuted  like  him.  Hassler  was  a 
free  man.  He  would  understand  a  free  man,  whom  German 
mediocrity  was  pursuing  with  its  spite  and  trying  to  crush. 
They  were  fighting  the  same  battle. 

He  carried  the  idea  into  execution  as  soon  as  it  occurred 
to  him.  He  told  his  mother  that  he  would  be  away  for  a 
week,  and  that  very  evening  he  took  the  train  for  the  great 


510  JEAX-CHBISTO  PII  K 

town  in  tho  north  of  Germany  whore  Ilasslor  was  Kapellmeister. 
He  could  not  wait.     It  was  a  last  effort  to  breathe. 

Ilasslor  was  famous.  ITis  enemies  had  not  disarmed,  but  his 
friends  cried  that  he  was  the  greatest  musician,  present,  past 
and  future.  ITo  was  surrounded  by  partisans  and  detractors  who 
were  equally  absurd.  As  he  was  not  of  a  very  firm  character, 
he  had  been  embittered  by  the  last,  and  mollified  by  the  first. 
He  devoted  his  energy  to  writing  tilings  to  annoy  his  critics 
and  make  them  cry  out.  He  was  like  an  urchin  playing  pranks. 
These  pranks  were  often  in  the  most  detestable  taste.  Not 
only  did  he  devote  his  prodigious  talent  to  musical  eccentrici- 
ties which  made  the  hair  of  the  pontiffs  stand  on  end,  but  he 
showed  a  perverse  predilection  for  queer  themes,  bizarre  sub- 
jects, and  often  for  equivocal  and  scabrous  situations:  in  a 
word,  for  everything  which  could  offend  ordinary  good  sense 
and  decency.  He  was  quite  happy  when  the  people  howled, 
and  the  people  did  not  fail  him.  Even  the  Emperor,  who 
dabbled  in  art,  as  every  one  knows,  with  the  insolent  presump- 
tion of  upstarts  and  princes,  regarded  TTnsslors  fame  as  a 
public  scandal,  and  let  no  opportunity  slip  of  showing  his 
contemptuous  indi (Terence  to  his  impudent  works.  Hassler 
was  enraged  and  delighted  by  such  august  opposition,  which 
had  almost  become  a  consecration  for  the  advanced  paths  in 
German  art,  and  went  on  smashing  windows.  At  every  new 
folly  his  friends  went  into  ecstasies  and  cried  that  he  was  a 
genius. 

Hassler's  coterie  was  chiefly  composed  of  writers,  painters, 
and  decadent  critics  who  certainly  had  the  merit  of  represent- 
ing the  parly  of  revolt  against  the  reaction — al \vays  a  menace  in 
North  Germany — of  the  pietistie  spirit  and  State  morality: 
but  in  the  struggle  the  independence  had  been  carried  to  a 
pitch  of  absurdity  of  which  tbey  were  unconscious.  For.  if 
many  of  them  were  not  lacking  in  a  rude  sort  of  talent,  they 
had  little  intelligence1  and  less  taste.  Tbey  could  not  rise  above 
the  fastidious  atmosphere  which  they  had  created,  and  like 
all  cliques,  they  had  ended  by  losing  all  sense  of  real  life. 
They  legislated  for  themselves  and  hundreds  of  fools  who  road 
their  reviews  and  gulped  down  everything  they  were  pleased  to 


REVOLT  511 

promulgate.  Their  adulation  had  been  fatal  to  Hauler,  for  it 
had  made  him  too  pleased  with  himself.  He  accepted  without 
examination  every  musical  idea  that  came  into  his  head,  and 
he  had  a  private  conviction,  however  he  might  fall  below  his 
own  level,  he  was  still  superior  to  that  of  all  other  musicians. 
And  though  that  idea  was  onty  too  true  in  the  majority  of 
cases,  it  did  not  follow  that  it  was  a  very  fit  state  of  mind 
for  the  creation  of  great  works.  At  heart  Hassler  had  n 
supreme  contempt  for  everybody,  friends  and  enemies  alike; 
and  this  bitter  jeering  contempt  was  extended  to  himself  and  life 
in  general.  He  was  all  the  more  driven  back  into  his 
ironic  skepticism  because  he  had  once  believed  in  a  number 
of  generous  and  simple  things.  As  he  had  not  been  strong 
enough  to  ward  off  the  slow  destruction  of  the  passing  of  the 
days,  nor  hypocritical  enough  to  pretend  to  believe  in  the 
faith  he  had  lost,  he  was  forever  gibing  at  the  memory  of  it. 
He  was  of  a  Southern  German  nature,  soft  and  indolent,  not 
made  to  resist  excess  of  fortune  or  misfortune,  of  heat  or  cold, 
needing  a  moderate  temperature  to  preserve  its  balance.  He 
had  drifted  insensibly  into  a  lazy  enjoyment  of  life.  He  loved 
good  food,  heavy  drinking,  idle  lounging,  and  sensuous  thoughts. 
His  whole  art  smacked  of  these  things,  although  he  was  too 
gifted  for  the  flashes  of  his  genius  not  still  to  shine  forth  from 
his  lax  music  which  drifted  with  the  fashion.  Xo  one  was 
more  conscious  than  himself  of  his  decay.  In  truth,  he  was 
the  only  one  to  be  conscious  of  it — at  rare  moments  which, 
naturally,  be  avoided.  I'esides.  he  was  misanthropic,  absorbed 
by  his  fearful  moods,  his  egoistic  preoccupations,  his  concern 
about  his  health— he  was  indifferent  to  everything  which  had 
formerly  excited  his  enthusiasm  or  hatred. 

Such  was  the  man  to  whom  Christophe  came  for  assistance. 
With  what  joy  and  hope  he  arrived,  one  cold,  wet  morning. 
in  the  town  wherein  then  lived  the  man  who  symbolized  for 
him  the  spirit  of  independence  in  his  art!  lie  expected  words 
of  friendship  and  encouragement  from  him — words  lhat  he 
needed  to  help  him  to  go  on  with  the  ungrateful,  inevitable 
battle  which  every  true  artist  has  to  wage  against  the  world 
until  he  breathes  his  last,  without  even  for  one  dav  laving 


512  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

down  his  arms;  for,,  as  Schiller  has  said,  "  the  only  relation 
with  the  public  of  which  a  man  never  repents  —  is  war." 

Christophe  was  so  impatient  that  he  just  left  his  bag  at 
the  first  hotel  he  came  to  near  the  station,  and  then  ran  to 
the  theater  to  find  out  Hassler's  address.  Hassler  lived  some 
way  from  the  center  of  the  town,  in  one  of  the  suburbs.  Chris- 
tophe took  an  electric  train,  and  hungrily  ate  a  roll.  His  heart 
thumped  as  he  approached  his  goal. 

The  district  in  which  Hassler  had  chosen  his  house  was 
almost  entirely  built  in  that  strange  new  architecture  into 
which  young  Germany  has  thrown  an  erudite  and  deliberate 
barbarism  struggling  laboriously  to  have  genius.  In  the  middle 
of  the  commonplace  town,  with  its  straight,  characterless 
streets,  there  suddenly  appeared  Egyptian  hypogea,  Norwegian 
chalets,  cloisters,  bastions,  exhibition  pavilions,  pot-bellied 
houses,  fakirs,  buried  in  the  ground,  with  expressionless  faces, 
with  only  one  enormous  eye;  dungeon  gates,  ponderous  gates, 
iron  hoops,  golden  cryptograms  on  the  panes  of  grated  windows, 
belching  monsters  over  the  front  door,  blue  porcelain  tiles 
plastered  on  in  most  unexpected  places;  variegated  mosaics  rep- 
resenting Adam  and  Eve;  roofs  covered  with  tiles  of  jarring 
colors;  houses  like  citadels  with  castellated  walls,  deformed 
animals  on  the  roofs,  no  windows  on  one  side,  and  then  sud- 
denly, close  to  each  other,  gaping  holes,  square,  red,  angular, 
triangular,  like  wounds;  great  stretches  of  empty  wall  from 
which  suddenly  there  would  spring  a  massive  balcony  with  one 
window  —  a  balcony  supported  by  Xibehmgesquc  Caryatides,  bal- 
conies from  which  there  peered  through  the  stone  balustrade 
two  pointed  heads  of  old  men,  bearded  and  long-haired,  mer- 
men of  Beeeklin.  On  the  front  of  one  of  these  prisons  —  a  Pha- 
raohesque  mansion,  low  and  one-storied,  with  two  naked  giants 
at  the  gate  —  the  architect  had  written: 

Let  the  artist  show  his  universe, 
Which  never  was  and  yet  will  ever  be. 


Seine  Welt  CT///C  dcr 

Die  nicmaJa  icar  iiocli   jcmals  sein  icird. 

Christophe  was  absorbed  by  the  idea  of  seeing  Hassler,  and 
looked  with  the  eyes  of  amazement  and  under  no  attempt  to 


REVOLT  513 

understand.  He  reached  the  house  he  sought,  one  of  the 
simplest — in  a  Carolingian  style.  Inside  was  rich  luxury,  com- 
monplace enough.  On  the  staircase  was  the  heavy  atmosphere 
of  hot  air.  There  was  a  small  lift  which  Christophe  did  not  use, 
as  he  wanted  to  gain  time  to  prepare  himself  for  his  call  by  go- 
ing up  the  four  flights  of  stairs  slowly,  with  his  legs  giving  and 
his  heart  thumping  with  his  excitement.  During  that  short 
ascent  his  former  interview  with  Hassler,  his  childish  enthu- 
siasm, the  image  of  his  grandfather  were  as  clearly  in  his  mind 
as  though  it  had  all  been  yesterday. 

It  was  nearly  eleven  when  he  rang  the  bell.  He  was  received 
by  a  sharp  maid,  with  a  serva  padrona  manner,  who  looked  at 
him  impertinently  and  began  to  say  that  "  Herr  Hassler  could 
not  see  him,  as  Herr  Hassler  was  tired."  Then  the  nai've  dis- 
appointment expressed  in  Christophe's  face  amused  her;  for 
after  making  an  unabashed  scrutiny  of  him  from  head  to  foot, 
she  softened  suddenly  and  introduced  him  to  Hassler's  study, 
and  said  she  would  go  and  see  if  Herr  Hassler  would  receive 
him.  Thereupon  she  gave  him  a  little  wink  and  closed  the 
door. 

On  the  walls  were  a  few  impressionist  paintings  and  some 
gallant  French  engravings  of  the  eighteenth  century:  for 
Hassler  pretended  to  some  knowledge  of  all  the  arts,  and 
Manet  and  Watteau  were  joined  together  in  his  taste  in  accord- 
ance with  the  prescription  of  his  coterie.  The  same  mixture  of 
styles  appeared  in  the  furniture,  and  a  very  fine  Louis  XV 
bureau  was  surrounded  by  new  art  armchairs  and  an  oriental 
divan  with  a  mountain  of  multi-colored  cushions.  The  doors 
were  ornamented  with  mirrors,  and  Japanese  bric-a-brac  covered 
the  shelves  and  the  mantelpiece,  on  which  stood  a  bust  of 
Hassler.  In  a  bowl  on  a  round  table  was  a.  profusion  of  photo- 
graphs of  singers,  female  admirers  and  friends,  with  witty 
remarks  and  enthusiastic  interjections.  The  bureau  was  in- 
credibly untidy.  The  piano  was  open.  The  shelves  were 
dusty,  and  half-smoked  cigars  were  lying  about  everywhere. 

In  the  next  room  Christophe  heard  a  cros?  voice  grumbling. 
It  was  answered  by  the  shrill  tones  of  the  little  maid.  It 
was  clear  that  Hassler  was  not  very  pleased  at  having  to  ap- 
pear. It  was  clear,  also,  that  the  young  woman  had  decided 


511  JEAX-CIITUSTOPIIE 

that  Hasslcr  should  appear;  and  she  answered  him  with  ex- 
treme familiarity  and  her  shrill  voice  penetrated  the  walls. 
Christophe  was  rather  upset  at  hearing  some  of  the  remarks 
she  made  to  her  master.  P>ut  llassler  did  riot  seem  to  mind. 
On  the  contrary,  it  rather  seemed  as  though  her  impertinence 
amused  him;  and  while  he  went  on  growling,  he  chaffed  the 
girl  and  took  a  delight  in  exciting  her.  At  last  Christophe 
heard  a  door  open,  and,  still  growling  and  chaffing,  Hasslcr 
came  shuffling. 

He  entered.  Christophe's  heart  sank.  lie  recognized  him. 
Would  to  (!od  he  had  not  !  It  was  Ilasslor.  and  yet  it  was  not 
he.  He  still  had  his  great  smooth  brow,  his  face  as  un wrinkled 
as  that  of  a  babe;  but  he  Avas  bald,  stout,  yellowish,  sleepy- 
looking;  his  lower  lip  drooped  a  little,  his  mouth  looked  bored 
and  sulky.  He  hunched  his  shoulders,  buried  his  hands  in 
the  pockets  of  his  open  waistcoat;  old  shoes  flopped  on  his  feet; 
his  shirt  was  bagged  above  his  trousers,  which  he  had  not 
finished  buttoning.  He  looked  at  Christophe  with  his  sleepy 
eyes,  in  which  there  was  no  light  as  the  young  man  murmured 
his  name.  He  bo\ved  automatically,  said  nothing,  nodded 
towards  a  chair,  and  with  a  sigh,  sank  down  on  the  divan  and 
piled  the  cushions  aboat  himself.  Christophe  repeated: 

"  I  have  already  had  the  honor  .  .  .  You  were,  kind  enough 
.  .  .  My  name  is  Christophe  Krall't.  .  .  ." 

Hassler  la}'  back  on  the  divan,  with  his  legs  crossed,  his 
hands  clasped  together  on  his  right  knee,  which  he  held  up 
to  his  chin  as  he  replied: 

"  I  don't  remember." 

Christophe's  throat  went  dry,  and  he  tried  to  remind  him 
of  their  former  meeting.  Vnder  any  circumstances  it.  would 
have  been  difficult  for  him  to  talk  of  memories  so  intimate; 
now  it  was  torture  for  him.  lie  bungled  his  sentences,  could 
not  find  words,  said  absurd  things  which  made  him  blush. 
Hassler  let  him  flounder  on  and  never  ceased  to  look  at  him 
with  his  vague,  indifferent  eves.  When  Christopho  had  reached 
the  end  of  his  story.  Hassler  went  on  rocking  his  knee  in 
silence  for  a  moment,  as  though  he  were  waiting  for  Chris- 
tophe to  go  on.  Then  lie  said: 


TIE  VOLT  --'I'' 

"Yes  .  .  .  That  docs  not  make  us  young  again  .  .  ."  and 
stretched  his  legs. 

After  a  yawn  he  added : 

".  .  .  I  beg  pardon  .  .  .  Did  not  sleep  .  .  .  Supper  at  the 
theater  last  night  .  .  ."  and  yawned  again. 

Christoplie  hoped  that  Hassler  would  make  some  reference 
to  what  lie  had  just  told  him.  but  ITassler,  whom  the  story 
had  not  interested  at  all,  said  nothing  about  it,  and  he  did  not 
ask  Christoplie  anything  about  his  life.  When  he  had  done 
yawning  he  asked : 

"  Have  you  been  in  Berlin  long?  " 

"  I  arrived  this  morning,"  said  Christophe. 

"Ah!"  said  Hasslcr.  without  any  surprise.     "What  hotel?" 

He  did  not  seem  to  listen  to  the  reply,  but  got  up  lazily  and 
pressed  an  electric  hell. 

"  Allow  me."  he  said. 

The  little  maid  appeared   with  her  impertinent  manner. 

"Kitty."  said  he,  "are  you  trying  to  make  me  go  without 
breakfast  this  morning?" 

"You  don't,  think  I  am  going  to  bring  it  here  while  you 
have  some  one  with  you?" 

"Why  not?"  he  said,  with  a  wink  and  a  nod  in  Chris- 
tophe's  direction.  "He  feeds  my  mind:  I  must  feed  my 
body." 

"  Aren't  you  ashamed  to  have  some  one  watching  you  eat — 
like  an  animal  in  a  menagerie?" 

Instead  of  being  angry,  Hassler  began  to  laugh  and  cor- 
rected her : 

"  Like  a  domestic  animal,"  he  went  on.  "  But  do  bring  it. 
I'll  eat  my  shame  with  it." 

Christophe  saw  that  Hassler  was  making  no  attempt  to  find 
out  what  lie  was  doing,  and  tried  to  lead  the  conversation  hack. 
He  spoke  of  the  difficulties  of  provincial  life,  of  the  mediocrity 
of  the  people,  the  narrow-mindedness,  and  of  his  own  isolation. 
He  tried  to  interest  him  in  his  moral  distress.  Hut  Hassler 
was  sunk  deep  in  the  divan,  with  his  bead  lying  back  on  a 
cushion  and  his  eyes  half  closed,  and  let  him  go  on  talking 
without  even  seeming  to  listen;  or  he  would  raise1  his  eyelids 


516  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

for  a  moment  and  pronounce  a  few  coldly  ironical  words,  some 
ponderous  jest  at  the  expense  of  provincial  people,  which  cut 
short  Christophe's  attempts  to  talk  more  intimately.  Kitty 
returned  with  the  breakfast  tray :  coffee,  butter,  ham,  etc.  She 
put  it  down  crossly  on  the  desk  in  the  middle  of  the  untidy 
papers.  Christophe  waited  until  she  had  gone  before  he  went 
on  with  his  sad  story  which  he  had  such  difficulty  in  continu- 
ing. Hassler  drew  the  tray  towards  himself.  He  poured  him- 
self out  some  coffee  and  sipped  at  it.  Then  in  a  familiar  and 
cordial  though  rather  contemptuous  way  he  stopped  Christophe 
in  the  middle  of  a  sentence  to  ask  if  he  would  take  a  cup. 

Christophe  refused.  He  tried  to  pick  up  the  thread  of  his 
sentence,  but  he  was  more  and  more  nonplussed,  and  did  not 
know  what  he  was  saying.  He  was  distracted  by  the  sight  of 
Hassler  with  his  plate  under  his  chin,  like  a  child,  gorging 
pieces  of  bread  and  butter  and  slices  of  ham  which  he  held  in 
his  fingers.  However,  he  did  succeed  in  saying  that  he  com- 
posed, that  he  had  had  an  overture  in  the  Judith  of  llebbel  per- 
formed. Hassler  listened  absently. 

"Was?"     (What?)  he  asked. 

Christophe  repeated  the  title. 

" Ach!  So,  so!"  (Ah!  Good,  good!)  said  Hassler,  dip- 
ping his  bread  and  his  fingers  into  his  cup.  That  was  all. 

Christophe  was  discouraged  and  was  on  the  point  of  getting 
up  and  going,  but  he  thought  of  his  long  journey  in  vain,  and 
summoning  up  all  his  courage  he  murmured  a  proposal  that  he 
should  play  some  of  his  works  to  Ilassler.  At  the  first  mention 
of  it  Hassler  stopped  him. 

"No,  no.  I  don't  know  anything  about  it,"  he  said,  with  his 
chaffing  and  rather  insulting  irony.  "  Besides,  I  haven't  the 
time." 

Tears  came  to  Christophe's  eyes.  But  he  had  vowed  not  to 
leave  until  he  had  ITassler's  opinion  about  his  work.  He  said, 
with  a  mixture  of  confusion  and  anger: 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  but  you  promised  once  to  hear  me. 
I  came  to  see  you  for  that  from  the  other  end  of  Germany. 
You  shall  hear  me." 

Hassler,  who  was  not  used  to  such  ways,  looked  at  the  awk- 
ward young  man,  who  was  furious,  blushing,  and  near  tears. 


REVOLT  517 

That  amused  him,  and  wearily  shrugging  his  shoulders,  he 
pointed  to  the  piano,  and  said  with  an  air  of  comic  resignation : 

"  Well,  then  !  .  .  .    There  you  are  !  " 

On  that  he  lay  back  on  his  divan,  like  a  man  who  is  going 
to  sleep,  smoothed  out  his  cushions,  put  them  under  his  out- 
stretched arms,  half  closed  his  eyes,  opened  them  for  a  mo- 
ment to  take  stock  of  the  size  of  the  roll  of  music  which  Chris- 
tophe  had  brought  from  one  of  his  pockets,  gave  a  little  sigh, 
and  lay  back  to  listen  listlessly. 

Christophe  was  intimidated  and  mortified,  but  he  began  to 
play.  It  was  not  long  before  Hassler  opened  his  eyes  and  ears 
with  the  professional  interest  of  the  artist  who  is  struck  in 
spite  of  himself  by  a  beautiful  thing.  At  first  he  said  nothing 
and  lay  still,  but  his  eyes  became  less  dim  and  his  sulky  lips 
moved.  Then  he  suddenly  woke  up.  growling  his  surprise  and 
approbation.  He  only  gave  inarticulate  interjections,  but  the 
form  of  them  left  no  doubt  as  to  his  feelings,  and  they  gave 
Christophe  an  inexpressible  pleasure.  Hassler  forgot  to  count 
the  number  of  pages  that  had  been  played  and  were  left  to  be 
played.  When  Christophe  had  finished  a  piece,  he  said : 

"  Go  on !  ...     Go  on  !  .  .  ." 

He  was  beginning  to  use  human  language. 

"That's  good!  Good!"  he  exclaimed  to  himself.  "Fa- 
mous! .  .  .  Awfully  famous!  (Schrccklich  famos!)  But, 
damme!"  He  growled  in  astonishment.  "What  is  it?" 

He  had  risen  on  his  seat,  was  stretching  for  wind,  making 
a  trumpet  with  his  hand,  talking  to  himself,  laughing  with 
pleasure,  or  at  certain  odd  harmonies,  just  putting  out  his 
tongue  as  though  to  moisten  his  lips.  An  unexpected  modu- 
lation had  such  an  effect  on  him  that  he  got  up  suddenly  with 
an  exclamation,  and  came  and  sat  at  the  piano  by  Christophe's 
side.  He  did  not  seem  to  notice  that  Christophe  was  there. 
He  was  only  concerned  with  the  music,  and  when  the  piece 
was  finished  he  took  the  book  and  began  to  read  the  page  again, 
then  the  following  pages,  and  went  on  ejaculating  his  admira- 
tion and  surprise  as  though  he  had  been  alone  in  the  room. 

"The  devil!"  he  said.  "Where  did  the  little  beast  find 
that?  .  .  ." 

He  pushed  Christophe  away  with  his  shoulders  and  himself 


518  JEAN-CIIHISTOPHE 

played  certain  passages.  He  had  a  charming  touch  on  the 
piano,  very  soft,  caressing  and  light.  Christoj)ho  noticed  his 
fine  long,  veil-tended  hands,  which  verc  a  little  morbidly  aris- 
tocratic and  out  of  keeping  viih  the  rest,  Hassler  stopped  at 
certain  chords  and  repeated  them,  winking,  and  clicking  with  his 
tongue.  He  hummed  with  his  lips,  imitating  the  sounds  of 
the  instruments,  and  went  on  interspersing  the  music  with  his 
apostrophes  in  which  pleasure  and  annoyance  were  mingled. 
He  could  not  help  having  a  secret  initiative,  an  unavowed 
jealousy,  and  at  the  same  time  he  greedily  enjoyed  it  all. 

Although  he  vent  on  talking  to  himself  as  though  Chris- 
tophe  did  not  exist.  Christophe,  blushing  with  pleasure,  could 
not  help  taking  Hassler's  exclamations  to  himself,  and  he  ex- 
plained what  he  had  tried  to  do.  At  first  ITassler  seemed  not 
to  pay  any  attention  to  what  the  young  man  was  saying,  and 
went  on  thinking  out  loud;  then  something  that  Christophe 
said  struck  him  and  he  was  silent,  with  his  eyes  still  fixed  on 
the  music,  which  he  turned  over  as  he  listened  without  seeming 
to  hear.  Christophe  grew  more  and  more  excited,  and  at  last 
he  plumped  into  confidence,  and  talked  with  naive  enthu- 
siasm about  his  projects  and  his  life. 

Hassler  was  silent,  and  as  he  listened  he  slipped  back  into 
his  irony.  He  had  let  Christophe  take  the  book  from  his 
hands;  with  his  elbow  on  the  rack  of  the  piano  and  his  hand 
on  his  forehead,  he  looked  at  Christophe.  who  was  explaining 
his  work  with  youthful  ardor  and  eagerness.  And  he  smiled 
bitterly  as  he  thought  of  his  own  beginning,  his  own  hopes, 
and  of  Christophe's  hopes,  and  all  the  disappointments  that  lay 
in  wait  for  him. 

Christophe  spoke  with  his  eyes  cast  down,  fearful  of  losing 
the  thread  of  what  lie  had  to  say.  Hassler's  silence  encour- 
aged him.  He  felt  that  ITassler  was  watching  him  and  not 
missing  a  word  that  he  said,  and  he  thought  he  had  broken 
the  ice  between  them,  and  he  was  glad  at  heart.  When  he  had 
finished  he  shyly  raised  his  head — confidently,  too — and  looked 
at  Hassler.  All  the  joy  welling  in  him  was  frozen  on  the 
instant,  like  too  early  birds,  when  he  saw  the  gloomy,  mocking 
eyes  that  looked  into  his  without  kindness.  Ho  was  silent. 

After  an  icy  moment,  Hassler  spoke1  dully.     He  had  changed 


HE  VOLT  519 

once  more;  lie  affected  a  sort  of  harshness  towards  the  )roung 
man.  He  teased  him  cruelly  about  his  plans,  his  hopes  of 
success,  as  though  he  were  trying  to  chaff  himself,  now  that  he 
had  recovered  himself.  He  set  himself  coldly  to  destroy  his 
faith  in  life,  his  faith  in  art,  his  faith  in  himself.  Bitterly 
he  gave  himself  as  an  example,  speaking  of  his  actual  works 
in  an  insulting  fashion. 

"  Hog-waste !  "  lie  said.  "  That  is  what  these  swine  want. 
Do  you  think  there  are  ten  people  in  the  world  who  love  music? 
Is  there  a  single  one?" 

"There  is  myself!"  said  C'hristophe  emphatically.  Hassler 
looked  at  him,  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  said  wearily: 

"  You  will  he  like  the  rest.  You  will  do  as  the  rest  have 
done.  You  will  think  of  success,  of  amusing  yourself,  like  the 
rest.  .  .  .  And  you  will  he  right.  .  .  ." 

Christophe  tried  to  protest,  hut  Hassler  cut  him  short;  he 
took  the  music  and  began  bitterly  to  criticise  the  works  which 
he  had  first  been  praising.  Not  only  did  he  harshly  pick  out 
the  real  carelessness,  the  mistakes  in  writing,  the  faults  of 
taste  or  of  expression  which  had  escaped  the  young  man,  but 
he  made  absurd  criticisms,  criticisms  which  might  have  been 
made  by  the  most  narrow  and  antiquated  of  musicians,  from 
which  he  himself.  Hassler.  had  had  to  suffer  all  his  life.  He 
asked  what  was  the  sense  of  it  all.  He  did  not  oven  criticise: 
he  denied;  it  was  as  though  he  were  trying  desperately  to 
efface  the  impression  that  the  music  had  made  on  him  in  spite 
of  himself. 

Christophe  was  horrified  and  made  no  attempt  to  reply. 
How  could  he  reply  to  absurdities  which  he  blushed  to  bear 
on  the  lips  of  a  man  whom  be  esteemed  and  loved?  Besides, 
Hassler  did  not  listen  to  him.  Tie  stopped  at  that,  stopped 
dead,  with  the  book  in  his  bands,  shut  :  no  expression  in  bis 
eyes  and  his  lips  drawn  down  in  bitterness.  At  hist  be  said. 
as  though  he  had  once  more  forgotten  Christophe's  presence: 

"Ah!  the  worst  misery  of  all  is  that  there  is  not  a  single 
man  who  can  understand  you  !  " 

Christophe  was  racked  with  emotion.  He  turned  suddenly, 
laid  his  hand  on  Hassler's,  and  with  love  in  his  heart  he  re- 
peated : 


520  JEAN-CHRISTOrilE 

"  There  is  myself !  " 

But  Hassler  did  not  move  his  hand,  and  if  something  stirred 
in  his  heart  for  a  moment  at  that  boyish  cry,  no  light  shone 
in  his  dull  eyes,  as  they  looked  at  Christophe.  Irony  and 
evasion  were  in  the  ascendant.  He  made  a  ceremonious  and 
comic  little  bow  in  acknowledgment. 

"  Honored  !  "  lie  said. 

He  was  thinking: 

"  Do  you,  though  ?  Do  you  think  I  have  lost  my  life  for 
you?" 

He  got  up,  threw  the  book  on  the  piano,  and  went  with  his 
long  spindle  legs  and  sat  on  the  divan  again.  Christophe  had 
divined  his  thoughts  and  had  felt  the  savage  insult  in  them,  and 
he  tried  proudly  to  reply  that  a  man  does  not  need  to  be  under- 
stood by  everybody;  certain  souls  are  worth  a  whole  people; 
they  think  for  it,  and  what  they  have  thought  the  people  have 
to  think. — But  Hassler  did  not  listen  to  him.  He  had  fallen 
back  into  his  •  apathy,  caused  by  the  weakening  of  the  life 
slumbering  in  him.  Christophe.  too  sane  to  understand  the  sud- 
den change,  felt  that  he  had  lost.  But  he  could  not  resign  him- 
self to  losing  after  seeming  to  be  so  near  victory.  He  made  des- 
perate efforts  to  excite  Hasslers  attention  once  more.  He  took 
up  his  music  book  and  tried  to  explain  the  reason  for  the  irregu- 
larities which  Hassler  had  remarked.  Hassler  lay  back  on  the 
sofa  and  preserved  a  gloomy  silence.  He  neither  agreed  nor 
contradicted;  he  was  only  waiting  for  him  to  finish. 

Christophe  saw  that  there  was  nothing  more  to  be  done.  He 
stopped  short  in  the  middle  of  a  sentence.  He  rolled  up  his 
music  and  got  up.  Hassler  got  up.  too.  Christophe  was  shy 
and  ashamed,  and  murmured  excuses.  Hassler  bowed  slightly, 
with  a  certain  haughty  and  bored  distinction,  coldly  held  out 
his  hand  politely,  and  accompanied  him  to  the  door  without 
a  word  of  suggestion  that  he  should  stay  or  come  again. 

Christophe  found  himself  in  the  street  once  more,  absolutely 
crushed.  He  walked  at  random  :  he  did  not  know  where  he  was 
going.  He  walked  down  several  streets  mechanically,  and 
then  found  himself  at  a  station  of  the  train  by  which  he  had 
come.  He  went  back  by  it  without  thinking  of  what  he  was 


REVOLT  521 

doing.  He  sank  down  on  the  seat  with  his  arms  and  legs  limp. 
It  was  impossible  to  think  or  to  collect  his  ideas;  he  thought 
of  nothing,  he  did  not  try  to  think.  He  was  afraid  to  envisage 
himself.  He  was  utterly  empty.  It  seemed  to  him  that  there 
was  emptiness  everywhere  about  him  in  that  town.  He  could 
not  breathe  in  it.  The  mists,  the  massive  houses  stifled  him. 
He  had  only  one  idea,  to  fly,  to  fly  as  quickly  as  possible, — as 
if  by  escaping  from  the  town  he  would  leave  in  it  the  bitter 
disillusion  which  he  had  found  in  it. 

He  returned  to  his  hotel.  It  was  half-past  twelve.  It  was 
two  hours  since  he  had  entered  it, — with  what  a  light  shining 
in  his  heart !  Xow  it  was  dead. 

He  took  no  lunch.  He  did  not  go  up  to  his  room.  To  the 
astonishment  of  the  people  of  the  hotel,  he  asked  for  his  bill, 
paid  as  though  he  had  spent  the  night  there,  and  said  that  he 
was  going.  In  vain  did  they  explain  to  him  that  there  was 
no  hurry,  that  the  train  he  wanted  to  go  by  did  not  leave 
for  hours,  and  that  he  had  much  better  wait  in  the  hotel.  He 
insisted  on  going  to  the  station  at  once.  He  was  like  a  child. 
He  wanted  to  go  by  the  first  train,  no  matter  which,  and  not 
to  stay  another  hour  in  the  place.  After  the  long  journey  and 
all  the  expense  he  had  incurred, — although  he  had  taken  his 
holiday  not  only  to  see  Hassler,  but  the  museums,  and  to  hear 
concerts  and  to  make  certain  acquaintance* — he  had  only  one 
idea  in  his  head :  To  go  ... 

He  went  back  to  the  station.  A?  he  had  been  told,  his  train 
did  not  leave  for  three  hours.  And  also  the  train  was  not 
express — (for  Christophe  had  to  go  by  the  cheapest  class)  — 
stopped  on  the  way.  Christophe  would  have  done  better  to 
go  by  the  next  train,  which  went  two  hours  later  and  caught  up 
the  first.  But  that  meant  spending  two  more  hours  in  the 
place,  and  Christophe  could  not  bear  it.  He  would  not  oven 
leave  the  station  while  he  was  waiting.  —A  gloomy  period  of 
waiting  in  those  vast  and  empty  halls,  dark  and  noisy,  where 
strange  shadows  were  going  in  and  out,  always  busy,  always 
hurrying;  strange  shadows  who  meant  nothing  to  him.  all  un- 
known to  him,  not  one  friendly  face.  The  misty  day  died 
down.  The  electric  lamps,  enveloped  in  fog.  flushed  the  night 
and  made  it  darker  than  ever.  Christophe  grew  more  and 


522  ,7  KAX-CHRISTOPITE 

more  depressed  as  time  went  on,  waiting  in  agony  for  the  time 
to  go.  Ten  times  an  hour  he  went  to  look  at  the  train  indi- 
cators to  make  sure  that  he  had  not  made  a  mistake.  As  he 
was  reading  them  once  more  from  end  to  end  to  pass  the  time, 
the  name  of  a  place  caught  his  eye.  He  thought  he  knew  it. 
It  was  only  after  a  moment  that  he  remembered  that  it  was 
where  old  Schtdz  lived,  who  had  written  him  such  kind  and 
enthusiastic  letter?.  In  his  wretchedness  the  idea  came  to  him 
of  going  to  see  his  unknown  friend.  The  town  was  not  on  the 
direct  line  on  his  way  home,  hut  a  few  hours  away,  by  a  little 
local  line.  It  meant  a  whole  night's  journey,  with  two  or  three 
changes  and  interminable  waits.  Chrintophe  never  thought 
about  it.  lie  decided  suddenly  to  go.  "lie  had  an  instinctive 
need  of  clinging  to  sympathy  of  some  sort.  ]Ie  gave  himself  no 
time  to  think,  and  telegraphed  to  Schulx  to  say  that  he  would 
arrive  next  morning.  Hardly  had  he  sent  the  telegram  than  he 
regretted  it.  lie  laughed  bitterly  at  his  eternal  illusions.  Why 
go  to  meet  a  new  sorrow? — But  it  was  done  now.  It  was  too 
late  to  change  his  mind. 

These  thoughts  rilled  his  last  hour  of  waiting — his  train  at 
last  was  ready.  He  was  the  first  to  get  into  it,  and  he  was  so 
childish  that  he  only  began  to  breathe  again  when  the  train 
shook,  and  through  the  carriage  window  he  could  see  the 
outlines  of  the  town  fading  into  the  gray  sky  under  the  heavy 
downpour  of  the  night.  He  thought  he  must  have  died  if  lie 
had  spent  the  night  in  it. 

At  the  very  hour — about  six  in  the  evening — a  letter  from 
Hassler  came  for  Chrisfophe  at  his  hotel.  ChristoplH-'s  visit, 
stirred  many  things  in  him.  The  whole  afternoon  lie  had  been 
thinking  of  it  bitterly,  and  not  without  sympathy  for  the  poor 
boy  who  had  come  to  him  with  such  eager  all'eetion  to  be  re- 
ceived so  coldly.  Tie  was  sorrv  for  that  reception  and  a  little 
angry  with  himself.  In  truth,  if  had  been  only  one  of  those 
fits  of  sulky  whimsies  to  which  he  was  subject.  He  thought 
to  make  it  good  by  sending  Christophe  a  ticket  for  the  opera 
and  a  few  words  appointing  a  meeting  after  the  performance. - 
Christophe  never  knew  anything  about  it.  When  he  did  not 
see  him,  TTassler  thought : 

"He  is  angry.     So  much  the  worse  for  him!" 


REVOLT  5-,'3 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  did  not  wait  long  for  him. 

Next  day  Christophe  was  far  away — so  far  that  all  eternity 
would  not  have  been  enough  to  bring  them  together.  And 
they  were  both  separated  forever. 

Peter  Schulz  was  seventy-five.  He  had  always  had  delicate 
health  and  age  had  not  spared  him.  He  was  fairly  tall,  but 
stooping,  and  his  head  hung  down  to  his  chest.  He  had  a 
weak  throat  and  difficulty  in  breathing.  Asthma,  catarrh,  bron- 
chitis were  always  upon  him,  and  the  marks  of  the  struggles 
he  had  to  make — many  a  night  sitting  up  in  his  bed,  bending 
forward,  dripping  with  sweat  in  the  effort  to  force  a  breath  of 
air  into  his  stifling  lungs — were  in  the  sorrowful  lines  on  his 
long,  thin,  clean-shaven  face.  His  nose  was  long  and  a  little 
swollen  at  the  top.  Deep  lines  came  from  under  his  eyes  and 
crossed  his  cheeks,  that  Avere  hollow  from  his  toothlessness. 
Age  and  infirmity  had  not  been  the  only  sculptors  of  that 
poor  wreck  of  a  man:  the  sorrows  of  life  also  had  had  their 
share  in  iis  making.— And  in  spite  of  all  he  was  not  sad.  There 
was  kindness  and  serenity  in  his  large  mouth.  But  in  his  eyes 
especially  there  was  that  which  gave  a  touching  softness  to  the 
old  face.  They  were  light  gray.  limpid,  and  transparent.  They 
looked  straight,  calmly  and  frankly.  They  hid  nothing  of  the 
soul.  Its  depths  could  be  read  in  them. 

His  life  had  been  uneventful.  He  had  been  alone  for  years. 
His  wife  was  dead.  She  was  not  very  good,  or  very  intelli- 
gent, and  she  was  not  at  all  beautiful.  But  he  preserved  a 
tender  memory  of  her.  It  was  tvrent y-tlve  years  since  he  had 
lost  her.  and  he  had  never  once  failed  a  ni.Lrht  to  have  a 
little  imaginary  conversation,  sad  and  tender,  with  her  before 
he  went  to  sleep.  He  shared  all  his  doings  with  her.- — He  had 
had  no  children.  That  was  the  great  sorrow  of  his  life.  Tie 
had  transferred  his  need  of  affection  to  his  pupils,  to  whom  he 
was  attached  as  a  father  to  his  sons.  He  had  found  very  little 
return.  An  old  heart  can  feel  verv  near  to  a  young  heart  and 
almost  of  the  same  age;  knowing  how  brief  are  the  years  that 
lie  between  them.  l>ui  the  young  man  never  has  any  idea  of 
that.  To  him  an  old  man  is  a  man  of  another  age,  and  be- 
sides, he  is  absorbed  bv  his  immediate  anxieties  and  instinctively 


524  JEAN-CHEISTOPHE 

turns  away  from  the  melancholy  end  of  all  his  efforts.  Old 
Schulz  had  sometimes  found  gratitude  in  his  pupils  who  were 
touched  by  the  keen  and  lively  interest  he  took  in  everything 
good  or  ill  that  happened  to  them.  They  used  to  come  and  see 
him  from  time  to  time.  They  used  to  write  and  thank  him 
when  they  left  the  university.  Some  of  them  used  to  go  on 
writing  occasionally  during  the  years  following.  And  then 
old  Schulz  would  hear  nothing  more  of  them  except  in  the 
papers  which  kept  him  informed  of  their  advancement,  and  he 
would  be  as  glad  of  their  success  as  though  it  was  his  own.  He 
was  never  hurt  by  their  silence.  He  found  a  thousand  excuses 
for  it.  He  never  doubted  their  affection  and  used  to  ascribe 
even  to  the  most  selfish  the  feelings  that  he  had  for  them. 

But  his  hooks  were  his  greatest  refuge.  They  neither  forgot 
nor  deceived  him.  The  souls  which  he  cherished  in  them  had 
risen  above  the  flood  of  time.  They  were  inscrutable,  fixed  for 
eternity  in  the  love  they  inspired  and  seemed  to  feel,  and  gave 
forth  once  more  to  those  who  loved  them.  He  was  Professor  of 
^Esthetics  and  the  History  of  Music,  and  lie  was  like  an  old 
wood  quivering  with  the  songs  of  birds.  Some  of  these  songs 
sounded  very  far  away.  They  came  from  the  depths  of  the 
ages.  But  they  were  not  the  least  sweet  and  mysterious  of 
all. — Others  were  familiar  and  intimate  to  him,  dear  compan- 
ions; their  every  phrase  reminded  him  of  the  joys  and  sor- 
rows of  his  past  life,  conscious  or  unconscious: — -(for  under 
every  day  lit  by  the  light  of  the  sun  there  are  unfolded  other 
days  lit  by  a  light  unknown) — And  there  were  some  songs  that 
he  had  never  yet  heard,,  songs  which  said  the  things  that  he 
had  been  long  awaiting  and  needing;  and  his  heart  opened  to 
receive  them  like  the  earth  to  receive  rain.  And  so  old  Schulz 
listened,  in  the  silence  of  his  solitary  life,  to  the  forest  filled 
with  birds,  and,  like  the  monk  of  the  legend,  who  slept  in  the 
ecstasy  of  the  song  of  the  magic  bird,  the  years  passed  over 
him  and  the  evening  of  life  was  come,  but  still  he  had  the  heart 
of  a  boy  of  twenty. 

He  was  not  only  rich  in  music.  He  loved  the  poets — old  and 
new.  He  had  a  predilection  for  those  of  his  own  country, 
especially  for  Goethe;  but  he  also  loved  those  of  other  coun- 
tries. He  was  a  learned  man  and  could  read  several  languages. 


REVOLT  525 

In  mind  he  was  a  contemporary  of  Herder  and  the  great 
Weltbiirger — the  "  citizens  of  the  world,"  of  the  end  of  the 
eighteenth  century.  He  had  lived  through  the  year?  of  bitter 
struggle  which  preceded  and  followed  seventy,  and  was  im- 
mersed in  their  vast  idea.  And  although  he  adored  dermany, 
he  was  not  "  vainglorious  "  about  it.  He  thought,  with  Herder, 
that  "among  all  vainglorious  men,  he  who  is  vainglorious  of 
his  nationality  is  the  completest  fool,"  and,  with  Schiller,  that 
"it  is  a  poor  ideal  only  to  write  for  one  nation."  And  he  was 
timid  of  mind,  but  his  heart  was  large,  and  ready  to  welcome 
lovingly  everything  beautiful  in  the  world.  Perhaps  he  was 
too  indulgent  with  mediocrity;  but  his  instinct  never  doubted 
as  to  what  was  the  best ;  and  if  he  was  not  strong  enough  to 
condemn  the  sham  artists  admired  by  public  opinion,  he  was 
always  strong  enough  to  defend  the  artists  of  originality  and 
power  whom  public  opinion  disregarded.  His  kindness  often 
led  him  astray.  He  was  fearful  of  committing  any  injustice, 
and  when  he  did  not  like  what  others  liked,  he  never  doubted 
but  that  it  must  be  he  who  was  mistaken,  and  he  would  man- 
age to  love  it.  It  was  so  sweet  to  him  to  love !  Love  and 
admiration  were  even  more  necessary  to  his  moral  being  than 
air  to  his  miserable  lungs.  And  so  how  grateful  he  was  to 
those  who  gave  him  a  new  opportunity  of  showing  them ! — 
Christophe  could  have  no  idea  of  what  his  Licdcr  bad  been  to 
him.  He  himself  had  not  felt  them  nearly  so  keenly  when  he 
had  written  them.  His  songs  were  to  him  only  a  few  sparks 
thrown  out  from  his  inner  fire.  He  had  cast  them  forth 
and  would  east  forth  others.  But  to  old  Schulz  they  were  a 
whole  world  suddenly  revealed  to  him — a  whole  world  to  be 
loved.  His  life  had  been  lit  up  by  them. 

A  year  before  he  had  had  to  resign  his  position  at  the  uni- 
versity. His  health,  growing  more  and  more  pm-arious. 
prevented  his  lecturing.  He  was  ill  and  in  bed  when  Wolf's 
Library  had  sent  him  as  usual  a  parcel  of  the  latest  music  then- 
had  received,  and  in  it  were  Christophers  Licdcr.  He  was  alone. 
He  was  without  relatives.  The  few  that  he  had  had  were  long 
since  dead.  He  was  delivered  into  the  hands  of  an  old  servant, 
who  profited  by  his  weakness  to  make  him  do  whatever  she  liked. 


5^0  JEAK-CHRISTOPHE 

A  few  friends  hardly  younger  than  himself  used  to  come  and 
see  him  from  time  to  time,  but  they  were  not  in  very  good 
health  either,  and  when  the  weather  was  had  they  too  stayed  in- 
doors and  missed  their  visits.  ]t  was  winter  then  and  the  streets 
were  covered  with  melting  snow.  Schnlz  had  not  seen  anybody 
all  day.  It  was  dark  in  the  room.  A  yellow  fog  was  drawn 
over  the  windows  like  a  screen,  making  it  impossible  to  sec 
out.  The  heat  of  the  stove  was  thick  and  oppressive.  From  the 
church  hard  by  an  old  peal  of  bells  of  the  seventeenth  century 
chimed  every  quarter  of  an  hour,  haltingly  and  horribly  out 
of  tune,  scraps  of  monotonous  chants,  which  seemed  grim  in 
their  heartiness  to  Schulz  when  he  was  far  from  gay  him- 
self. He  was  coughing,  propped  up  by  a  heap  of  pillows.  Tie 
was  trying  to  read  Montaigne,  whom  he  loved  :  but  now  he 
did  not  find  as  much  pleasure  in  reading  him  as  usual.  He 
let  the  book  fall,  and  was  breathing  with  difficulty  and  dream- 
ing. The  parcel  of  music  was  on  the  bed.  He  had  not  the 
courage  to  open  it.  He  was  sad  at  heart.  At  last  he  sighed, 
and  when  he  had  very  carefully  untied  the  string,  he  put  on 
his  spectacles  and  began  to  read  the  pieces  of  music.  His 
thoughts  were  elsewhere,  always  returning  to  memories  which 
he  was  trying  to  thrust  aside. 

The  book  he  was  holding  was  Christophe's.  His  eyes  fell 
on  an  old  canticle  the  words  of  which  Christ ophe  had  taken 
from  a  simple,  pious  poet  of  the  seventeenth  century,  and 
had  modernized  them.  The  C'lirixllirhf*  WanderUed  (The 
Christian  Wanderer's  Song)  of  Paul  Gerhardt. 

II off!  ()   ill/   ii nnr  Ncc/c. 
IIf>ff!   n ml  xci   mi  rcrzdi/t. 


Hope.    <tli!    tliou    wretched    soul, 
Hope,   hope   and   1>c  valiant! 


Only   wait  then.  wait. 
And   surely    thon    shall    see 
'The    sun    of    lovely    .Tov 


REVOLT  527 

Old  Schulz  knew  the  ingenuous  words,  but  never  had  they 
so  spoken  to  him,  never  so  nearly.  ...  It  was  not  the  tranquil 
piety,  soothing  and  lulling  the  soul  by  its  monotony.  It  was 
a  soul  like  his  own.  It  was  his  own  soul,  but  younger  and 
stronger,  suffering,  striving  to  hope,  striving  to  see,  and  seeing, 
Joy.  His  hands  trembled,  great  tears  trickled  down  his  cheeks. 
He  read  on: 

Auf!  Auf!  i/icb  dciiicm  Xchmcrzc 
I'ml  Xorr/fH.  ijutc  ~Sadit! 
Lass  faJircn  iraa  thin  Hcrze 
Bctriibt  ti  nd  traurit/  macht  ! 

Up!   Up  I  and  give  thy  sorrow 
And   all    thy   euros  good-night; 
And  all  that  grieves  and  saddens 
Thy  heart  be  put  to  flight. 

Christophe  brought  to  these  thoughts  a  boyish  and  valiant 
ardor,  and  the  heroic  laughter  in  it  showed  forth  in  the  last 
naive  and  confident  verses: 

Bist  (111  (JacJi   tiiclit  If 
Der  allcs  fiihrcn  soil. 
<ioi1  xitzt  hn   Kc 
Und  fiihret  allcs 


Not    thou    thyself    art    ruler 
Whom   all   things  must   obey. 
Rut   (Jod   is   Lord   decreeing-  — 
All    follows   in   His   way. 

And  when  there  came  the  superbly  defiant  stanzas  which  in 
his  youthful  barbarian  insolence  he  had  calmly  plucked  from 
their  original  position  in  the  poem  to  form  the  conclusion  of 
his  Lied: 

J'lid  nljiilficli   nil'1   Trnffl 
Ilii'r  irnlltcn   ,-r/<  -<li  rx/(  •////, 
Xo  ir'iril  doch  nli  in1  Zii'dfcl, 
dott  nicJit  :nriicJ.-c  i/'lin. 

Was    cr    7*7)???    rnrfjcnnnimrn, 
I  'lid   iras  cr  lial>cn    irill, 
l>dx   in  n  xx  <locJi   rndi  irli   l-ommcv 
T.H  xcincm  Ziccck  nnd  Zicl. 


528  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

And  even  though  all  Devils 
Came  and  opposed  his  will, 
There  were  no  cause  for  doubting, 
God  will  be  steadfast  still: 

What  He  has  undertaken, 
All  His  divine  decree — 
Exactly  as  He  ordered 
At  lust  shall  all  things  be. 

.  .  .  then  there  were  transports  of  delight,  the  intoxication 
of  war,  the  triumph  of  a  Roman  Imperator. 

The  old  man  trembled  all  over.  Breathlessly  he  followed  the 
impetuous  music  like  a  child  dragged  along  by  a  companion. 
His  heart  beat.  Tears  trickled  down.  He  stammered: 

"Oh!     My  God!  ...     Oh!     My  God!  .  .  ." 

He  began  to  sob  and  he  laughed ;  he  was  happy.  He  choked. 
He  was  attacked  by  a  terrible  fit  of  coughing.  Salome,  the  old 
servant,  ran  to  him,  and  she  thought  the  old  man  was  going 
to  die.  He  went  on  crying,  and  coughing,  and  saying  over 
and  over  again : 

"  Oh !    My  God !  ...     My  God !  .  .  ." 

And  in  the  short  moments  of  respite  between  the  fits  of 
coughing  he  laughed  a  little  hysterically. 

Salome  thought  he  was  going  mad.  When  at  last  she  under- 
stood the  cause  of  his  agitation,  she  scolded  him  sharply: 

"  How  can  anybody  get  into  such  a  state  over  a  piece  of 
foolery!  .  .  .  Give  it  me!  I  shall  take  it  away.  You  shan't 
see  it  again." 

But  the  old  man  held  firm,  in  the  midst  of  his  coughing,  and 
he  cried  to  Salome  to  leave  him  alone.  As  she  insisted,  he 
grew  angry,  swore,  and  choked  himself  with  his  oaths.  Xever 
had  she  known  him  to  be  angry  and  to  stand  out  against  her. 
She  was  aghast  and  surrendered  her  prize.  But  she  did  not 
mince  her  words  with  him.  She  told  him  he  was  an  old  fool 
and  said  that  hitherto  she  had  thought  she  bad  to  do  with  a 
gentleman,  but  that  now  she  saw  her  mistake;  that  he  said 
things  which  would  make  a  plowman  blush,  that  his  eyes  were 
starting  from  his  head,  and  if  they  had  been  pistols  would 
have  killed  her  .  .  .  She  would  have  gone  on  for  a  long  time 
in  that  strain  if  he  had  not  got  up  furiously  on  his  pillow  and 
shouted  at  her: 


REVOLT  529 

"  Go ! "  in  so  peremptory  a  voice  that  she  went,  slamming 
the  door  and  declaring  that  he  might  call  her  as  much  as  ho 
liked,  only  she  would  not  put  herself  out  and  would  leave  him 
alone  to  kick  the  bucket. 

Then  silence  descended  upon  the  darkening  room.  Once 
more  the  bells  pealed  placidly  and  grotesquely  through  the 
calm  evening.  A  little  ashamed  of  his  anger,  old  Schulz  was 
lying  on  his  back,  motionless,  waiting,  breathless,  for  the 
tumult  in  his  heart  to  die  down.  ITo  was  clasping  the  precious 
Liedcr  to  his  breast  and  laughing  like  a  child. 

He  spent  the  following  days  of  solitude  in  a  sort  of  ecstasy. 
He  thought  no  more  of  his  illness,  of  the  winter,  of  the  gray 
light,  or  of  his  loneliness.  Everything  was  bright  and  filled 
with  love  about  him.  So  near  to  death,  he  felt  himself  living 
again  in  the  young  soul  of  an  unknown  friend. 

He  tried  to  imagine  Christophc.  He  did  not  see  him  as 
anything  like  what  he  was.  He  saw  him  rather  as  an  idealized 
version  of  himself,  as  he  would  have  liked  to  be:  fair,  slim, 
with  blue  eyes,  and  a  gentle,  quiet  voice,  soft,  timid  and  tender. 
He  idealized  everything  about  him  :  his  pupils,  his  neighbors, 
his  friends,  his  old  servant.  His  gentle,  affectionate  dispo- 
sition and  his  want  of  the  critical  faculty — in  part  voluntary, 
so  as  to  avoid  any  disturbing  thought — surrounded  him  with 
serene,  pure  images  like  himself.  It  was  the  kindly  lying 
which  he  needed  if  he  were  to  live.  He  was  not  altogether 
deceived  by  it.  and  often  in  his  bed  at  night  he  would  sigh  as 
he  thought  of  a  thousand  little  things  which  had  happened 
during  the  day  to  contradict  his  idealism.  He  knew  quite  well 
that  old  Salome  used  to  laugh  at  him  behind  his  back  with 
her  gossips,  and  that  she  used  to  rob  him  regularly  every 
week.  He  knew  that  his  pupils  were  obsequious  with  him 
while  they  had  need  of  him,  and  that  after  they  had  received 
all  the  services  they  could  expect  from  him  they  deserted  him. 
He  knew  that  his  former  colleagues  at  the  university  had 
forgotten  him  altogether  since  he  had  retired,  and  that  his 
successor  attacked  him  in  his  articles,  not  bv  name,  but  bv  some 
treacherous  allusion,  and  by  quoting  some  worthless  thing  that 
he  had  said  or  by  pointing  out  his  mistakes — (a  procedure 


530  JEAX-CHRISTOrilE 

very  common  in  the  world  of  criticism).  ITc  knew  that  his 
old  friend  Kunz  had  lied  to  him  that  very  afternoon,  and  that 
he  would  never  see  again  the  hooks  which  his  other  friend, 
Pottpetschmidt,  had  horrowed  for  a  few  days. — which  was  hard 
for  a  man  who,  like  himself,  was  as  attached  to  his  books  as 
to  living  people.  Many  other  sad  tilings,  old  or  new,  would 
come  to  him.  lie  tried  not  to  think  of  them,  hut  they  were 
there  all  the  same.  He  was  conscious  of  them.  Sometimes 
the  memory  of  them  would  pierce  him  like  some  rending  sorrow. 

"Oh!    My  God!    My  God!  .  .  /' 

lie  would  groan  in  the  silence  of  the  night. — And  then 
he  would  discard  such  hurtful  thoughts;  he  would  deny  them; 
he  would  try  to  he  confident,  and  optimistic,  and  to  helieve  in 
human  truth;  and  he  would  believe.  How  often  had  his 
illusions  been  brutally  destroyed ! — But  always  others  spring- 
ing into  life,  always,  always.  .  .  .  He  could  not  do  without 
them. 

The  unknown  Christophe  became  a  fire  of  warmth  to  his 
life.  The  first  cold,  ungracious  letter  which  he  received  from 
him  would  have  hurt  him — (perhaps  it  did  so) — but  he  would 
not  admit  it,  and  it  gave  him  a  childish  joy.  He  was  so 
modest  and  asked  so  little  of  men  that  tin-  little  he  received 
from  them  was  enough  to  feed  his  need  of  loving  and  being 
grateful  to  them.  To  see  Ohristophe  was  a  happiness  which 
he  had  never  dared  to  hope  for,  for  he  was  too  old  now  to 
journey  to  the  banks  of  the  "Rhine,  and  as  for  asking  Christophe 
to  come  to  him,  the  idea  had  never  even  occurred  to  him. 

Christopho's  telegram  reached  him  in  the  evening,  just  as 
he  was  sitting  down  to  dinner.  Ho  did  not  understand  at  first, 
He  thought  he  did  not  know  the  signature.  lie  thought  there 
\vas  some  mistake,  that  the  telegram  Avas  not  for  him.  He 
read  it  three  times.  In  his  excitement  his  spectacles  AvouM 
not  stay  on  his  nose.  The  lamp  gave  a  very  bad  light,  and 
the  letters  danced  before  his  eyes.  When  he  did  understand 
he  was  so  overwhelmed  that  he  forgot  to  eat.  In  A'ain  did 
Salome  shout  at  him.  Tie  could  not  swallow  a  morsel.  He 
threw  his  napkin  on  the  table,  unfolded,—  a  thing  he  never  did. 
He  got  up,  hobbled  to  get  his  hat  and  stick,  and  Avent  out.  Old 


REVOLT  531 

Sclmlz's  first  thought  on  receiving  such  good  news  was  to  go 
and  share  it  with  others,  and  to  tell  his  friends  of  Christophe's 

coming. 

He  had  two  friends  who  were  music  mad  like  himself,  and 
he  had  succeeded  in  making  them  share  his  enthusiasm  for 
Christ  ophe.  Judge  Samuel  Kunz  and  the  dentist,  Oscar 
Pottpetschmidt,  who  was  an  excellent  singer.  The  three  old 
friends  had  often  talked  about  Christophe,  and  they  had  played 
all  his  music  that  they  could  find.  Pottpetschmidt  sang,  Schulz 
accompanied,  and  Kunz  listened.  They  would  go  into  ecstasies 
for  hours  together.  How  often  had  they  said  while  they 
were  playing: 

"  Ah  !     If  only  Krafft  were  here  !  " 

Schulz  laughed  to  himself  in  the  street  for  the  joy  he  had 
and  was  going  to  give.  Xight  was  falling,  and  Kunz  lived  in 
a  little  village  half  an  hour  away  from  the  town.  But  the 
sky  was  clear;  it  was  a  soft  April  evening.  The  nightingales 
were  singing.  Old  Schulz's  heart  was  overflowing  with  happi- 
ness. He  breathed  without  difficulty,  he  walked  like  a  boy. 
He  strode  along  gleefully,  without  heeding  the  stones  against 
which  he  kicked  in  the  darkness.  He  turned  blithely  into  the 
side  of  the  road  when  carts  came  along,  and  exchanged  a  merry 
greeting  with  the  drivers,  who  looked  at  him  in  astonishment 
when  the  lamps  showed  the  old  man  climbing  up  the  bank  of 
the  road. 

Night  was  fully  come  when  lie  reached  Knnz's  house,  a  little 
way  out  of  the  village  in  a  little  garden.  He  drummed  on  the 
door  and  shouted  at  the  top  of  his  voice.  A  window  was 
opened  and  Kunz  appeared  in  alarm.  He  peered  through  the 
door  and  asked : 

"  Who  is  there  ?     What  is  it  ?  " 

Schulz  was  out  of  breath,  but  lie  called  gladly : 

"Krafft — Krafft  is  coming  to-morrow  .  .  ."  Kunz  did 
not  understand ;  but  he  recognized  the  voice : 

"Schulz!  .  .  .  What!  At  this  hour?  What  is  it?" 
Schulz  repeated : 

"To-morrow,  lie  is  coming  to-morrow  morning!     .     .     ." 

"What?"  asked  Kunz,  snll  mystified. 


532  JEAN-CH1USTOPHE 

"Krafft!"  cried  Schulz. 

Kunz  pondered  the  word  for  a  moment;  then  a  loud  ex- 
clamation showed  that  he  had  understood. 

"  I  am  coming  down !  "  he  shouted. 

The  window  was  closed.  He  appeared  on  the  steps  with  a 
lamp  in  his  hand  and  came  down  into  the  garden.  He  was  a 
little  stout  old  man,  with  a  large  gray  head,  a  red  beard,  red 
hair  on  his  face  and  hands.  He  took  little  steps  and  he  was 
smoking  a  porcelain  pipe.  This  good  natured,  rather  sleepy 
little  man  had  never  worried  much  about  anything.  For  all 
that,  the  news  brought  by  Schulz  excited  him;  he  waved  his 
short  arms  and  his  lamp  and  asked : 

"What?     Is  it  him?     Is  he  really  coming?" 

"  To-morrow  morning !  "  said  Schulz,  triumphantly  waving 
the  telegram. 

The  two  old  friends  went  and  sat  on  a  seat  in  the  arbor. 
Schulz  took  the  lamp.  Kunz  carefully  unfolded  the  telegram 
and  read  it  slowly  in  a  whisper.  Schulz  read  it  again  aloud 
over  his  shoulder.  Kunz  went  on  looking  at  the  paper,  the 
marks  on  the  telegram,  the  time  when  it  had  been  sent,  the 
time  when  it  had  arrived,  the  number  of  words.  Then  he  gave 
the  precious  paper  back  to  Schulz,  who  was  laughing  happily, 
looked  at  him  and  wagged  his  head  and  said : 

"Ah!    well     .     .     .Ah!    well!     .     .     ." 

After  a  moment's  thought  and  after  drawing  in  and  ex- 
pelling a  cloud  of  tobacco  smoke  he  put  his  hand  on  Schulz's 
knee  and  said : 

"We  must  tell  Pottpetschmidt." 

"  I   was  going  to  him,''   said   Schulz. 

"I  will  go  witli  you,"  said  Kunz. 

He  went  in  and  put  down  his  lamp  and  came  back  imme- 
diately. The  two  old  men  went  on  arm  in  arm.  Pottpet- 
schmidt  lived  at  the  other  end  of  the  village.  Schulz  and  Kunz 
exchanged  a  few  absent  words,  but  they  were  both  pondering 
the  news.  Suddenly  Kunz  stopped  and  whacked  on  the  groiirid 
with  his  stick : 

"  Oh  !  Lord  !  "  he  said.    ..."  He  is  away  !  " 

He  had  remembered  that  Pottpetschmidt  had  had  to  go  away 
that  afternoon  for  an  operation  at  a  neighboring  town  where 


REVOLT  533 

he  had  to  spend  the  night  and  stay  a  day  or  two.  Schulz  was 
distressed.  Kunz  was  equally  put  out.  They  were  proud  of 
Pottpet schmidt ;  they  would  have  liked  to  show  him  off.  They 
stood  in  the  middle  of  the  road  and  could  not  make  up  their 
minds  what  to  do. 

"  What  shall  we  do  ?     What  shall  we  do  ?  "  asked  Kunz. 

"  Krafft  absolutely  must  hear  Pottpetschmidt,"    said  Schulz. 

He  thought  for  a  moment  and  said : 

"  We  must  sent  him  a  telegram." 

They  went  to  the  post  office  and  together  they  composed  a 
long  and  excited  telegram  of  which  it  was  very  difficult  to 
understand  a  word.  Then  they  went  back.  Schulz  reckoned : 

"  He  could  be  here  to-morrow  morning  if  he  took  the  first 
train." 

But  Kunz  pointed  out  that  it  was  too  late  and  that  the 
telegram  would  not  be  sent  until  the  morning.  Schulz  nodded, 
and  they  said : 

"  How  unfortunate  !  " 

They  parted  at  Kunz's  door;  for  in  spite  of  his  friendship 
for  Schulz  it  did  not  go  so  far  as  to  make  him  commit  the 
imprudence  of  accompanying  Schulz  outside  the  village,  and 
even  to  the  end  of  the  road  by  which  he  would  have  had  to 
come  back  alone  in  the  dark.  It  was  arranged  that  Kunz 
should  dine  on  the  morrow  with  Schulz.  Schulz  looked  anx- 
iously at  the  sky : 

"  If  only  it  is  fine  to-morrow !  " 

And  his  heart  was  a  little  lighter  when  Kunz,  who  was  sup- 
posed to  have  a  wonderful  knowledge  of  meteorology,  looked 
gravely  at  the  sky — (for  he  was  no  less  anxious  than  Schulz 
that  Christophe  should  see  their  little  countryside  in  all  its 
beauty) — and  said: 

"  It  will  be  fine  to-morrow." 

Schulz  went  along  the  road  to  the  town  and  came  to  it  not 
without  having  stumbled  more  than  once  in  the  ruts  and  the 
heaps  of  stones  by  the  wayside.  Before  he  wont  home  he  called 
in  at  the  confectioner's  to  order  a  certain  tart  whu-h  was  the 
envy  of  the  town.  Then  he  went  home,  but  just  as  he  was 
going  in  he  turned  back  to  go  to  the  station  to  find  out  the 


534  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

exact  time  at  which  tlio  train  arrived.  At  last  he  did  go 
home  and  called  Salome  and  discussed  at  length  the  dinner 
for  the  morrow.  Then  only  he  went  to  bed  worn  out;  but  he 
was  as  excited  as  a  child  on  Christmas  Kve.  and  all  night  lie 
turned  about  and  about  and  never  slept  a  wink.  About  one; 
o'clock  in  the  morning  he  thought  of  getting  up  to  go  and  tell 
Salome  to  cook  a  stewed  carp  for  dinner:  for  she  was  marvel- 
ously  successful  with  that  dish.  Tie  did  not  tell  her;  and  it  was 
as  well,  no  doubt.  But  he  did  get  up  to  arrange  all  sorts  of 
things  in  the  room  he  meant  to  give  Christophe :  he  took  a  thou- 
sand precautions  so  that  Salome  should  not  hear  him.  for  he  was 
afraid  of  being  scolded.  All  night  long  he  was  afraid  of  miss- 
ing the  train  although  Christophe  could  not  arrive  before  eight 
o'clock.  He  was  up  very  early.  lie  first  looked  at  the  sky: 
Kunz  had  not  made  a  mistake:  it  was  glorious  weather.  On 
tiptoe  Schulz  went  down  to  the  cellar:  he  had  not  been  there 
for  a  long  time,  fearing  the  cold  and  the  steep  stairs;  he  se- 
lected his  best  wines,  knocked  his  head  hard  against  the  ceil- 
ing as  he  came  up  again,  and  thought  he  was  going  to  choke 
when  he  reached  the  top  of  the  stairs  with  his  full  basket. 
Then  he  went  to  the  garden  with  his  shears:  ruthlessly  he 
cut  his  finest  roses  and  the  first  branches  of  lilac  in  flower. 
Then  he  went  up  to  his  room  again,  shaved  feverishly,  and  cut 
himself  more  than  once.  He  dressed  carefully  and  set  out  for 
the  station.  It.  was  seven  o'clock.  Salome  bad  not  succeeded 
in  making  him  take  so  much  as  a  drop  of  milk,  for  he  declared 
that  Christophe  would  not  have  had  breakfast  when  he  ar- 
rived and  that  they  would  have  breakfast  together  when  they 
came  from  the  station. 

lie  was  at  the  station  three-quarters  of  an  hour  too  soon. 
He  waited  and  waited  for  Christophe  and  finally  missed  him. 
Instead  of  waiting  patientlv  at  the  gate  he  went  on  to  the 
platform  and  lost  bis  head  in  the-  crowd  of  people  coming  and 
going.  In  spite  of  the  exact  information  of  the  telegram  lie 
had  imagined.  Cod  kmnvs  why.  that  Christophe  would  arrive  by 
a  different  train  from  that  which  brought  him:  and  besides  it 
had  never  occurred  to  him  that  Christophe  would  get  out  of 
a  fourth-class  carriage.  He  stayed  on  for  more  than  half  an 
hour  waiting  at  the  station.  Avhen  Christophe.  who  had  long 


REVOLT  565 

since  arrived,  had  gone  straight  to  his  house.  As  a  crowning 
misfortune  Salome  had  just  gone  out  to  do  her  shopping; 
Christophe  found  the  door  shut.  The  woman  next  door  whom 
Salome  had  told  to  say,  in  case  any  one  should  ring,  that  she 
would  soon  be  back,  gave  the  message  without  any  addition  to 
it.  Christophe,  who  had  not  come  to  see  Salome  and  did  not 
even  know  who  she  was,  thought  it  a  very  bad  joke ;  he  asked  if 
Herr  Universitats  Musikdirektor  Schulz  was  not  at  home. 
He  was  told  "  Yes,"  but  the  woman  could  not  tell  him  where 
he  was.  Christophe  was  furious  and  went  away. 

When  old  Schulz  came  back  with  a  face  an  ell  long  and  learned 
from  Salome,  who  had  just  come  in  too,  what  had  happened 
he  was  in  despair;  he  almost  wept.  He  stormed  at  his  servant 
for  her  stupidity  in  going  out  while  he  was  away  and  not 
having  even  given  instructions  that  Christophe  was  to  be  kept 
waiting.  Salome  replied  in  the  same  way  that  she  could  not 
imagine  that  he  would  be  so  foolish  as  to  miss  a  man  whom  he 
had  gone  to  meet.  But  the  old  man  did  not  stay  to  argue  with 
her;  without  losing  a  moment  he  hobbled  out  of  doors  again 
and  went  off  to  look  for  Christophe  armed  with  the  very  vague 
clues  given  him  by  his  neighbors. 

Christophe  had  been  offended  at  finding  nobody  and  not 
even  a  word  of  excuse.  Xot  knowing  what  to  do  until  the  next 
train  he  went  and  walked  about  the  town  and  the  fields,  which 
he  thought  very  pretty.  It  was  a  quiet  reposeful  little  town 
sheltered  between  gently  sloping  hills ;  there  were  gardens  round 
the  houses,  cherry-trees  and  flowers,  green  lawns,  beautiful 
shady  trees,  pseudo-antique  ruins,  white  busts  of  bygone 
princesses  on  marble  columns  in  the  midst  of  the  trees,  with 
gentle  and  pleasing  faces.  All  about  the  town  were  meadows 
and  hills.  In  the  flowering  trees  blackbirds  whistled  joyously, 
for  many  little  orchestras  of  flutes  gay  and  solemn.  It  was  not 
long  before  Christophers  ill-humor  vanished :  he  forgot  Peter 
Schulz. 

The  old  man  rushed  vainly  through  the  streets  questioning 
people;  he  went  up  to  the  old  castle  on  the  hill  above  the  town 
and  was  coming  back  in  despair  when,  with  his  keen,  far-sighted 
eyes,  he  saw  some  distance  away  a  man  lying  in  a  meadow  in  the 
shade  of  a  thorn.  He  did  not  know  Christophe;  he  had  no 


536  JEAIST-CHKISTOPIIE 

means  of  being  sure  that  it  Avas  he.  Besides,  tho  man's  back 
Avas  turned  toAvards  him  and  his  face  was  half  hidden  in  the 
grass.  Schulz  prowled  along  the  road  and  about  the  meadow 
with  his  heart  beating: 

"  It    is  he     ...     Xo,   it   is   not   he     .     .     .'" 

He  dared  not  call  to  him.  An  idea  struck  him;  he  began 
to  sing  the  last  bars  of  Christophe's  Lied: 

"Auf!  Auf!     .     .     ."      (Up!  Up!     .     .     .) 

Christophe  rose  to  it  like  a  fish  out  of  the  water  and  shouted 
the  following  bars  at  the  top  of  his  voice.  He  turned  gladly. 
His  face  was  red  and  there  was  grass  in  his  hair.  They  called 
to  each  other  by  name  and  ran  together.  Schulz  strode  across 
the  ditch  by  the  road;  Christophe  leaped  the  fence.  They 
shook  hands  warmly  and  went  back  to  the  house  laughing  anc1 
talking  loudly.  The  old  man  told  how  he  had  missed  him. 
Christophe,  who  a  moment  before  had  decided  to  go  away  with- 
out making  any  further  attempt  to  see  Schulz,  was  at  once 
conscious  of  his  kindness  and  simplicity  and  began  to  love  him. 
Before  they  arrived  they  had  already  confided  many  things  to 
each  other. 

When  they  reached  the  house  they  found  Kunz,  who.  having 
learned  that  Schulz  had  gone  to  look  for  Christophe.  was 
waiting  quietly.  They  were  given  cafe  an  lait.  But  Christophe 
said  that  he  had  breakfasted  at  an  inn.  The  old  man  was 
upset:  it  was  a  real  grief  to  him  that  Christophe's  first  meal 
in  the  place  should  not  have  been  in  his  house;  such  small 
things  were  of  vast  importance  to  his  fond  "heart.  Christophe, 
Avho  understood  him.  was  amused  by  if  secretly,  and  loved  him 
the  more  for  it.  And  to  console  him  he  assured  him  that  he 
had  appetite,  enough  for  tAVO  breakfasts;  and  he  proved  his 
assertion. 

All  his  troubles  had  gone  from  his  mind  :  he  felt  that  he 
was  among  true  friends  and  he  began  to  recover,  lie  told 
them  about  his  journey  and  his  rebuffs  in  a  humorous  Avay ; 
he  looked  like  a  schoolboy  on  holiday.  Schulz  beamed  and 
devoured  him  Avith  bis  eyes  and  laughed  heartily. 

Tt  was  not  long  before  conversation  turned  upon  the  secret 
bond  that  united  the  three  of  them:  Christophe's  music.  Schulz 
was  longing  to  hear  Christophc  play  some  of  his  compositions; 


REVOLT  53T 

but  he  dared  not  ask  him  to  do  so.  Christophe  was  striding 
about  the  room  and  talking.  Schulz  watched  him  whenever 
he  went  near  the  open  piano;  and  he  prayed  inwardly  that  he 
might  stop  at  it.  The  same  thought  was  in  Kunz.  Their 
hearts  beat  when  they  saw  him  sit  down  mechanically  on  the 
piano  stool,  without  stopping  talking,  and  then  without  looking 
at  the  instrument  run  his  fingers  over  the  keys  at  random.  As 
Schulz  expected  hardly  had  Christophe  struck  a  few  arpeggios 
than  the  sound  took  possession  of  him ;  he  went  on  striking 
chords  and  still  talking;  then  there  came  whole  phrases;  and 
then  he  stopped  talking  and  began  to  play.  The  old  men  ex- 
changed a  meaning  glance,  sly  and  happy. 

"  Do  you  know  that  ?  "  asked  Christophe,  playing  one  of  his 
Lieder. 

"Do  I  know  it?"  said  Schulz  delightedly.  Christophe  said 
without  .stopping,  half  turning  his  head : 

"  Euh !  It  is  not  very  good.  Your  piano!"  The  old  man 
was  very  contrite.  He  begged  pardon : 

"It  is  old,"  he  said  humbly.  "It  is  like  myself."  Chris- 
tophe turned  round  and  looked  at  the  old  man.  who  seemed  to 
be  asking  pardon  for  his  age.  took  both  his  hands,  and  laughed. 
He  looked  into  his  honest  eyes: 

"Oh!"  he  said,  "you  are  younger  than  I."  Schulz  laughed 
aloud  and  spoke  of  his  old  body  and  his  infirmities. 

"Ta,  ta,  ta!"  said  Christophe,  "I  don't  mean  that;  I  know 
what  I  am  saying.  It  is  true,  isnrt  it,  Kunz?" 

(They  had  already  suppressed  the-"  JTcrr."} 

Kunz  agreed  emphatically. 

Schulz  tried  to  find  the  same  indulgence  for  his  piano. 

"  It  has  still  some  beautiful  notes,"  he  said  timidly. 

And  he  touched  them — four  or  five  notes  that  were  fairly 
true,  half  an  octave  in  the  middle  register  of  the  instnumnt. 
Christophe  understood  that  it,  was  an  old  friend  and  he  said 
kindly, — thinking  of  Schulz'?  eyes  : 

"Yes.     It  still  has  beautiful' eyes." 

Schulz's  face  lit  up.  He  launched  out  on  an  involved  eulogy 
of  his  old  piano,  but  he  dropped  immediately,  for  Christophe 
had  begun  to  play  again.  Lieder  followed  Lictler;  Christophe 
sang  them  sol'tlv.  With  tears  in  his  eves  Schulz  followed  his 


538  JEAN-CHKISTOPHE 

every  movement.  With  his  hands  folded  on  his  stomach  Kunz 
closed  his  eyes  the  better  to  enjoy  it.  From  time  to  time 
Christophe  turned  beaming  towards  the  two  old  men  who  were 
absolutely  delighted,  and  be  said  with  a  naive  enthusiasm  at 
which  they  never  thought  of  laughing: 

"  Hein  !  It  is  beautiful !  .  .  .  And  this  !  What  do  you 
say  about  this?  .  .  .  And  this  again!  .  .  .  This  is 
the  most  beautiful  of  all.  .  .  .  ISTow  I  will  play  you  some- 
thing which  will  make  your  hair  curl.  .  .  ." 

As  he  was  finishing  a  dreamy  fragment  the  cuckoo  clock 
began  to  call.  Christophe  started  and  shouted  angrily.  Kunz 
was  suddenly  awakened  and  rolled  his  eyes  fearfully.  Even 
Schulz  did  not  understand  at  first.  Then  when  he  saw  Chris- 
tophe shaking  his  fist  at  the  calling  bird  and  shouting  to  some- 
one in  the  name  of  Heaven  to  take  the  idiot  and  throw  it 
away,  the  ventriloquist  specter,  he  too  discovered  for  .the  first 
time  in  his  life  that  the  noise  was  intolerable;  and  he  took  a 
chair  and  tried  to  mount  it  to  take  down  the  spoil-sport.  But 
he  nearly  fell  and  Kunz  would  not  let  him  try  again;  he  called 
Salome.  She  came  without  hurrying  herself,  as  usual,  and 
was  staggered  to  find  the  clock  thrust  into  her  hands,  which 
Christophe  in  his  impatience  had  taken  down  himself. 

"What  am  I  to  do  with  it?"  she  asked. 

"  Whatever  you  like.  Take  it  away !  Don't  let  us  see  it 
again!"  said  Schulz.  no  less  impatient  than  Christophe. 

(He  wondered  how  he  could  have  borne  such  a  horror  for 
so  long.) 

Salome  thought  that  they  were  surely  all  cracked. 

The  music  went  on.  Hours  passed.  Salome  came  and  an- 
nounced that  dinner  was  served.  Schulz  bade  her  be  silent. 
She  came  again  ten  minutes  later,  then  once  again,  ten  minutes 
after  that;  this  time  she  was  beside  herself  and  boiling  with 
rage  while  she  tried  to  look  unperturbed:  she  stood  firmly  in 
the  middle  of  the  room  and  in  spite  of  Schulz's  desperate  ges- 
tures she  asked  in  a  brazen  voice: 

"  Do  the  gentlemen  prefer  to  eat  their  dinner  cold  or  burned? 
It  does  not  matter  to  me.  T  only  await  your  orders." 

Schulz  wras  confused  by  her  scolding  and  tried  to  retort; 
but  Christophe  burst  out  laughing.  Kunz  followed  his  exam- 


REVOLT  539 

pie  and  at  length  Sohulz  laughed  too.  Salome,  satisfied  with 
the  effect  she  had  produced,,  turned  on  her  heels  with  the  air  of 
a  queen  who  is  graciously  pleased  to  pardon  her  repentant 
subjects. 

"  That's  a  good  creature !  "  said  Christophe,  getting  up  from 
the  piano.  "  She  is  right.  There  is  nothing  so  intolerable  as 
an  audience  arriving  in  the  middle  of  a  concert." 

They  sat  at  table.  There  was  an  enormous  and  delicious 
repast.  Schulz  had  touched  Salome's  vanity  and  she  only 
asked  an  excuse  to  display  her  art.  Tbere  was  no  lack  of 
opportunity  for  her  to  exercise  it.  The  old  friends  were  tre- 
mendous feeders.  Kunz  was  a  different  man  at  table;  he  ex- 
panded like  a  sun ;  he  would  have  done  well  as  a  sign  for  a 
restaiirant.  Schulz  was  no  less  susceptible  to  good  cheer;  but 
his  ill  health  imposed  more  restraint  upon  him.  It  is  true  that 
generally  he  did  not  pay  much  heed  to  that ;  and  he  had  to  pay 
for  it.  In  tbat  event  he  did  not.  complain,  if  he  were  ill  at 
least  he  knew  why.  Like  Kunz  he  had  recipes  of  his  own 
handed  down  from  father  to  son  for  generations.  Salome  was 
accustomed  therefore  to  work  for  connoisseurs.  But  on  this  oc- 
casion she  had  contrived  to  include  all  her  masterpieces  in  one 
menu;  it  was  like  an  exhibition  of  the  unforgettable  cooking 
of  Germany,  honest  and  unsophisticated,  with  all  the  scents 
of  all  the  herbs,  and  thick  sauces,  substantial  soups,  perfect 
stews,  wonderful  carp,  sauerkraut,  geese,  plain  cakes,  aniseed 
and  caraway  seed  bread.  Christophe  was  in  raptures  with  his 
mouth  full,  and  he  ate  like  an  ogre;  he  had  the  formidable 
capacity  of  his  father  and  grandfather,  who  would  have  de- 
voured a  whole  goose.  But  he  could  live  just  as  well  for  a  whole 
week  on  bread  and  cheese,  and  cram  when  occasion  served. 
Schulz  was  cordial  and  ceremonious  and  watched  him  with  kind 
eyes,  and  plied  him  with  all  the  wines  of  the  l\hine.  Kunz 
was  shining  and  recognized  him  as  a  brother.  Salome's  large 
face  was  beaming  happily.  At  first  she  had  been  deceived  when 
Christophe  came.  Schulz  had  spoken  about  him  so  much 
beforehand  that  she  had  fancied  him  as  an  Excellency,  laden 
•with  letters  and  honors.  When  she  saw  him  she  cried  out: 

"  What !     Ts  that  all  ?  " 

But  at  table  Christophe  won  her  good  graces;  she  had  never 


540  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

seen  anybody  so  splendidly  do  justice  to  her  talent.  Instead 
of  going  back  to  her  kitchen  she  stayed  by  the  door  to  watch 
Christophe,  who  was  saying  all  sorts  of  absurd  things  without 
missing  a  bite,  and  with  her  hands  on  her  hips  she  roared  with 
laughter.  They  were  all  glad  and  happy.  There  was  only 
one  shadow  over  their  joy:  the  absence  of  Pottpetsehinidt.  They 
often  returned  to  it. 

"Ah!  If  hi1  were  here!  How  he  would  eat !  How  he  would 
drkik !  Ilo\v  he  would  sing!" 

Their  praises  of  him  were  inexhaustible. 

"  If  only  Christophe  could  see  him  !  .  .  .  But  perhaps 
he  would  lie  able  to.  Perhaps  Pottpetsehinidt  would  return  in 
the  evening,  on  that  night  at  latest.  .  .  ." 

"  Oh  !  I  shall  be  gone  to-night.''  said  Christophe. 

A  shadow  passed  over  Schulz's  beaming  face. 

'"What!  Gone!"  he  said  in  a  trembling  voice.  "But  you 
are  not  going." 

"  Oh,  yes/'  said  Christophe  gailv.  "  I  must  catch  the  train 
to-night.'' 

Schnlz  was  in  despair.  He  had  counted  on  Christophe 
spending  the  night,  perhaps  several  nights,  in  his  house.  lie 
murmured : 

"  No,  no.    You  can't  go  !     .     .     ." 

Kunz  repeated : 

"  And    Pottpetschmidt  !     .     .     ." 

Christophe  looked  at  the  two  of  them:  he  was  touched  by 
the  dismay  on  their  kind  friendly  faces  and  said  : 

"  How  good  you  are  !  .  .  .  If  von  like  I  will  go  to-mor- 
row morning."' 

Schulz  took  him  by  the  hand. 

"Ah!"  lie  said.  "How  glad  I  am!  Thank  you!  Thank 
you  !  " 

He  was  like  a  child  to  whom  to-morrow  seems  so  far,  so  far, 
that  it  will  not  bear  thinking  on.  Christophe  was  not  going 
to-day:  to-day  was  theirs;  they  would  spend  the  whole  evening 
together;  he  would  sleep  under  his  roof;  that  was  all  that 
Schulz  saw:  he  would  not  look  further. 

They  became  merry  again.  Schulz  rose  suddenly,  looked 
very  solemn,  and  excitedly  and  slowly  proposed  the  toast  of 


REVOLT  541 

their  guest,  who  had  given  him  the  immense  joy  and  honor 
of  visiting  the  little  town  and  his  humble  house;  he  drank  to  his 
happy  return,  to  his  success,  to  his  glory,  to  every  happiness  in 
the  world,  which  with  all  his  heart  he  wished  him.  And  then 
he  proposed  another  toast  "  to  noble  music," — another  to  his 
old  friend  Kunz, — another  to  spring, — and  he  did  not  forget 
Pottpetschmidt.  Kunz  in  his  turn  drank  to  Schulz  and  the 
others,  and  Christophc,  to  bring  the  toasts  to  an  end,  proposed 
the  health  of  dame  Salome,  who  blushed  crimson.  Upon  that, 
without  giving  the  orators  time  to  reply,  he  began  a  familiar 
song  which  the  two  old  men  took  up ;  after  that  another,  and 
then  another  for  three  parts  which  was  all  about  friendship  and 
music  and  wine;  the  whole  was  accompanied  by  loud  laughter 
and  the  clink  of  glasses  continually  touching. 

It  was  half-past  three  when  they  got  up  from  the  table. 
They  were  rather  drowsy.  Kunz  sank  into  a  chair;  he  was 
longing  to  have  a  sleep.  Schulz's  legs  were  worn  out  by  his 
exertions  of  the  morning  and  by  standing  for  his  toasts.  They 
both  hoped  that  Christophe  would  sit  at  the  piano  again  and 
go  on  playing  for  hours.  But  the  terrible  boy,  who  was  in  fine 
form,  first  struck  two  or  three  chords  on  the  piano,  shut  it 
abruptly,  looked  out  of  the  window,  and  asked  if  they  could 
not  go  for  a  walk  until  supper.  The  country  attracted  him. 
Kunz  showed  little  enthusiasm,  but  Schulz  at  once  thought  it  an 
excellent  idea  and  declared  that  he  must  show  their  guest  the 
walk  round  the  Sclionbucliwaldcr.  Kunz  made  a  face;  but  he  did 
not  protest  and  got  up  with  the  others;  he  was  as  desirous  as 
Schulz  of  showing  Christophe  the  beauties  of  the  country. 

They  went  out.  Christophe  took  Schulz's  arm  and  made  him 
walk  a  little  faster  than  the  old  man  liked.  Kunz  followed 
mopping  his  brow.  They  talked  gaily.  The  people  standing 
at  their  doors  watched  them  pass  and  thought  that  Hcrr  1'ru- 
fessor  Schulz  looked  like  a  young  man.  Wh.en  they  left  the 
town  they  took  to  the  fields.  Kunz  complained  of  the  heat. 
Christophe  was  merciless  and  declared  that  the  air  was  ex- 
quisite. Fortunately  for  the  two  old  men,  they  stopped  fre- 
quently to  argue  and  they  forgot  the  length  of  the  walk  in  their 
conversation.  They  went  into  the  woods.  Schulz  recited  verses 
of  Goethe  and  Morike.  Christophc  loved  poetry,  but  he  could 


542  JEAN-CHRISTOPIIE 

not  remember  any,  and  while  he  listened  he  stepped  into  a 
vague  dream  in  which  music  replaced  the  words  and  made  him 
forget  them.  He  admired  Schulz's  memory.  What  a  difference 
there  was  between  the  vivacity  of  mind  of  this  poor  rich  old 
man,  almost  impotent,  shut  up  in  his  room  for  a  great  part  of 
the  year,  shut  up  in  his  little  provincial  town  almost  all  his 
life, — and  Hassler,  young,  famous,  in  the  very  thick  of  the 
artistic  movement,  and  touring  over  all  Europe  for  his  concerts 
and  yet  interested  in  nothing  and  unwilling  to  know  anything! 
Not  only  was  Schulz  in  touch  with  every  manifestation  of  the 
art  of  the  day  that  Christophe  knew,  but  he  knew  an  immense 
amount  about  musicians  of  the  past  and  of  other  countries  of 
whom  Christophe  had  never  heard.  His  memory  was  a  great 
reservoir  in  which  all  the  beautiful  waters  of  the  heavens  were 
collected.  Christophe  never  wearied  of  dipping  into  it,  and 
Schulz  was  glad  of  Christophe's  interest.  He  had  sometimes 
found  willing  listeners  or  docile  pupils,  but  he  had  never  yet 
found  a  young  and  ardent  heart  with  which  he  could  share 
his  enthusiasms,  which  sometimes  so  swelled  in  him  that  he 
was  like  to  choke. 

They  had  become  the  best  friends  in  the  world  when  un- 
happily the  old  man  chanced  to  express  his  admiration  for 
Brahms.  Christophe  was  at  once  coldly  angry;  he  dropped 
Schulz's  arm  and  said  harshly  that  anyone  who  loved  Brahms- 
could  not  be  his  friend.  That  threw  cold  water  on  their  happi- 
ness. Schulz  was  too  timid  to  argue,  too  honest  to  lie,  and 
murmured  and  tried  to  explain.  But  Christophe  stopped  him : 

"  Enough ! " 

It  was  so  cutting  that  it  was  impossible  to  reply.  There  was 
an  icy  silence.  They  walked  on.  The  two  old  men  dared  not 
look  at  each  other.  Kunz  coughed  and  tried  to  take  up  the 
conversation  again  and  to  talk  of  the  woods  and  the  weather; 
but  Christophe  sulked  and  would  not  talk  and  only  answered 
with  monosyllables.  Kunz,  finding  no  response  from  him,  tried 
to  break  the  silence  by  talking  to  Schulz;  but  Schulz's  throat 
was  dry,  he  could  not  speak.  Christophe  watched  him  out  of 
the  corner  of  his  eyes  and  lie  wanted  to  laugh ;  he  had  forgiven 
him  already.  He  had  never  been  seriously  angry  with  him; 
he  even  thought  it  brutal  to  make  the  poor  old  man  sad;  but 


KEVOLT  543 

he  abused  his  power  and  would  not  appear  to  go  back  on  what 
he  had  said.  They  remained  so  until  they  left  the  woods; 
nothing  was  to  be  heard  but  the  weary  steps  of  the  two  down- 
cast old  men;  Christophe  whistled  through  his  teeth  and  pre- 
tended not  to  see  them.  Suddenly  he  could  bear  it  no  longer. 
He  burst  out  laughing,  turned  towards  Schulz  and  gripped  his 
arm: 

"  My  dear  good  old  Schulz !  "  he  said,  looking  at  him  affec- 
tionately. "  Isn't  it  beautiful  ?  Isn't  it  beautiful  ?  " 

He  was  speaking  of  the  country  and  the  fine  day,  but  his 
laughing  eyes  seemed  to  say : 

"  You  are  good.  I  am  a  brute.  Forgive  me !  I  love  you 
much." 

The  old  man's  heart  melted.  It  was  as  though  the  sun  had 
shone  again  after  an  eclipse.  But  a  short  time  passed  before 
he  could  utter  a  word.  Christophe  took  his  arm  and  went  on 
talking  to  him  more  amiably  than  ever;  in  his  eagerness  he  went 
faster  and  faster  without  noticing  the  strain  upon  his  two  com- 
panions. Schulz  did  not  complain;  he  did  not  even  notice  his 
fatigue;  he  was  so  happy.  He  knew  that-  he  would  have  to 
pay  for  that  day's  rashness ;  but  he  thought : 

"So  much  the  worse  for  to-morrow!  When  lie  is  gone  I 
shall  have  plenty  of  time  to  rest." 

But  Kunz,  who  was  not  so  excited,  followed  fifteen  yards 
behind  and  looked  a  pitiful  object.  Christophe  noticed  it  at 
last.  He  begged  his  pardon  confusedly  and  proposed  that  they 
should  lie  down  in  a  meadow  in  the  shade  of  the  poplar?.  Of 
course  Schulz  acquiesced  without  a  thought  for  the  effect  it 
might  have  on  his  bronchitis.  Fortunately  Kunz  thought  of 
it  for  him;  or  at  least  he  made  it  an  excuse  for  not  running 
any  risk  from  the  moisture  of  the  grass  when  he  was  in  such 
a  perspiration.  He  suggested  that  they  should  take  the  train 
back  to  the  town  from  a  station  close  by.  They  did  so.  In 
spite  of  their  fatigue  they  had  to  hurry,  so  as  not  to  be  late, 
and  they  reached  the  station  just  as  the  train  came  in. 

At  the  sight  of  them  a  big  man  threw  himself  out  of  the  door 
of  a  carriage  and  roared  the  name?  of  Schulz  and  Ivunz,  to- 
gether with  all  their  titles  and  qualities,  and  he  waved  his  arms 
like  a  madman.  Schulz  and  Kunz  shouted  in  reply  and  also 


544  JEAX-CH1USTOPHE 

waved  their  arms;  they  rushed  to  the  big  man's  compartment 
and  he  ran  to  meet  them,  jostling  the  people  on  the  platform. 
Christophe  was  amazed  and  ran  after  them  asking: 

"  What  is  it  ?  " 

And  the  others  shouted  exultantly: 

"  It  is  Pottpetschmidt  I" 

The  name  did  not  convey  much  to  him.  He  had  forgotten 
the  toasts  at  dinner.  Pottpetschmidt  in  the  carriage  and  Schulx 
and  Kunz  on  the  step  were  making  a  deafening  noise,  they  were 
marveling  at  their  encounter.  They  climbed  into  the  train  as 
it  was  going.  Schulx  introduced  Christophe.  Pottpctsehmidt 
bowed  as  stiff  as  a  poker  and  his  features  lost  all  expression; 
then  when  the  formalities  were  over  he  caught  hold  of  Chris- 
tophe's  hand  and  shook  it  live  or  six  times,  as  though  he  were 
trying  to  pull  his  arm  out.  and  then  began  to  shout  again. 
Christophe  was  able  to  make  out  that  he  thanked  God  and  his 
stars  for  the  extraordinary  meeting.  That  did  not  keep  him 
from  slapping  his  thigh  a  moment  later  and  crying  out  upon 
the  misfortune  of  having  had  to  go  away — he  who  never  went 
away— just  when  the  II err  Kapellmeister  was  coining.  Schulz's 
telegram  had  only  reached  him  that  morning  an  hour  after  the 
train  went;  he  was  asleep  when  it  arrived  and  they  had  not 
thought  it  worth  while  to  wake  him.  lie  had  stormed  at  the 
hotel  people  all  morning.  He  was  still  storming.  lie  had 
sent  bis  patients  away,  cut  bis  business  appointments  and  taken 
the  first  train  in  his  haste  to  return,  but  the  infernal  train  had 
missed  the  connection  on  the  main  line:  Pottpctsehmidt  had  had 
to  wait  three-  hours  at.  a  station :  be  had  exhausted  all  the 
expletives  in  his  vocabulary  and  fullv  twenty  times  had  nar- 
rated his  misadventures  to  other  travelers  who  were  also  wait- 
ing, and  a  porter  at  the  station.  At  last  he  had  started  again. 
Tie  was  fearful  of  arriving  too  late  .  .  .  Hut.  thank  God  ! 
Thank  God!  .  .  . 

lie  took  Christophe/s  hands  again  and  crushed  them  in  his 
vast  paws  with  their  bairv  fingers.  Jle  was  fabulously  stout 
and  tall  in  proportion  :  he  bad  a  square  bead,  close  cut  red 
hair,  a  clean-shaven  pock-marked  face,  big  eyes,  large  nnsc. 
thin  lips,  a  double  chin,  a  short  neck,  a  monstrously  wide  back, 
a  stomach  like  a  barrel,  arm.-  thrust  out  hv  bis  borlv.  enormous 


REVOLT  545 

feet  and  hands;  a  gigantic  mass  of  flesh,  deformed  by  excess  in 
eating  and  drinking;  one  of  those  human  tobacco-jars  that  one 
sees  sometimes  rolling  along  the  streets  in  the  towns  of  Bavaria, 
which  keep  the  secret  of  that  race  of  men  that  is  produced  by 
a  system  of  gorging  similar  to  that  of  the  Strasburg  geese.  He 
listened  with  joy  and  warmth  like  a  pot  of  butter,  and  with 
his  two  hands  on  his  outstretched  knees,  or  on  those  of  his 
neighbors,  lie  never  stopped  talking,  hurling  consonants  into 
the  air  like  a  catapult  and  making  them  roll  along.  Occa- 
sionally he  would  have  a  fit  of  laughing  which  made  him  shake 
all  over;  he  would  throw  back  his  head,  open  his  mouth,  snort- 
ing, gurgling,  choking.  His  laughter  would  infect  Sehulz  and 
Kunz  and  when  it  was  over  they  would  look  at  Christophe  as 
they  dried  their  eyes.  They  seemed  to  be  asking  him : 

"  Hein  !     .     .     .     And  what  do  you  say  ?  " 

Christophe  said  nothing;  he  thought  fearfully: 

"And  this  monster  sings  my  music?" 

They  went  home  with  Schulz.  Christophe  hoped  to  avoid 
Pottpetschmidt's  singing  and  made  no  advances  in  spite  of 
Pottpetschmidt's  hints.  He  was  itching  to  be  heard.  But 
Schulz  and  Kunz  were  too  intent  on  showing  their  friend  oil'; 
Christophe  had  to  submit,  lie  sat  at  the  piano  rather  ungra- 
ciously ;  he  thought : 

"  My  good  man,  my  good  man,  you  don't  know  what  is  in 
store  for  you;  have  a  care!  I  will  spare  you  nothing." 

He  thought  that  he  would  hurt  Schulz  and  he  was  angry 
at  that;  but  he  was  none  the  less  determined  to  hurt  him 
rather  than  have  this  Falstall  murdering  his  music.  He  was 
spared  the  pain  of  hurting  his  old  friend:  the  fat  man  had  an 
admirable  voice.  At  the  first  bars  Christophe  gave  a  start  of 
surprise.  Schulz,  who  never  took  his  eyes  oil'  him.  tremble!  ;  lie 
thought  that  Christophe  was  dissatisfied:  and  he  was  only  re- 
assured when  he  saw  his  face  grow  brighter  and  brighter  as  he 
went  on  playing.  He  was  lit  up  by  the  reflection  of  Chris- 
tophe's  delight:  and  when  the  song  was  finished  and  Christophc 
turned  round  and  declared  that  he  had  never  heard  any  of  his 
songs  sung  so  well.  Schulz  found  a  joy  in  all  sweeter  and  greater 
than  Christophers  in  his  satisfaction,  sweeter  and  greater  than 
Pottpetschmidt's  in  his  triumph:  for  they  had  only  their  own 


546  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

pleasure,  and  Sclmlz  had  that  of  his  two  friends.  They  went  on 
with  the  music.  Christophe  cried  aloud;  lie  could  not  under- 
stand how  so  ponderous  and  common  a  creature  could  succeed 
in  reading  the  idea  of  his  Licdcr.  Xo  doubt  there  were  not 
exactly  all  the  shades  of  meaning,  but  there  was  ihe  impulse 
and  the  passion  which  he  had  never  quite  succeeded  in  impart- 
ing to  professional  singers.  He  looked  at  Pottpetschmidt  and 
wondered : 

"Does  he  really  feel  that?" 

But  he  could  not  see  in  his  eyes  any  other  light  than  that 
of  satislied  vanity.  Some  unconscious  force  stirred  in  that  solid 
flesh.  The  blind  passion  was  like  an  army  fighting  without 
knowing  against  whom  or  why.  The  spirit  of  the  Licdcr  took 
possession  of  it  and  it  obeyed  gladly,  for  it  had  need  of  action ; 
and.,  left  to  itself,  it  never  would  have  known  how. 

Christophe  fancied  that  on  the  day  of  the  Creation  the  Great 
Sculptor  did  not  take  very  much  trouble  to  put  in  order  the 
scattered  members  of  his  rough-hewn  creatures,  and  that  lie 
had  adjusted  them  anyhow  without  bothering  to  find  out 
whether  they  were  suited  to  each  other,  and  so  every  one  was 
made  up  of  all  sorts  of  pieces;  and  one  man  was  scattered 
among  live  or  six  different  men;  his  brain  was  with  one,  his 
heart  with  another,  and  the  body  belonging  to  his  soul  with  yet 
another;  the  instrument  was  on  one  side,  the  performer  on  the 
other.  Certain  creatures  remained  like  wonderful  violins,  for- 
ever shut  up  in  their  cases,  for  want  of  anyone  with  the  art  to 
play  them.  And  those  who  were  fit  to  play  them  were  found 
all  their  lives  to  put  up  with  wretched  scraping  fiddles.  lie 
had  all  the  more  reason  for  thinking  so  as  he  was  furious  with 
himself  for  never  having  been  able  properly  to  sing  a  page  of 
music.  lie  had  an  untuned  voice  and  could  never  hear  himself 
without  disgust. 

However,  intoxicated  by  his  success,  Pottpetschmidt  began 
to  "put  expression"  into  Christophe's  Licdcr,  that  is  to  say 
he  substituted  his  own  for  Christophe's.  Xaturally  he  did  not 
think  that  the  music  gained  by  the  change,  and  he  grew  gloomy. 
Schulz  saw  it.  His  lack  of  Ihe  critical  faculty  and  his  admira- 
tion for  his  friends  would  not  have  allowed  him  of  his  own 


REVOLT  547 

accord  to  set  it  down  to  Pottpetschmidt's  bad  taste.  But  his 
affection  for  Christophe  made  him  perceptive  of  the  young 
man's  finest  shades  of  thought;  he  was  no  longer  in  himself, 
he  was  in  Christophe ;  and  he  too  suffered  from  Pottpetschmidt's 
affectations.  He  tried  hard  to  stop  his  going  down  that  peril- 
ous slope.  It  was  not  easy  to  silence  Pottpetschmidt.  Schulz 
found  it  enormously  difficult,  when  the  singer  had  exhausted 
Christophe's  repertory,  to  keep  him  from  breaking  out  into 
the  lucubrations  of  mediocre  compositions  at  the  mention  of 
whose  names  Christophe  curled  up  and  bristled  like  a  porcu- 
pine. 

Fortunately  the  announcement  of  supper  muzzled  Pottpet- 
schmidt. Another  field  for  his  valor  was  opened  for  him ; 
he  had  no  rival  there;  and  Christophe,  who  was  a  little  weary 
with  his  exploits  in  the  afternoon,  made  no  attempt  to  vie  with 
him. 

It  was  getting  late.  They  sat  round  the  table  and  the  three 
friends  watched  Christophe;  they  drank  in  his  words.  It 
seemed  very  strange  to  Christophe  to  find  himself  in  the  remote 
little  town  among  these  old  men  whom  he  had  never  seen  until 
that  day  and  to  be  more  intimate  with  them  than  if  they  had 
been  his  relations.  He  thought  how  fine  it  would  be  for  an 
artist  if  he  could  know  of  the  unknown  friends  whom  his 
ideas  find  in  the  world, — how  gladdened  his  heart  would  be  and 
how  fortified  he  would  be  in  his  strength.  But  he  is  rarely 
that;  every  one  lives  and  dies  alone,  fearing  to  say  what  he 
feels  the  more  he  feels  and  the  more  he  needs  to  express  it. 
Vulgar  flatterers  have  no  difficulty  in  speaking.  Those  who 
love  most  have  to  force  their  lips  open  to  say  that  they  love. 
And  so  he  must  be  grateful  indeed  to  those  who  dare  to  speak ; 
they  are  unconsciously  collaborator?  with  the  artist. — Chris- 
tophe was  filled  with  gratitude  for  old  Schulz.  He  did  not  con- 
found him  with  his  two  friends;  he  felt  that  he  was  the  soul 
of  the  little  group;  the  others  were  only  reflections  of  that  living 
fire  of  goodness  and  love.  The  friendship  that  Kunz  and 
Pottpetschmidt  had  for  him  was  very  dillVivnt.  Kunz  was 
selfish;  music  gave  him  a  comfortable  satisfaction  like  a  fat 
cat  when  it  is  stroked.  Pottpetschmidt  found  in  it  the  pleasure 


548  JEAX-CHRISTOPHE 

of  tickled  vanity  and  physical  exercise.  Neither  of  them  trou« 
bled  to  understand  him.  But  Schulz  absolutely  forgot  himself; 
he  loved. 

It  was  late.  The  two  friends  went  away  in  the  night.  Chris-- 
tophe  was  left  alone  with  Schulz.  He  said : 

"  Now  I  will  play  for  you  alone." 

He  sat  at  the  piano  and  played, — as  he  knew  how  to  play 
when  he  had  some  one  dear  to  him  by  his  side.  He  played  his 
latest  compositions.  The  old  man  was  in  ecstasies.  He  sat 
near  Christophe  and  never  took  his  eyes  from  him  and  held 
his  breath.  In  the  goodness  of  his  heart  he  was  incapable  of 
keeping  the  smallest  happiness  to  himself,  and  in  spite  of 
himself  he  said : 

"  Ah !  What  a  pity  Ivunz  is  not  here !  " 

That  irritated  Christophe  a  little. 

An  hour  passed;  Christophe  was  still  playing;  they  had  not 
exchanged  a  word.  When  Christophe  had  finished  neither 
spoke  a  word.  There  was  silence,  the  house,  the  street,  was 
asleep.  Christophe  turned  and  saw  that  the  old  man  was  weep- 
ing; he  got  up  and  went  and  embraced  him.  They  talked  in 
whispers  in  the  stillness  of  the  night.  The  clock  ticked  dully 
in  the  next  room.  Schulz  talked  in  a  whisper,  Avith  his  hands 
clasped,  and  leaning  forward :  he  Avas  telling  Christophe,  in 
answer  to  his  questions,  about  his  life  and  his  sorrow;  at  every 
turn  he  was  ashamed  of  complaining  and  had  to  say : 

"  I  am  wrong  ...  I  have  no  right  to  complain  .  .  . 
Everybody  has  been  very  good  to  me  .  .  ." 

And  indeed  he  was  not  complaining:  it  was  only  an  in- 
voluntary melancholy  emanating  from  the  dull  story  of  his 
lonely  life.  At  the  most  sorrowful  moments  he  wove  into  it 
professions  of  faith  vaguely  idealistic  and  very  sentimental 
which  amazed  Christophe,  though  it  would  have  been  too  cruel 
to  contradict  him.  At  bottom  there  was  in  Schulz  not  so  much 
a  firm  belief  as  a  passionate  desire  to  believe — an  uncertain  hope 
to  which  he  clung  as  to  a  buoy.  lie  sought  the  confirmation  of 
it  in  Christophe' s  eyes.  Christophe  understood  the  appeal  in 
the  eyes  of  his  friend,  Avho  clung  to  him  with  touching  confi- 
dence, imploring  him.— and  dictating  his  answer.  Then  he 
spoke  oc  the  calm  faith  or  strength,  sure  of  itself,  words  which 


REVOLT  549 

the  old  man  was  expecting,  and  they  comforted  him.  The 
old  man  and  the  young  had  forgotten  the  years  that  lay  between 
them;  they  were  near  each  other,  like  brothers  of  the  same 
age,  loving  and  helping  each  other;  the  weaker  sought  the  sup- 
port of  the  stronger;  the  old  man  took  refuge  in  the  young 
man's  soul. 

They  parted  after  midnight;  Christophe  had  to  get  up  early 
to  catch  the  train  by  which  he  had  come.  And  so  he  did  not 
loiter  as  he  undressed.  The  old  man  had  prepared  his  guest's 
room  as  though  for  a  visit  of  several  months.  lie  had  put  a 
bowl  of  roses  on  the  table  and  a  branch  of  laurel,  lie  had 
put  fresh  blotting  paper  on  the  bureau.  During  the  morning 
he  had  had  an  upright  piano  carried  up.  On  the  shelf  by  the 
bed  he  had  placed  books  chosen  from  among  his  most  precious 
and  beloved.  There  was  no  detail  that  he  had  not  lovingly 
thought  out.  But  it  was  a  waste  of  trouble:  Christophe  saw 
nothing.  He  flung  himself  on  his  bed  and  went  sound  asleep 
at  once. 

Schulz  could  not  sleep.  He  was  pondering  the  joy  that  he 
had  had  and  the  sorrow  he  must  have  at  the  departure  of  his 
friend.  He  was  turning  over  in  his  mind  the  words  that  had 
been  spoken.  He  was  thinking  that  his  dear  Christophe  was 
sleeping  near  him  on  the  other  side  of  the  wall  against  which 
his  bed' lay.  He  was  worn  out,  stilt  all  over,  depressed;  he 
felt  that  he  had  caught  cold  during  the  walk  and  that  he  was 
going  to  have  a  relapse:  but  lie  had  only  one  thought: 

"If  only  I  can  hold  out  until  he  has  gone!''  And  he  was 
fearful  of  having  a  tit  of  coughing  and  waking  Christophe. 
He  was  full  of  gratitude  to  Cod.  and  began  to  compose  verses 
to  the  song  of  old  Simeon:  "Xunc  dhnittis  .  .  ."  He  got 
up  in  a  sweat  to  write  the  verses  down  and  sat  at  his  desk 
until  he  had  carefully  copied  them  our  with  an  all'eetionati-  dedi- 
cation, and  his  signature,  and  the  date  and  hour.  Then  he 
lay  down  again  with  a  shiver  and  could  not  get  warm  all  night. 

Dawn  came.  Schulx  thought  regretfully  of  tin1  dawn  of  the 
day  before.  But  he  was  angry  with  himself  for  spoiling  with 
such  thoughts  the  few  minutes  of  happiness  left  to  him:  he 
knew  that  on  the  morrow  he  would  regret  the  time  fleeting  then, 
and  he  tried  not  to  waste  any  of  it.  He  listened,  eager  for 


550  JEAX-CHKISTOPHE 

the  least  sound  in  the  next  room.  But  Christophe  did  not  stir. 
He  lay  still  just  as  he  had  gone  to  bed ;  he  had  not  moved. 
Half-past  six  rang  and  he  still  slept.  Xothing  would  have  been 
easier  than  to  make  him  miss  the  train,  and  doubtless  he  would 
have  taken  it  with  a  laugh.  But  the  old  man  was  too  scru- 
pulous to  use  a  friend  so  without  his  consent.  In  vain  did  he 
say  to  himself: 

"  It  will  not  be  my  fault.  I  could  not  help  it.  It  will  be 
enough  to  say  nothing.  And  if  ho  does  not  wake  in  time  I 
shall  have  another  whole  day  with  him." 

He  answered  himself: 

"  Xo,   I   have  no   right." 

And  he  thought  it  his  duty  to  go  and  wake  him.  He  knocked 
at  his  door.  Christophe  did  not  hear  at  first;  he  had  to  knock 
again.  That  made  the  old  man's  heart  thump  as  he  thought : 
"  Ah !  How  well  he  sleeps !  He  would  stay  like  that  till  mid- 
day!  .  .  ." 

At  last  Christophe  replied  gaily  through  the  partition.  When 
he  learned  the  time  he  cried  out ;  he  was  heard  bustling  about 
his  room,  noisily  dressing  himself,  singing  scraps  of  melody, 
while  he  chattered  with  Schulz  through  the  wall  and  cracked 
jokes  while  the  old  man  laughed  in  spite  of  his  sorrow.  The 
door  opened;  Christophe  appeared,  fresh,  rested,  and  happy;  he 
had  no  thought  of  the  pain  he  was  causing.  In  reality  there 
was  no  hurry  for  him  to  go;  it  would  have  cost  him  nothing  to 
stay- a  few  days  longer;  and  it  would  have  given  Schulz  so  much 
pleasure !  But  Christophe  could  not  know  that.  Besides,  al- 
though he  was  very  fond  of  the  old  man,  he  was  glad  to  go; 
he  was  worn  out  by  the  day  of  perpetual  conversation,  by  these 
people  who  clung  to  him  in  desperate  fondness.  And  then  he 
was  young,  he  thought  there  would  be  plenty  of  time  to  meet 
again;  he  was  not  going  to  the  other  ends  of  the  earth! — The 
old  man  knew  that  he  would  soon  be  much  farther  than  the 
other  ends  of  the  earth.,  and  he  looked  at  Christophe  for  all 
eternity. 

In  spite  of  his  extreme  weariness  he  took  him  to  the  station. 
A  fine  cold  rain  was  falling  noiselessly.  At  the  station  when 
he  opened  his  purse  Christophe  found  that  he  had  not  enough 
money  to  buy  his  ticket  home.  He  knew  that  Schulz  would 


REVOLT  551 

gladly  lend  him  the  money,  but  he  would  not  ask  him  for 
it.  ...  Why?  Why  deny  those  who  love  you  the  oppor- 
tunity— the  happiness  of  doing  you  a  service?  .  .  .  He 
would  not  out  of  discretion — perhaps  out  of  vanity.  He  took 
a  ticket  for  a  station  on  the  way,  saying  that  he  would  do  the 
rest  of  the  journey  on  foot. 

The  time  for  leaving  came.  They  embraced  on  the  foot- 
board of  the  carriage.  Schulz  slipped  the  poem  he  had  writ- 
ten during  the  night  into  Christophe's  hand.  He  stayed  on  the 
platform  below  the  compartment.  They  had  nothing  more  to 
say  to  each  other,  as  usual  when  good-byes  are  too  long  drawn 
out,  but  Schulz's  eyes  went  on  speaking,  they  never  left  Chris- 
tophe's face  until  the  train  went. 

The  carriage  disappeared  round  a  curve.  Schulz  was  left 
alone.  He  went  back  by  the  muddy  path;  he  dragged  along; 
suddenly  he  felt  all  his  weariness,  the  cold,  the  melancholy 
of  the  rainy  day.  He  was  hardly  able  to  reach  home  and  to 
go  upstairs  again.  Hardly  had  he  reached  his  room  than  he 
was  seized  with  an  attack  of  asthma  and  coughing.  Salome 
came  to  his  aid.  Through  his  involuntary  groans,  he  said: 

"  What  luck !  .  .  .  What  luck  that  I  was  prepared  for 
it.  .  .  ."  He  felt  very  ill.  He  went  to  bed.  Salome 
fetched  the  doctor.  In  bed  he  became  as  limp  as  a  rag.  He 
could  not  move;  only  his  breast  was  heaving  and  panting  like 
a  million  billows.  His  head  was  heavy  and  feverish.  He  spent 
the  whole  day  in  living  through  the  day  before,  minute  by 
minute;  he  tormented  himself,  and  then  was  angry  with  himself 
for  complaining  after  so  much  happiness.  With  his  hands 
clasped  and  his  heart  big  with  love  he  thanked  Cod. 

Christophe  was  soothed  by  his  day  and  restored  to  confidence 
in  himself  by  the  affection  that  he  had  left  behind  him. — so 
he  returned  home.  When  he  had  gone  as  far  as  his  ticket  would 
take  him  he  got  out  blithely  and  took  to  the  road  on  foot.  He 
had  sixty  kilometers  to  do.  He  was  in  no  hurry  and  dawdled 
like  a  school-boy.  It  was  April.  The  country  was  not  very 
far  on.  The  leaves  were  unfolding  like  little  wrinkled  hands 
at  the  ends  of  the  black  branches;  the  apple  trees  were  in 
flower,  and  along  the  hedges  the  frail  eglantine  smiled. 


552  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

Above  the  leafless  forest,  where  a  soft  greenish  down  was  be- 
ginning to  appear,  on  the  summit  of  a  little  hill,  like  a  trophy 
on  the  end  of  a  lance,  there  rose  an  old  Romanic  castle.  Three 
black  clouds  sailed  across  the  soft  blue  sky.  Shadows  chased 
over  the  country  in  spring,  showers  passed,  then  the  bright 
sun  shone  forth  again  and  the  birds  sang. 

Christophe  found  that  for  some  time  he  had  been  thinking 
of  Uncle  Gottfried.  He  had  not  thought  of  the  poor  man  for 
a  long  time,  and  he  wondered  why  the  memory  of  him  should 
so  obstinately  obsess  him  now;  he  was  haunted  by  it  as  he 
walked  along  a  path  along  a  canal  that  reflected  the  poplars; 
and  the  image  of  his  uncle  was  so  actual  that  as  he  turned  a 
great  wall  he  thought  he  saw  him  coming  towards  him. 

The  sky  grew  dark.  A  heavy  downpour  of  rain  and  hail  fell, 
and  thunder  rumbled  in  the  distance.  Christophe  was  near  a 
village;  he  could  see  its  pink  walls  and  red  roofs  among  the 
clumps  of  trees.  He  hurried  and  took  shelter  under  the  pro- 
jecting roof  of  the  nearest  house.  The  hail-stones  came  lashing 
down;  they  rang  out  on  the  tiles  and  fell  down  into  the  street 
like  pieces  of  lead.  The  ruts  were  overflowing.  Above  the 
blossoming  orchards  a  rainbow  flung  its  brilliant  garish  scarf 
over  the  dark  blue  clouds. 

.  On  the  threshold  a  girl  was  standing  knitting.  She  asked 
Christophe  to  enter.  He  accepted  the  invitation.  The  room 
into  which  he  stepped  was  used  as  a  kitchen,  a  dining-room, 
and  a  bed-room.  At  the  back  a  stew-pot  hung  over  a  great 
fire.  A  peasant  woman  who  was  cleaning  vegetables  wished 
Christophe  good-day,  and  bade  him  go  near  the  flre  to  dry 
himself.  The  girl  fetched  a  bottle  of  wine  and  gave  him  to 
drink.  She  sat  on  the  other  side  of  the  table  and  went  on 
knitting,  while  at  the  same  time  she  looked  after  two  children 
who  were  playing  at  testing  each  other's  eyes  with  those  grasses 
which  are  known  in  the  country  as  "thief?"  or  "sweeps." 
She  began  to  talk  to  Christophe.  It  was  only  after  a  moment 
that  he  saw  that  she  was  blind.  She  was  not  pretty.  She  was 
a  big  girl,  with  red  cheeks,  white  teeth,  and  strong  arms,  but 
her  features  were  irregular:  she  had  the  smiling,  rather  ex- 
pre^sionles?  air  of  many  blind  people,  and  also  their  mania  for 
talking  of  things  and  people  as  though  they  could  see  them. 


REVOLT  553 

At  first  Christophe  was  startled  and  wondered  if  she  were 
making  fun  of  him  when  she  said  that  he  looked  well  and  that 
the  country  was  looking  very  pretty.  But  after  looking  from 
the  blind  girl  to  the  woman  who  was  cleaning  the  vegetables 
he  saw  that  nobody  was  surprised  and  that  it  was  no  joke — 
(there  was  nothing  to  joke  about  indeed). — The  two  women 
asked  Christophe  friendly  questions  as  to  whither  he  was 
going  and  whence  he  had  come.  The  blind  girl  joined  in  the 
conversation  with  a  rather  exaggerated  eagerness;  she  agreed 
with,  or  commented  on,  Christophe's  remarks  about  the  road 
and  the  fields.  Naturally  her  observations  were  often  wide  of 
the  mark.  She  seemed  to  be  trying  to  pretend  that  she  could 
see  as  well  as  he. 

Other  members  of  the  family  came  in:  a  healthy  peasant  of 
thirty  and  his  young  wife.  Christophe  talked  to  them  all,  and 
watched  the  clearing  sky,  waiting  for  the  moment  to  set  out 
again.  The  blind  girl  hummed  an  air  while  she  plied  her  knit- 
ting needles.  The  air  brought  back  all  sorts  of  old  memories 
to  Christophe. 

"What!"  he  said.  "You  know  that."  (Gottfried  had 
taught  her  it.) 

He  hummed  the  following  notes.  The  girl  began  to  laugh. 
She  sang  the  first  half  of  the  phrases  and  he  finished  them. 
He  had  just  got  up  to  go  and  look  at  the  weather  and  he  was 
walking  round  the  room,  mechanically  taking  stock  of  every 
corner  of  it,  when  near  the  dresser  he  saw  an  object  which 
made  him  start.  It  was  a  long  twisted  stick,  the  handle  of 
which  was  roughly  carved  to  represent  a  little  bent  man  bowing. 
Christophe  knew  it  well,  he  had  played  with  it  as  a  child. 
He  pounced  on  the  stick  and  asked  in  a  choking  voice: 

"Where  did  you  get  this?  .  .  .  Where  did  you  get  it?" 
The  man  looked  up  and  said : 

"  A  friend  left  it  here— an  old  friend  who  is  dead." 

Christophe  cried : 

"  Gottfried  ?  " 

They  all  turned  and  asked : 

"  ITow  do  you  know     .     .     .      ? " 

And  when  Christophe  told  them  tbnt  Gottfried  was  his  uncle, 
they  were  all  greatly  excited.  The  blind  girl  got  up;  her  ball 


554  JEAX-CHRISTOPIIE 

of  wool  rolled  across  the  room ;  she  stopped  her  work  and  took 
Christophe's  hands  and  said  in  a  great  state  of  emotion: 

"  You  are  his  nephew  ?  " 

They  all  talked  at  once.     Christophe  asked: 

"  But  hew  .  .  .  how  do  you  come  to  know  him  ?  "  The 
man  replied : 

"  It  was  here  that  he  died." 

They  sat  down  again,  and  when  the  excitement  had  gone 
down  a  little,  the  mother  told,  as  she  went  on  with  her  work, 
that  Gottfried  used  to  go  to  the  house  for  many  years;  he  al- 
ways used  to  stay  there  on  his  way  to  and  fro  from  his  jour- 
neys. The  last  time  he  came — (it  was  in  last  July) — he 
seemed  very  tired,  and  when  he  took  off  his  pack  it  was  some 
time  before  he  could  speak  a  word,  but  they  did  not  take  any 
notice  of  it  because  they  were  used  to  seeing  him  like  that  when 
he  arrived  and  knew  that  he  was  short  of  breath.  He  did  not 
complain  either.  He  never  used  to  complain;  he  always  used 
to  find  some  happiness  in  the  most  unpleasant  things.  When 
he  was  doing  some  exhausting  work  he  used  to  be  glad  thinking 
how  good  it  would  be  in  bed  at  night,  and  when  he  was  ill  he 
used  to  say  how  good  it  would  be  when  he  was  not  ill  any 
longer.  .  .  . 

"  And,  sir,  it  is  wrong  to  be  always  content."  added  the 
woman,  "  for  if  you  are  not  sorry  for  yourself,  nobody  will 
pity  you.  1  always  complain  .  '.  ." 

Well,  nobody  had  paid  any  attention  to  him.  They  had  even 
chaffed  him  about  looking  so  well  and  Modesta — (that  was  the 
blind  girl's  name) — who  had  just  relieved  him  of  his  pack  had 
asked  him  if  he  was  never  going  to  be  tired  of  running  like  a 
young  man.  He  smiled  in  reply,  for  he  could  not  speak.  He 
sat  on  the  seat  by  the  door.  Everybody  went  about  their  work, 
the  men  to  the  fields,  the  woman  to  her  cooking.  Modesta  went 
near  the  seat,  she  stood  leaning  against  the  door  with  her 
knitting  in  her  hands  and  talked  to  Gottfried,  lie  did  not 
reply;  she  did  not  ask  him  for  any  reply  and  told  him  every- 
thing that  had  happened  since  his  last  visit.  He  breathed 
with  difficulty  and  she  heard  him  trying  hard  to  speak.  In- 
stead of  being  anxious  about  him  she  said : 


REVOLT 


ooo 


"  Don't  speak.    Just  rest.    You  shall  talk  presently.     •     . 
How  can  people  tire  themselves  out  like  that !     .     .     ." 

And  then  he  did  not  talk  or  even  try  to  talk.  She  went  on 
with  her  story  thinking  that  he  was  listening.  He  sighed  and 
said  nothing.  When  the  mother  came  a  little  later  she  found 
Modesta  still  talking  and  Gottfried  motionless  on  the  seat  with 
his  head  flung  back  facing  the  sky;  for  some  minutes  Modesta 
had  been  talking  to  a  dead  man.  She  understood  then  that 
the  poor  man  had  been  trying  to  say  a  few  words  before  he  died 
but  had  not  been  able  to;  then  with  his  sad  smile  he  had  ac- 
cepted that  and  had  closed  his  eyes  in  the  peace  of  the  summer 
evening.  .  .  . 

The  rain  had  ceased.  The  daughter-in-law  went  to  the  stables, 
the  son  took  his  mattock  and  cleared  the  little  gutter  in  front 
of  the  door  which  the  mud  had  obstructed.  Modesta  had  dis- 
appeared at  the  beginning  of  the  story.  Christophe  was  left 
alone  in  the  room  with  the  mother,  and  was  silent  and  much 
moved.  The  old  woman,  who  was  rather  talkative,  could  not 
bear  a  prolonged  silence;  and  she  began  to  tell  him  the  whole 
history  of  her  acquaintance  with  Gottfried.  It  went  far  back. 
When  she  was  quite  young  Gottfried  loved  her.  Pie  dared 
not  tell  her,  but  it  became  a  joke;  she  made  fun  of  him, 
everybody  made  fun  of  him, —  (it  was  the  custom  wherever  lie 
went) — Gottfried  used  to  come  faithfully  every  year.  It 
seemed  natural  to  him  that  people  should  make  fun  of  him. 
natural  that  she  should  have  married  and  been  happy  with 
another  man.  She  had  been  too  happy,  she  had  boasted  too 
much  of  her  happiness :  then  unbappiness  came.  Her  husband 
died  suddenly.  Then  his  daughter. — a  fine  strong  girl  whom 
everybody  admired,  who  was  to  lie  married  to  the  son  of  the 
richest  farmer  of  the  district, — lost  her  sight  as  the  result  of  an 
accident.  One  day  when  she  had  climbed  to  the  great  pear 
tree  behind  the  house  to  pick  the  fruit  the  ladder  slipped:  as 
she  fell  a-  broken  branch  struck  a  blow  near  the  eye.  At  first 
it  was  thought  that  she  would  escape  with  a  scar,  but  later  she 
had  had  unceasing  pains  in  her  forehead  :  one  eye  lost  its  sight, 
then  the  other ;  and  all  their  remedies  had  been  useless.  Of 
course  the  marriage  was  broken  off;  her  betrothed  had  van- 


556  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

ished  without  any  explanation,  and  of  all  the  young  men 
who  a  month  before  had  actually  fought  for  a  dance  with  her, 
not  on^  had  the  courage— (it  is  quite  comprehensible) — to 
take  a  blind  girl  to  his  arms.  And  so  Modesto,  who  till  then 
had  been  careless  and  gay,  had  fallen  into  such  despair  that  she 
wanted  to  die.  She  refused  to  eat;  she  did  nothing  but  weep 
from  morning  to  evening,  and  during  the  night  they  used  to  hear 
her  still  moaning  in  her  bed.  They  did  not  know  what  to  do, 
they  could  only  join  her  in  her  despair;  and  she  only  wept  the 
more.  At  last  they  lost  patience  with  her  moaning;  then  they 
scolded  her  and  she  talked  of  throwing  herself  into  the  canal. 
The  minister  would  come  sometimes;  he  would  talk  of  the 
good  God,  and  eternal  things,  and  the  merit  she  was  gaining 
for  the  next  world  by  bearing  her  sorrows,  but  that  did  not 
console  her  at  all.  One  day  Gottfried  came.  Modesta  had 
never  been  very  kind  to  him.  Not  that  she  was  naturally  un- 
kind, but  she  wras  disdainful,  and  besides  she  never  thought;  she 
loved  to  laugh,  and  there  was  no  malice  in  what  she  said  or  did 
to  him.  When  he  heard  of  her  misfortune  he  was  as  over- 
whelmed by  it  as  though  he  were  a  member  of  the  family. 
However  he  did  not  let  her  see  it  the  first  time  he  saw  her.  He 
went  and  sat  by  her  side,  marie  no  allusion  to  her  accident  and 
began  to  talk  quietly  as  he  had  always  done  before.  He  had  no 
word  of  pity  for  her ;  he  even  seemed  not  to  notice  that  she  was 
blind.  Only  he  never  talked  to  her  of  things  she  could  not  see; 
he  talked  to  her  about  what  she  could  hear  or  notice  in  her 
blindness:  and  he  did  it  quite  simply  as  though  it  were  a  nat- 
ural thing;  it  was  as  though  he  too  were  blind.  At  first  she 
did  not  listen  and  went  on  weeping.  But  next  day  she  listened 
better  and  even  talked  to  him  a  little.  .  .  . 

"And."  the  woman  went  on.  "I  do  not  know  what  lie  can 
have  said  to  her.  For  we  were  hay-making  and  1  was  too  busy 
to  notice  her.  But  in  the  evening  when  we  came  in  from  the 
fields  we  found  her  talking  quietly.  And  after  that  she  went 
on  getting  better.  She  seemed  to  forget  her  aflliction.  But 
every  now  and  then  she  would  think  of  it  again ;  she  would 
weep  alone  or  try  to  talk  to  Gottfried  of  sad  things;  but  he 
seemed  not  to  hear,  or  he  would  not  reply  in  the  same  tone;  he 
would  go  on  talking  gravely  or  merrily  of  things  which  soothed 


REVOLT  557 

and  interested  her.  At  last  he  persuaded  her  to  go  out  of  the 
house,  which  she  had  never  left  since  her  accident.  He  made 
her  go  a  few  yards  round  the  garden  at  first,  and  then  for  a 
longer  distance  in  the  fields.  And  at  last  she  learned  to  find 
her  way  everywhere  and  to  make  out  everything  as  though  she 
could  see.  She  even  notices  things  to  which  we  never  pay  any 
attention,  and  she  is  interested  in  everything,  whereas  before 
she  was  never  interested  in  much  outside  herself.  That  time 
Gottfried  stayed  with  us  longer  than  usual.  We  dared  not  ask 
him  to  postpone  his  departure,  but  he  stayed  of  his  own  accord 
until  he  saw  that  she  was  calmer.  And  one  day — she  was  out 
there  in  the  yard, — I  heard  her  laughing.  I  cannot  tell  you 
what  an  effect  that  had  on  me.  Gottfried  looked  happy  too. 
He  was  sitting  near  me.  We  looked  at  each  other,  and  T  am 
not  ashamed  to  tell  you,  sir,  that  I  kissed  him  with  all  my 
heart.  Then  he  said  to  me : 

" '  Now  I  think  I  can  go.  I  am  not  needed  any  more/ 
"  I  tried  to  keep  him.  But  he  said : 
" '  Xo.  I  must  go  now.  T  cannot  stay  any  longer/ 
"  Everybody  knew  that  he  was  like  the  Wandering  Jew :  he 
could  not  stay  anywhere;  we  did  not  insist.  Then  he  went,  but 
he  arranged  to  come  here  more  often,  and  every  time  it  was  a 
great  joy  for  Modesta ;  she  was  always  better  after  his  visits. 
She  began  to  work  in  the  house  again :  her  brother  married ; 
she  looks  after  the  children;  and  now  she  never  complains  and 
always  looks  happy.  I  sometimes  wonder  if  she  would  be  so 
happy  if  she  had  her  two  eyes.  Yes,  indeed,  sir,  there  are  days 
when  I  think  that  it  would  be  better  to  lie  like  her  and  not  to 
see  certain  ugly  people  and  certain  evil  things.  The  world  i> 
growing  very  ugly,  it  grows  worse  every  day.  .  .  .  And 
yet  I  should  be  very  much  afraid  of  God  taking  me  at  my 
word,  and  for  my  part  I  would  rather  go  on  seeing  the  world, 
ugly  as  it  is.  .  .  ." 

Modesta  came  back  and  the  conversation  changed.  Chris- 
tophe  wished  to  go  now  that  the  weather  was  fair  again,  but  they 
would  not  let  him.  Tie  had  to  agree  to  stay  to  supper  and  to 
spend  the  night  with  them.  Modesta  sat  near  Christophe  and 
did  not  leave  him  all  the  evening.  Tie  would  have  liked  to  talk 
intimately  to  the  girl  whose  lot  filled  him  with  pitv.  But  she 


558  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

gave  him  no  opportunity.  She  would  only  try  to  ask  him  about 
Gottfried.  When  Christophe  told  her  certain  things  she  did 
not  know,  she  was  happy  and  a  little  jealous.  She  was  a  little 
unwilling  to  talk  of  Gottfried  herself;  it  was  apparent 
that  she  did  not  tell  everything,  and  when  she  did  tell  every- 
thing she  was  sorry  for  it  at  once;  her  memories  were  her 
property,  she  did  not  like  sharing  them  with  another;  in  her 
affection  she  was  as  eager  as  a  peasant  woman  in  her  attach- 
ment to  her  land;  it  hurt  her  to  think  that  .anybody 
could  love  Gottfried  as  much  as  she.  It  is  true  that  she  refused 
to  believe  it;  and  Christophe,  understanding,  left  her  that  sat- 
isfaction. As  he  listened  to  her  he  saw  that,  although  she  had 
seen  Gottfried  and  had  even  seen  him  with  indulgent  eyes, 
since  her  blindness  she  had  made  of  him  an  image  absolutely 
different  from  the  reality,  and  she  had  transferred  to  the  phan- 
tom of  her  mind  all  the  hunger  for  love  that  was  in  her.  Noth- 
ing had  disturbed  her  illusion.  With  the  bold  certainty  of  the 
blind,  who  calmly  invent  wliat  they  do  not  know,  she  said  to 
Christophe : 

"  You  are  like  him." 

He  understood  that  for  years  she  had  grown  used  to  living 
in  a  house  with  closed  shutters  through  which  the  truth  could 
not  enter.  And  now  that  she  had  learned  to  see  in  the  darkness 
that  surrounded  her,  and  even  to  forget  the  darkness, 
perhaps  she  would  have  been  afraid  of  a  ray  of  light  filtering 
through  the  gloom.  With  Christophe  she  recalled  a  number  of 
rather  silly  trivialities  in  a  smiling  and  disjointed  conversation 
in  which  Christophe  could  not  be  at  his  ease.  He  was  irritated 
by  her  chatter ;  he  could  not  understand  how  a  creature  who  had 
suffered  so  much  had  not  become  more  serious  in  her  suffering, 
and  he  could  not  find  tolerance  for  such  futility;  every  now  and 
then  he  tried  to  talk  of  graver  things,  but  they  found  no  echo; 
Modesta  could  not — or  would  not — follow  him. 

They  went  to  bed.  It  was  long  before  Christophe  could 
sleep.  He  was  thinking  of  Gottfried  and  trying  to  disengage 
him  from  the  image  of  Modcsta's  childish  memories.  He  found 
it  difficult  and  was  irritated.  His  heart  ached  at  the  thought 
that  Gottfried  had  died  there  and  that  his  body  had  no  doubt 


REVOLT  559 

lain  in  thai  very  bed.  He  tried  to  live  through  the  agony  of  his 
last  moments,  when  he  could  neither  speak  nor  make  the  blind 
girl  understand,  and  had  closed  his  eyes  in  death,  lie  longed 
to  have  been  able  to  raise  his  eyelids  and  to  read  the  thoughts 
hidden  under  them,  the  mystery  of  that  soul,  which  had  gone 
without  making  itself  known,  perhaps  even  without  knowing 
itself !  It  never  tried  to  know  itself,  and  all  its  wisdom  lay  in 
not  desiring  wisdom,  or  in  not  trying  to  impose  its  will  on  cir- 
cumstance, but  in  abandoning  itself  to  the  force  of  circumstance, 
in  accepting  it  and  loving  it.  So  he  assimilated  the  mysterious 
essence  of  the  world  without  even  thinking  of  it.  And  if  he 
had  done  so  much  good  to  the  blind  girl,  to  Christophe,  and 
doubtless  to  many  others  who  would  be  forever  unknown,  it  was 
because,  instead  of  bringing  the  customary  words  of  the  revolt 
of  man  against  nature,  he  brought  something  of  the  indifferent 
peace  of  Xature,  and  reconciled  the  submissive  soul  with  her. 
He  did  good  like  the  fields,  the  woods,  all  Xature  with  which  he 
was  impregnated.  Christophe  remembered  the  evenings  he  had 
spent  with  Gottfried  in  the  country,  his  walks  as  a  child,  the 
stories  and  songs  in  the  night.  lie  remembered  also  the  last 
walk  he  had  taken  with  his  uncle,  on  the  hill  above  the  town, 
on  a  cold  winter's  morning,  and  the  tears  came  to  his  eyes 
once  more.  He  did  not  try  to  sleep,  so  as  to  remain  with  his 
memories.  He  did  not  wish  to  lose  one  moment  of  that  night 
in  the  little  place,  filled  with  the  soul  of  Gottfried,  to  which  he 
had  been  led  as  though  impelled  by  some  unknown  force.  But 
while  he  lay  listening  to  the  irregular  trickling  of  the  foun- 
tain and  the  shrill  cries  of  the  bats,  the  healthy  fatigue  of 
youth  mastered  his  will,  and  he  fell  asleep. 

When  he  awoke  the  sun  was  shining:  everybody  on  the  farm 
was  already  at  work.  In  the  hall  he  found  only  the  old  woman 
and  the  children.  The  young  couple  were  in  the  fields,  and 
Modesta  had  gone  to  milk.  They  looked  for  her  in  vain.  She 
was  nowhere  to  be  found.  Ghristophe  said  he  would  not  wait 
for  her  return.  He  did  not  much  want  to  see  her.  and  he 
said  that  he  was  in  a  hurry.  He  set  out  after  telling  the  old 
woman  to  bid  the  others  good-bye  for  him. 

As  he  was  leaving  the  village  at  a  turn  of  the  road  he  saw 


560  JKAX-CHKTSTOPITE 

the  blind  girl  sitting  on  a  bank  under  a  hawthorn  hedge.  She 
got  up  as  she  heard  him  coming,  approached  him  smiling,  took 
his  hand,  and  said : 

"  Come." 

They  climbed  up  through  meadows  to  a  little  shady  flowering 
field  filled  with  tombstones,  which  looked  down  on  the  village. 
She  led  him  to  a  grave  and  said : 

"  He  is  there." 

They  both  knelt  down.  Christophe  remembered  another 
grave  by  which  he  had  knelt  with  Gottfried,  and  he  thought: 

"  Soon  it  will  be  my  turn." 

But  there  was  no  sadness  in  his  thought.  A  great  peace 
was  ascending  from  the  earth.  Christophe  leaned  over  the 
grave  and  said  in  a  whisper  to  Gottfried: 

"Enter  into  me!  .  .  ." 

•  Modcsta  was  pra}Ting,  with  her  hands  clasped  and  her  lips 
moving  in  silence.  Then  she  went  round  the  grave  on  her 
knees,  feeling  the  ground  and  the  grass  and  the  flowers  with 
her  hands.  She  seemed  to  caress  them,  her  quick  fingers 
seemed  to  see.  They  gently  plucked  the  dead  stalks  of  the  ivy 
and  the  faded  violets.  She  laid  her  hand  on  the  curb  to  get 
up.  Christophe  saw  her  fingers  pass  furtively  over  Gottfried's 
name,  lightly  touching  each  letter.  She  said : 

"  The  earth  is  sweet  this  morning." 

She  held  out  her  hand  to  him.  He  gave  her  his.  She  made 
him  touch  the  moist  warm  earth.  He  did  not  loose  her  hand. 
Their  locked  fingers  plunged  into  the  earth.  He  kissed  Mcdesta. 
She  kissed  him,  too. 

They  both  rose1  to  their  feet.  She  held  out  to  him  a  few 
fresh  violets  she  had  gathered,  and  put  the  faded  ones  into 
her  bosom.  They  dusted  their  knees  and  left  the  cemetery 
without  a  word.  In  the  fields  the  larks  were  singing.  White 
butterflies  danced  about  their  heads.  They  sat  down  in  a 
meadow  a  few  yards  away  from  each  oilier.  The  smoke  of 
the  village  was  ascending  direct  to  the  sky  Mint  was  washed 
by  the  rain.  The  still  canal  glimmered  between  the  poplars. 
A  irleaming  blue  mist  wrapped  the  meadows  and  woods  in  its 
folds. 


REVOLT  561 

Moclesta  broke  the  silence.  She  spoke  in  a  whisper  of  the 
beauty  of  the  day  as  though  she  could  see  it.  She  drank  in  the 
air  through  her  half-open  lips;  she  listened  for  the  sounds  of 
creatures  and  things.  Christophe  also  knew  the  worth  of  such 
music.  He  said  what  she  was  thinking  and  could  not  have 
said.  He  named  certain  of  the  cries  and  imperceptible  tremors 
that  they  could  hear  in  the  grass.,  in  the  depths  of  the  air.  She 
said: 

"  Ah  !     You  sec  that,  too  ?  " 

lie  replied  that  Gottfried  had  taught  him  to  distinguish 
them. 

"You,  too?"  she  said  a  little  crossly. 

He  wanted  to  say  to  her : 

"  Do  not  be  jealous." 

But  he  saw  the  divine  light  smiling  all  about  them:  he 
looked  at  her  blind  eyes  and  was  filled  with  pity. 

"  So,"  he  asked,  "  i't  was  Gottfried  taught  you?  " 

She  said  "  Yes,"  and  that  they  gave  her  more  delight  than 
ever  before.  .  .  .  She  did  not  say  before  "  what."  She 
never  mentioned  the  words  "  eyes  "  or  '""  blind." 

They  were  silent  for  a  moment.  Christophe  looked  at  her 
in  pity.  She  felt  that  he  was  looking  at  her.  lie  would  have 
liked  to  tell  her  how  much  he  pitied  her.  He  would  have  liked 
her  to  complain,  to  confide  in  him.  He  asked  kindly: 

"  You  have  been  very  unhappy  ?  " 

She  sat  dumb  and  unyielding.  She  plucked  the  blades  of 
grass  and  munched  them  in  silence.  After  a  few  moments. — 
(the  song  of  a  lark  was  going  farther  and  farther  from  them 
in  the  sky). — Chrisiophe  told  her  how  he  too  had  been  unhappy, 
and  how  Gottfried  had  helped  him.  He  told  her  all  his  sor- 
rows, bis  trials,  as  though  he  were  thinking  aloud  or  talking 
to  a  sister.  The  blind  girl's  face  lit  up  as  be  told  his  story, 
which  she  followed  eagerlv.  Christophe  watched  her  and  saw 
that  she  was  on  the  point  of  speaking.  She  made  a  movement 
to  come  near  him  and  bold  his  band.  He  moved;  too — but  al- 
ready she  had  relapsed  into  her  impassiveness.  and  when  he 
had  finished,  she  only  replied  with  a  few  banal  words.  Be- 
hind her  broad  forehead,  on  which  there  was  not  a  line,  there 


562  JEAN-CHRTSTOPHE 

was  the  obstinacy  of  a  peasant,  hard  as  a  stone.  She  said  that 
she  must  go  home  to  look  after  her  brother's  children.  She 
talked  of  them  with  a  calm  smile. 

He  asked  her : 

"  You  are  happy  ?  " 

She  seemed  to  be  more  happy  to  hear  him  say  the  Avord.  She 
said  she  was  happy  and  insisted  on  the  reasons  she  had  for 
being  so:  she  was  trying  to  persuade  herself  and  him  that  it 
was  so.  She  spoke  of  the  children,  and  the  house,  and  all  that 
she  had  to  do.  .  . 

"Oh!  yes,"  she  said,  "I  am  very  happy!"  Christophc  did 
not  reply.  She  rose  to  go.  He  rose  too.  They  said  good-bye 
gaily  and  carelessly.  Modesta's  hand  trembled  a  little  in  Chris- 
tophe's.  She  said : 

"  You  will  have  fine  weather  for  your  walk  to-day."  And  she 
told  him  of  a  crossroads  where  he  must  not  go  wrong.  It  was 
as  though,  of  the  two,  Christophe  were  the  blind  one. 

They  parted.  He  went  down  the  hill.  When  he  reached  the 
bottom  he  turned.  She  was  standing  at  the  summit  in  the 
same  place.  She  waved  her  handkerchief  and  made  signs  to 
him  as  though  she  saw  him. 

There  was  something  heroic  and  absurd  in  her  obstinacy  in 
denying  her  misfortune,  something  which  touched  Christophe 
and  hurt  him.  He  felt  how  worthy  Modcsta  was  of  pity  and 
even  of  admiration, — and  he  could  not  have  lived  two  days  with 
her.  As  he  went  his  way  between  flowering  hedges  he  thought 
of  dear  old  Schulz,  and  his  old  eyes,  bright  and  tender,  before 
which  so  many  sorrows  had  passed  which  they  refused  to  see, 
for  they  would  not  see  hurtful  realities. 

"How  does  he  see  me,  I  wonder?"  thought  Christophe.  "I 
am  so  different  from  his  idea  of  me !  To  him  I  am  what  he 
wants  me  to  be.  Everything  is  in  his  own  image,  pure  and 
noble  like  himself.  He  could  not  bear  life  if  he  saw  it  as  it  is." 

And  he  thought  of  the  girl  living  in  darkness  who  denied 
the  darkness, "and  tried  to  pretend  that  what  was  was  not.  and 
that  what  was  not  was. 

Then  he  saw  the  greatness  of  German  idealism,  which  he  had 
so  often  loathed  because  in  vulgar  souls  it  is  a  source  of  hypoc- 
risy and  stupidity.  He  saw  the  beauty  of  the  faith  which 


REVOLT  563 

begets  a  world  within  the  world,  different  from  the  world,  like 
a  little  island  in  the  ocean. — But  he  could  not  bear  such  a 
faith  for  himself,  and  refused  to  take  refuge  upon  such  an 
Island  of  the  Dead.  Life!  Truth!  He  would  not  be  a  lying 
hero.  Perhaps  that  optimistic  lie  which  a  German  Emperor 
tried  to  make  law  for  all  his  people  was  indeed  necessary  for 
weak  creatures  if  they  were  to  live.  And  Christophe  would 
have  thought  it  a  crime  to  snatch  from  such  poor  wretches  the 
illusion  which  upheld  them.  But  for  himself  he  never  could 
have  recourse  to  such  subterfuges.  He  would  rather  die  than 
live  by  illusion.  Was  not  Art  also  an  illusion  ?  '  No.  It  must 
not  be.  Truth !  Truth !  Eyes  wide  open,  let  him  draw  in 
through  every  pore  the  all-puissant  breath  of  life,  see  things 
as  they  are,  squarely  face  his  misfortunes, — and  laugh. 

Several  months  passed.  Christophe  had  lost  all  hope  of  escap- 
ing from  the  town.  Hassler.  the  only  man  who  could  have 
saved  him,  had  refused  to  help  him.  And  old  Schulz's  friend- 
ship had  been  taken  from  him  almost  as  soon  as  it  had  been 
given. 

He  had  written  once  on  his  return,  and  he  had  received 
two  affectionate  letters,  but  from  sheer  laziness,  and  especially 
because  of  the  difficulty  he  had  expressing  himself  in  a  letter, 
he  delayed  thanking  him  for  his  kind  words.  He  put  off  writ- 
ing from  day  to  day.  And  when  at  last  he  made  up  his  mind 
to  write  he  had  a  word  from  Kunz  announcing  the  deatli  of 
his  old  friend.  Schulz  had  had  a  relapse  of  his  bronchitis 
which  had  developed  into  pneumonia.  He  had  forbidden  them 
to  bother  Christophe.  of  whom  he  was  always  talking.  In  spite 
of  his  extreme  weakness  and  many  years  of  illness,  he  was 
not  spared  a  lonsf  and  painful  end.  He  had  charged  Kunz 
to  convey  the  tidings  to  Christophe  and  to  tell  him  that  he 
had  thought  of  him  up  to  the  last  hour;  that  he  thanked  him 
for  all  the  happiness  he  owed  him,  and  that  his  blessing  would 
be  on  Christophe  as  long  as  he  lived.  Kunz  did  not  tell  him 
that  the  day  with  Christophe  had  probably  been  the  reason  of 
his  relapse  and  the  cause  of  his  death. 

Christophe  wept  in  silence,  and  he  felt  then  all  the  worth 
of  the  friend  he  had  lost,  and  how  much  he  loved  him,  and  he 


564  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

was  grieved  not  to  have  told  him  more  of  how  he  loved  him.  It 
was  too  late  now.  And  what  was  left  to  him?  The  good  Schulz 
had  only  appeared  enough  to  make  the  void  seem  more  empty, 
the  night  more  black  after  he  ceased  to  lie.  As  for  Kunz  and 
Pottpetschmidt,  they  had  no  value  outside  the  friendship  they 
had  for  Sehuiz  and  Schulz  for  them.  Christophe  valued  them 
at  their  proper  worth.  He  wrote  to  them  once  and  their  rela- 
tion ended  there.  He  tried  also  to  write  to  I\Iodesta,  but  she 
answered  with  a  commonplace  letter  in  which  she  spoke  only 
of  trivialities.  He  gave  up  the  correspondence.  He  wrote  to 
nobody  and  nobody  wrote  to  him. 

Silence.  Silence.  From  day  to  day  the  heavy  cloak  of 
silence  descended  upon  Christophe.  It  was  like  a  rain  of  ashes 
falling  on  him.  It  seemed  already  to  be  evening,  and  Chris- 
tophe was  losing  his  hold  on  life.  Ho  would  not  resign  him- 
self to  that.  The  hour  of  sleep  was  not  yet  come.  He  must 
live. 

And  he  could  not  live  in  Germany.  The  sufferings  of  his 
genius  cramped  by  the  narrowness  of  the  little  town  lashed  him 
into  injustice.  His  nerves  were  raw:  everything  drew  blood. 
He  was  like  one  of  those  wretched  wild  animals  who  perished 
of  boredom  in  the  holes  and  cages  in  which  they  were  impris- 
oned in  the  fttadlgaricn  (town  gardens).  Christophe  used  often 
to  go  and  look  at  them  in  sympathy.  He  used  to  look  at  their 
wonderful  eyes,  in  which  there  burned — or  every  day  grew 
fainter — a  fierce  and  desperate  fire.  Ah  !  TIow  they  would 
have  loved  the  brutal  bullet  which  sets  free,  or  the  knife  that 
strikes  into  their  bleeding  hearts  !  Anything  rather  than  the 
savage  indifference  of  those  men  who  prevented  them  from 
either  living  or  dying ! 

Not  the  hostility  of  the  people  was  the  hardest  for  Christophe 
to  bear,  but  their  inconsistency,  their  formless,  shallow  natures. 
There  was  no  knowing  how  to  take  them.  The  pig-headed 
opposition  of  one  of  those  stiff-necked,  hard  races  who  refuse 
to  understand  any  new  thought  were  much  better.  Against 
force  it  is  possible  to  oppose  force — the  pick  and  the  mine 
which  hew  away  and  blow  up  the  hard  rock.  But  what; 
can  be  done  against  an  amorphous  mass  which  gives  like  a 
jelly,  collapses  under  the  least  pressure,  and  retains  no  imprint 


REVOLT  5G5 

of  it?  All  thought  and  energy  and  everything  disappeared  in 
the  slough.  When  a  stone  fell  there  were  hardly  more  than  a 
few  ripples  quivering  on  the  surface  of  the  gulf:  the  monster 
opened  and  shut  its  maw,  and  there  was  left  no  trace  of  what 
had  been. 

They  were  not  enemies.  Dear  God !  if  they  only  had  been 
enemies !  They  were  people  who  had  not  the  strength  to  love 
or  hate,  or  believe  or  disbelieve, — in  religion,  in  art.  in  politics, 
in  daily  life;  and  all  their  energies  were  expended  in  trying  to 
reconcile  the  irreconcilable.  Especially  since  the  German  vic- 
tories they  had  been  striving  to  make  a  compromise,  a  revolting 
intrigue  between  their  new  power  and  their  old  principles.  The 
old  idealism  had  not  been  renounced.  There  should  have  been 
a  new  effort  of  freedom  of  which  they  were  incapable.  They 
were  content  with  a  forgery,  witli  making  it  subservient  to 
German  interests.  Like  the  serene  and  subtle  Schwabian,  Hegel, 
who  had  waited  until  after  Leipzig  and  Waterloo  to  assimilate 
the  cause  of  his  philosophy  with  the  Prussian  State — their  in- 
terests having  changed,  their  principles  had  changed  too.  When 
they  were  defeated  they  said  that  Germany's  ideal  was  human- 
ity. Xow  that  they  had  defeated  others,  they  said  that  Ger- 
many was  the  ideal  of  humanity.  When  other  countries  were 
more  powerful,  they  said,  with  Lessing,  that  "patriotism  is  a 
heroic  weakness  which  it  is  well  to  ~be  without"  and  they  called 
themselves  "citizens  of  the  world."  Now  that  they  were  in  the 
ascendant,  they  could  not  enough  despise  the  Ttopias  ''  a  In 
Francaise."  Universal  peace,  fraternity,  pacific  progress,  the 
rights  of  man,  natural  equality:  they  said  that  the  strongest 
people  had  absolute  rights  against  the  others,  and  that  the 
others,  being  weaker,  had  no  rights  against  themselves.  It  was 
the  living  God  and  the  Incarnate  Idea,  the  progress  of  which  is 
accomplished  by  war.  violence,  and  oppression.  Force  had  be- 
come holy  now  that  it  was  on  tlieir  side.  Force  had  become 
the  only  idealism  and  the  only  intelligence. 

Tn  truth.  Germany  had  suffered  so  much  for  centuries  from 
having  idealism  and  no  fame  that  she  bad  every  excuse  after 
so  many  trials  for  making  the  sorrowful  confession  that  at  all 
costs  Force  must  be  hers.  But  what  bitterness  was  hidden  in 
such  a  confession  from  the  people  of  Herder  and  Goethe!  And 


566  JEAX-CHRISTOPHE 

what  an  abdication  was  the  German  victory,  what  a  degradation 
of  the  German  ideal !  Alas !  There  were  only  too  many  facili- 
ties for  such  an  abdication  in  the  deplorable  tendency  even  of 
the  best  Germans  to  submit. 

"  The  chief  characteristic  of  Germany,"  said  Moser,  more  than 
a  century  ago,  "  is  obedience."  And  Madame  de  Stael: 

"They  have  submitted  doughtily.  They  find  philosophic 
reasons  for  explaining  the  least  philosophic  theory  in  the  world: 
respect  for  power  and  the  chastening  emotion  of  fear  which 
changes  that  respect  into  admiration." 

Christophe  found  that  feeling  everywhere  in  Germany,  from 
the  highest  to  the  lowest — from  the  William  Tell  of  Schiller, 
that  limited  little  bourgeois  with  muscles  like  a  porter,  who,  as 
the  free  Jew  Borne  says,  "  to  reconcile  honor  and*  fear  passes 
before  the  pillar  of  dear  II err  Gcssler,  with  his  eyes  down  so 
as  to  be  able  to  say  that  he  did  not  see  the  hat;  did  not  dis- 
obey"— to  the  aged  and  respectable  Professor  Weisse,  a.  man 
of  seventy,  and  one  of  the  most  honored  men  of  learning  in  the 
town,  who,  when  he  saw  a  IT  err  Lieutenant  coming,  would  make 
haste  to  give  him  the  path  and  would  step  down  into  the  road. 
Christophe's  blood  boiled  whenever  he  saw  one  of  these  small 
acts  of  daily  servility.  They  hurt  him  as  much  as  though  he 
had  demeaned  himself.  The  arrogant  manners  of  the  officers 
whom  he  met  in  the  street,  their  haughty  insolence,  made  him 
speechless  with  anger.  He  never  would  make  way  for  them. 
Whenever  lie  passed  them  he  returned  their  arrogant  stare. 
More  than  once  he  was  very  near  causing  a  scene.  He  seemed 
to  be  looking  for  trouble.  However,  he  was  the  first  to  under- 
stand the  futility  of  such  bravado;  but  he  had  moments  of 
aberration,  the  perpetual  constraint  which  he  imposed  on  him- 
self and  the  accumulation  of  force  in  him  that  had  no  outlet 
made  him  furious.  Then  he  was  ready  to  go  any  length,  and 
he  had  a  feeling  that  if  ho  stayed  a  year  longer  in  the  place 
he  would  be  lost.  He  loathed  the  brutal  militarism  which  he 
felt  weighing  down  upon  him.  the  sabers  clanking  on  the  pave- 
ment, the  piles  of  arms,  and  the  guns  placed  outside  the  bar- 
racks, their  muzzles  gaping  down  on  the  town,  ready  to  fire. 
Scandalous  novels,  which  were  then  making  a  great  stir,  de- 
nounced the  corruption  of  the  garrisons,  great  and  small:  the 


REVOLT  567 

officers  were  represented  as  mischievous  creatures,  who,  outside 
their  automatic  duties,  were  only  idle  and  spent  their  time  in 
drinking,  gambling,  getting  into  debt,  living  on  their  families> 
slandering  one  another,  and  from  top  to  bottom  of  the  hier- 
archy they  abused  their  authority  at  the  expense  of  their  in- 
feriors. The  idea  that  he  would  one  day  have  to  obey  them 
stuck  in  Christophe's  throat.  He  could  not,  no,  he  could  never 
bear  it,  and  lose  his  own  self-respect  by  submitting  to  their 
humiliations  and  injustice.  .  .  .  He  had  no  idea  of  the  moral 
strength  in  some  of  them,  or  of  all  that  they  might  be  suf- 
fering themselves :  lost  illusions,  so  much  strength  and  youth 
and  honor  and  faith,  and  passionate  desire  for  sacrifice,  turned 
to  ill  account  and  spoiled. — the  pointlessness  of  a  career,  which, 
if  it  is  only  a  career,  if  it  has  not  sacrifice  as  its  end,  is  only  a 
grim  activity,  an  inept  display,  a  ritual  which  is  recited  with- 
out belief  in  the  words  that  are  said. 

His  country  was  not  enough  for  Christophe.  He  felt  in 
himself  that  unknown  force  which  wakes  suddenly,  irresistibly, 
in  certain  species  of  birds,  at  definite  times,  like  the  ebb  and 
flow  of  the  tides : — the  instinct  of  the  great  migrations.  As 
he  read  the  volumes  of  Herder  and  Fichte  which  old  Schulz 
had  left  him,  he  found  souls  like  his  own,  not  "sons  of  the 
soil,"  slavishly  bound  to  the  globe,  but  "spirits,  sons  of  the 
sun"  turning  invincibly  to  the  light  wheresoever  it  comes. 

Whither  should  he  go?  He  did  not  know.  But  instinctively 
his  eyes  turned  to  the  Latin  South.  And  first  to  France — 
France,  the  eternal  refuge  of  Germany  in  distress.  How  often 
had  German  thought  turned  to  France,  without  ceasing  to 
slander  her !  Even  since  seventy,  what  an  attraction  emanated 
from  the  town  which  had  been  shattered  and  smoking  under 
the  German  guns!  The  most  revolutionary  and  the  most  re- 
actionary forms  of  thought  and  art  had  found  alternately  and 
sometimes  at  once  example  and  inspiration  there.  Like  so  many 
other  great  German  musicians  in  distress.  Christophe  turned 
towards  Paris.  .  .  .  What  did  be  know  of  the  French?  Two 
women's  faces  and  some  chance  reading.  That  was  enough  for 
him  to  imagine  a  country  of  light,  of  gaiety,  of  courage1,  and 
even  of  a  little  Gallic  boasting,  which  does  not  sort  ill  with  the 
bold  youth  of  the  heart.  He  believed  it  all,  because  he  needed 


568  JEAX-CHKISTOrHE 

to  believe  it  all,  because,  with  all  his  soul,  he  would  have  liked 
it  to  be  so. 

He  made  up  his  mind  to  go.  But  he  could  not  go  because 
of  his  mother. 

Louisa  was  growing  old.  She  adored  her  son,  who  was  her 
only  joy,  and  she  was  all  that  he  most  loved  on  earth.  And 
yet  they  were  always  hurting  each  other.  She  hardly  under- 
stood Christophe,  and  did  not  try  to  understand  him.  She  was 
only  concerned  to  love  him.  She  had  a  narrow,  timid,  dull 
mind,  and  a  fine  heart;  an  immense  need  of  loving  and  being 
loved  in  which  there  was  something  touching  and  sad.  She 
respected  her  son  because  he  seemed  to  her.  to  be  very  learned ; 
but  she  did  all  she  could  to  stifle  his  genius.  She  thought  he 
would  stay  all  his  life  with  her  in  their  little  town.  They  had 
lived  together  for  years,  and  she  could  not  imagine  that  he 
would  not  always  be  the  same.  She  was  happy :  why  should  he 
not  be  happy,  too?  All  her  dreams  for  him  soared  no  higher 
than  seeing  him  married  to  some  prosperous  citizen  of  the 
town,  hearing  him  ploy  the  organ  at  church  on  Sundays,  and 
never  having  him  leave  her.  She  regarded  her  son  as  though  he 
were  still  twelve  years  old.  She  would  have  liked  him  never  to 
be  more  than  that.  Innocently  she  inflicted  torture  on  the  un- 
happy man  who  was  suffocated  in  that  narrow  world. 

And  yet  there  was  much  truth — moral  greatness — in  that  un- 
conscious philosophy  of  the  mother,  who  could  not  understand 
ambition  and  saw  all  the  happiness  of  life  in  the  family  affec- 
tions and  the  accomplishment  of  humble  duties.  She  was  a 
creature  who  wished  to  love  and  only  to  love.  Sooner  renounce 
life,  reason,  logic,  the  material  world,  everything,  rather  than 
love!  And  that  love  was  infinite,  suppliant,  exacting:  it  gave 
everything — it  wished  to  be  given  everything;  it  renounced  life 
for  love,  and  it  desired  that  renunciation  from  others,  from 
the  beloved.  AVhat  a  power  is  the  love  of  a  simple  soul !  It 
makes  it  find  at  once  what  the  groping  reasoning  of  an  uncertain 
genius  like  Tolstoy,  or  the  too  refined  art  of  a  dying  civilization, 
discovers  after  a  lifetime — ages — of  bitter  struggle  and  exhaust- 
ing effort !  But  the  imperious  world  which  was  seething  in 


EEVOLT  569 

Christophe  had  very  different  laws  and  demanded  another 
wisdom. 

For  a  long  time  he  had  been  wanting  to  announce  his  deter- 
mination to  his  mother.  But  he  was  fearful  of  the  grief  it 
would  bring  to  her,  and  just  as  he  was  about  to  speak  he  would 
lose  his  courage  and  put  it  off.  Two  or  three  times  he  did 
timidly  allude  to  his  departure,  but  Louisa  did  not  take  him 
seriously : — perhaps  she  preferred  not  to  take  him  seriously,  so 
as  to  persuade  him  that  he  was  talking  in  jest.  Then  he  dared 
not  go  on;  but  he  would  remain  gloomy  and  thoughtful,  or  it 
was  apparent  that  he  had  some  secret  burden  upon  his  soul. 
And  the  poor  woman,  who  had  an  intuition  as  to  the  nature  of 
that  secret,  tried  fearfully  to  delay  the  confession  of  it.  Some- 
times in  the  evening,  when  they  were  sitting,  silent,  in  the  light 
of  the  lamp,  she  would  suddenly  feel  that  he  was  going  to 
speak,  and  then  in  terror  she  would  begin  to  talk,  very  quickly, 
at  random,  about  nothing  in  particular.  She  hardly  knew  what 
she  was  saying,  but  at  all  costs  she  must  keep  him  from  speak- 
ing. Generally  her  instinct  made  her  find  the  best  means  of 
imposing  silence  on  him :  she  would  complain  about  her  health, 
about  the  swelling  of  her  hands  and  feet,  and  the  cramps  in 
her  legs.  She  would  exaggerate  her  sickness :  call  herself  an 
old,  useless,  bed-ridden  woman.  He  was  not  deceived  by  her 
simple  tricks.  He  would  look  at  her  sadly  in  dumb  reproach, 
and  after  a  moment  he  would  get  up,  saying  that  he  was  tired, 
and  go  to  bed. 

But  all  her  devices  could  not  save  Louisa  for  long.  One 
evening,  when  she  resorted  to  them  once  more,  Christophe 
gathered  his  courage  and  put  his  hand  on  his  mother's  and 
said : 

"  Xo,  mother.  I  have  something  to  say  to  you."  Louisa 
was  horrified,  but  she  tried  to  smile  and  say  chokingly : 

"Wli.it  is  it,  my  dear?" 

Christophe  stammered  out  his  intention  of  going.  She  tried 
to  take  it  as  a  joke  and  to  turn  the  conversation  as  usual,  but 
he  was  not  to  be  put  off,  and  went  on  so  deliberately  and  so 
seriously  that  there  was  no  possibility  of  doubt.  Then  she  said 
nothing.  Her  pulse  stopped,  and  she  sat  there  dumb,  frozen, 


570  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

looking  at  him  with  terror  in  her  eyes.  Such  sorrow  showed  in 
her  eyes  as  he  spoke  that  he  too  stopped,  and  they  sat,  both 
speechless.  When  at  last  she  was  able  to  recover  her  breath, 
she  .said — (her  lips  trembled)  —  : 

"  It  is  impossible  ...     It  is  impossible  .  .  .'' 

Two  large  tears  trickled  down  her  cheeks.  He  turned  his 
head  away  in  despair  and  hid  his  face  in  his  hands.  They 
wept.  After  some  time  lie  went  to  his  room  and  shut  himself 
up  until  the  morrow.  They  made  no  reference  to  what  had 
happened,  and  as  he  did  not  speak  of  it  again  she  tried  to 
pretend  that  he  had  abandoned  the  project.  But  she  lived  on 
tenterhooks. 

There  came  a  time  when  he  could  hold  himself  in  no  longer. 
He  had  to  speak  even  if  it  broke  his  heart:  he  was  suffering 
too  much.  The  egoism  of  bis  sorr.ow  mastered  the  idea  of  the 
suffering  he  would  bring  to  her.  lit1  spoke.  He  went  through 
witli  it.  never  looking  at  bis  mother,  for  fear  of  being  too  greatly 
moved.  He  fixed  the  day  for  his  departure  so  as  to  avoid  a 
second  discussion — (lie  did  not  know  if  he  could  again  win 
the  sad  courage  that  was  in  him  that  day).  Louisa  cried: 

"  Xo,  no !  l  Stop,  stop !  .  .  ." 

He  set  his  teeth  and  went  on  implacably.  When  he  had 
-finished  (she  was  sobbing)  he  took  her  hands  and  tried  to 
make  her  understand  how  it  was  absolutely  necessary  for  his 
art  and  his  life  for  him  to  go  away  for  some  time.  She  refused 
to  listen.  She  wept  and  said: 

"Xo,  no!     ...     1  will  not     .     .     ." 

After  trying  to  reason  witli  her.  in  vain,  he  left  her.  thinking 
that  the  niirbl  would  bring  about  a  change  in  her  ideas.  I>ut 
when  they  met  next  dav  at  breakfast  be  began  mice  more  to 
talk  of  his  plans.  She  dropped  the  piece  of  bread  she  was  rais- 
ing to  her  lips  and  said  sorrowfully  and  reproachfully: 

"Why  do  you  want   to  torture  me?" 

He  was  touched,  but  he  said: 

"  Dear  mother,  I  must." 

"No.  no!''  she  replied.  "You  must  not  .  .  .  You  want  to 
hurt  me  ...  It  is  a  madness  .  .  .'' 

They  tried  to  convince  each  other,  but  they  did  not  listen 
to  each  other.  He  saw  that  argument  was  wasted;  it  would 


EEYOLT  571 

only  make  her  suffer  more,  and  he  began  ostentatiously  to  pre- 
pare for  his  departure. 

When  she  saw  that  no  entreaty  would  stop  him,  Louisa  re- 
lapsed into  a  gloomy  stupor.  She  spent  her  days  locked  up  in 
her  room  and  without  a  light,  when  evening  came.  She  did  not 
speak  or  eat.  At  night  he  could  hear  her  weeping.  He  was 
racked  by  it.  He  could  have  cried  out  in  his  grief,  as  he  lay 
all  night  twisting  and  turning  in  his  bed,  sleeplessly,  a  prey  to 
his  remorse.  He  loved  her  so.  Why  must  he  make  her  suf- 
fer ?  .  .  .  Alas !  She  would  not  be  the  only  one :  he  saw  that 
clearly.  .  .  .  Why  had  destiny  given  him  the  desire  and  strength 
of  a  mission  which  must  make  those  whom  he  loved  suffer? 

"  Ah !  "  he  thought.  "  If  I  were  free,  if  I  were  not  drawn  on 
by  the  cruel  need  of  being  what  I  must  be,  or  else  of  dying  in 
shame  and  disgust  with  myself,  how  happy  would  I  make  you — • 
you  whom  I  love!  Let  me  live  first:  do,  fight,  suffer,  and  then 
I  will  come  back  to  you  and  love  you  more  than  ever.  How  I 
would  like  only  to  love,  love,  love!  .  .  ." 

He  never  could  have  been  strong  enough  to  resist  the  per- 
petual reproach  of  the  grief-stricken  soul  had  that  reproach 
been  strong  enough  to  remain  silent.  "Rut  Louisa,  who  was 
weak  and  rather  talkative,  could  not  keep  the  sorrow  that  was 
stifling  her  to  herself.  She  told  her  neighbors.  She  told  her 
two  other  sons.  They  could  not  miss  such  a  fine  opportunity  of 
putting  Christophe  in  the  wrong.  Rodolphe  especially,  who 
had  never  ceased  to  lie  jealous  of  his  elder  brother,  although 
there  was  little  enough  reason  for  it  at  the  time- — Rodolphe, 
who  was  cut  to  the  quick  bv  the  least  praise  of  Christophe.  and 
was  secretly  afraid  of  his  future  success,  though  he  never  dared 
admit  so  base  a  thought — (for  he  was  clever  enough  to  fivl  his 
brother's  force,  and  to  be  afraid  that  others  would  feel  it,  too), 
Rodolphe  was  only  too  happy  to  crush  Christophe  beneath  th*1 
weight  of  his  supcrioritv.  He  had  never  worried  much  about 
his  mother,  though  be  knew  her  straitened  circumstances:  al- 
though he  was  well  able  to  afford  to  help  her.  he  left  it  all  to 
Christophe.  But  when  be  beard  of  Christophc's  intention  he 
discovered  at  once  hidden  treasures  of  affection.  He  was 
furious  at  his  proposing  to  lca\e  bis  mother  and  called  it  mon- 
strous egoism.  He  was  impudent  enough  to  tell  Christophe 


572  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

so.  Ho  lectured  him  loftily  like  a  child  who  deserves  smack- 
ing: he  told  him  stiffly  of  his  duty  towards  his  mother  and 
of  all  that  she  had  sacrificed  for  him.  Christophe  almost  burst 
with  rage.  He  kicked  Rodolphc  out  and  called  him  a  rascal 
and  a  hypocrite.  Rodolphe  avenged  himself  by  feeding  his 
mother's  indignation.  Excited  by  him.  Louisa  began  to  per- 
suade herself  that  Christophe  was  behaving  like  a  bad  son.  She 
tried  to  declare  that  he  had  no  right  to  go,  and  she  was  only 
too  willing  to  believe  it.  Instead  of  using  only  her  tears,  which 
were  her  strongest  weapon,  she  reproached  Christophe  bitterly 
and  unjustly,  and  disgusted  him.  They  said  cruel  things  to 
each  other:  the  result  was  that  Christophe,  who.  till  then,  had 
been  hesitating,  only  thought  of  hastening  his  preparations  for 
his  departure.  He  knew  that  the  charitable  neighbors  were 
commiserating  his  mother  and  that  in  the  opinion  of  the  neigh- 
borhood she  was  regarded  as  a  victim  and  himself  as  a  mon- 
ster. He  set  his  teeth  and  would  not  go  back  on  his  resolve. 

The  days  passed.  Christophe  and  Louisa  hardly  spoke  to 
each  other.  Instead  of  enjoying  to  the  last  drop  their  last 
days  together,  these  two  who  loved  each  other  wasted  the  time 
that  was  left — as  too  often  happens— in  one  of  those  sterile 
fits  of  sullenness  in  which  so  many  affections  are  swallowed 
up.  They  only  met  at  meals,  when  they  sat  opposite  each  other, 
not  looking  at  each  other,  never  speaking,  forcing  themselves 
to  eat  a  few  mouthfuls,  not  so  much  for  the  sake  of  eating  as 
for  the  sake  of  appearances.  Christophe  would  contrive  to 
mumble  a  few  words,  but  Louisa  would  not  reply :  and  when 
she  tried  to  talk  he  would  be  silent.  This  state  of  things  was 
intolerable  to  both  of  them,  and  the  longer  it  went  on  the 
more  difficult  it  became  to  break  it.  Were  they  going  to  part 
like  that?  Louisa  admitted  that  she  had  been  unjust  and 
awkward,  but  she  was  suffering  too  much  to  know  how  to  win 
back  her 'son's  love,  which  she  thought  she  had  lost,  and  at 
all  costs  to  prevent  bis  departure,  the  idea  of  which  she  refused 
to  face.  Christophe  stole  glances  at  his  mother's  pale,  swollen 
face  and  he  was  torn  by  remorse;  but  he  had  made  up  his  mind 
to  go,  and  knowing  that  be  was  going  forever  out  of  her  life, 
he  wished  cowardly  to  be  gone  to  escape  his  remorse. 

His  departure  was  fixed   for  the  next  day  but  one.     One  of 


REVOLT  573 

their  sad  meals  had  just  come  to  an  end.  When  they  finished 
their  supper.,  during  which  they  had  not  spoken  a  word,  Chris- 
tophe  withdrew  to  his  room;  and  sitting  at  his  desk,  with  his 
head  in  his  hands — he  was  incapable  of  working — he  became 
lost  in  thought.  The  night  was  drawing  late :  it  was  nearly 
one  o'clock  in  the  morning.  Suddenly  he  heard  a  noise,  a  chair 
upset  in  the  next  room.  The  door  opened  and  his  mother  ap- 
peared in  her  nightgown,  barefooted,  and  threw  her  arms  round 
his  neck  and  sobbed.  She  was  feverish.  She  kissed  her  son 
and  moaned  through  her  despairing  sobs : 

"  Don't  go  !  Don't  go  !  I  implore  you  !  I  implore  you  ! 
My  dear,  don't  go !  ...  I  shall  die  ...  I  can't,  I  can't 
bear  it !  .  .  ." 

He  was  alarmed  and  upset.  He  kissed  her  and  said :  "  Dear 
mother,  calm  yourself,  please,  please !  " 

But  she  went  on : 

"  I  can't  bear  it  ...  I  have  only  you.  Tf  you  go,  what  will 
become  of  me?  I  shall  die  if  you  go.  I  don't  want  to  die 
away  from  you.  I  don't  want  to  die  alone.  Wait  until  I  am 
dead!  .  .  ." 

Her  words  rent  his  heart.  He  did  not  know  what  to  say 
to  console  her.  What  arguments  could  hold  good  against  such 
an  outpouring  of  love  and  sorrow !  lie  took  her  on  his  knees 
and  tried  to  calm  her  with  kisses  and  little  affectionate  words. 
The  old  woman  gradually  became  silent  and  wept  softly.  When 
she  was  a  little  comforted,  he  said : 

"Co  to  l)ed.     You  will  catch  cold." 

She  repeated  :    "  Don't  go  !  " 

He  said  in  a  low  voice:    "I  will  not  go." 

She  trembled  and  took  his  hand.  "Truly?"  she  said. 
"Truly?" 

He  turned  his  head  away  sadly.  "  To-morrow,"  he  answered. 
"  I  will  tell  you  to-morrow.  .  .  .  Leave  me  now,  please  !  .  .  ." 

She  got  up  meekly  and  went  back  to  her  room.  Xext  morn- 
ing she  was  ashamed  of  her  despairing  outburst  which  had 
come  upon  her  like  a  madness  in  the  middle  of  tbe  night,  and 
she  was  fearful  of  what  her  son  would  say  to  her.  She  waited 
for  him.  sitting  in  a  corner  of  the  room.  She  had  taken  up 
some  knitting  for  occupation,  but  her  hands  refused  to  hold  it. 


574  JEAX-CHRISTOPHE 

She  let  it  fall.  Christophe  entered.  They  greeted  each  other 
in  a  whisper,  without  looking  at  each  other.  He  was  gloomy, 
and  went  and  stood  hy  the  window,  with  his  hack  to  his  mother, 
and  he  stayed  without  speaking.  There  was  a  great  struggle 
in  him.  He  knew  the  result  of  it  already,  and  was  trying  to 
delay  the  issue.  Louisa  dared  not  speak  a  word  to  him  and 
provoke  the  answer  which  she  expected  and  feared.  She  forced 
herself  to  take  up  her  knitting  again,  but  she  could  not  see 
what  she  was  doing,  and  she  dropped  her  stitches.  Outside  it 
was  raining.  After  a  long  silence  Christophe  came  to  her.  She 
did  not  stir,  but  her  heart  was  heating.  Christophe  stood  still 
and  looked  at  her.  then,  suddenly,  he  went  down  on  his  knees 
and  hid  his  face  in  his  mother's  dress,  and  without  saying  a 
word,  he  wept.  Then  she  understood  that  he  was  going  to  stay, 
and  her  heart  was  filled  with  a  mortal  agony  of  joy — but  at 
once  she  was  seized  by  remorse,  for  she  felt  all  that  her  son 
was  sacrificing  for  her,  and  she  began  to  suffer  all  that  Chris- 
tophe had  suffered  when  it  was  she  whom  he  sacrificed.  She 
bent  over  him  and  covered  his  brow  and  his  hair  with  kisses. 
In  silence  their  tears  and  their  sorrow  mingled.  At  last  he 
raised  his  head,  and  Louisa  took  his  face  in  her  hands  and 
looked  into  his  eves.  She  would  have  liked  to  say  to  him: 

"  Go !  " 

But  she  could  not. 

He  would  have  liked  to  say  to  her: 

"  I  am  glad  to  stay." 

But  he  could  not. 

The  situation  was  hopeless:  neither  of  them  could  alter  it. 
She  sighed  in  her  sorrow  and  love: 

"Ah!  if  we  could  all  lie  horn  and  all  die  together!"  Her 
simple  way  filled  him  with  tenderness;  he  dr.'cd  his  tears  and 
tried  to  smile  and  said  : 

"We  shall  all  die  together." 

She  insisted  : 

"  Trul v  you  will  not  go?" 

He  got  up : 

"  I  have  said  so.  Don't  let  us  talk  about  it.  There  is  nothing 
more  to  lie  said." 

Christophe  kept  his  word:  he  never  talked  of  going  again, 


REVOLT  575 

but  he  could  not  help  thinking  of  it.  He  stayed,  but  he  made 
his  mother  pay  dearly  for  his  sacrifice  by  his  sadness  and  bad 
temper.  And  Louisa  tactlessly — much  more  tactlessly  than  she 
knew,  never  failing  to  do  what  she  ought  not  to  have  done — 
Louisa,  who  knew  only  too  well  the  reason  of  his  grief,  insisted 
on  his  telling  her  what  it  was.  She  worried  him  with  her  af- 
fection, uneasy,  vexing,  argumentative,  reminding  him  every 
moment  that  they  were  very  different  from  each  other — and 
that  he'  was  trying  to  forget.  How  often  he  had  tried  to  open 
his  heart  to  her !  But  just  as  he  was  about  to  speak  the  Great 
Wall  of  China  would  rise  between  them,  and  he  would  keep  his 
secrets  buried  in  himself.  She  would  guess,  but  she  never  dared 
invite  his  confidence,  or  else  she  could  not.  When  she  tried  she 
would  succeed  only  in  flinging  back  in  him  those  secrets  which 
weighed  so  sorely  on  him  and  which  he  was  so  longing  to  tell. 

A  thousand  little  things,  harmless  tricks,  cut  her  off  from 
him  and  irritated  Christophe.  The  good  old  creature  was 
doting.  She  had  to  talk  about  the  local  gossip,  and  she  had 
that  nurse's  tenderness  which  will  recall  all  the  silly  little  things 
of  the  earliest  years,  and  everything  that  is  associated  with  the 
cradle.  We  have  such  difficulty  in  issuing  from  it  and  growing 
into  men  and  women!  And  Juliet's  nurse  must  forever  be  lay- 
ing before  us  our  duty-swaddling  clothes,  commonplace  thoughts, 
the  whole  unhappy  period  in  which  the  growing  soul  struggles 
against  the  oppression  of  vile  matter  or  stifling  surround- 
ings! 

And  with  it  all  she  had  little  outbursts  of  touching  tenderness 
— as  though  to  a  little  child — which  used  to  move  him  greatly 
and  he  would  surrender  to  them — like  a  little  child. 

The  worst  of  all  to  hear  was  living  from  morning  to  night 
as  they  did,  together,  always  together,  isolated  from  the  rest 
of  the  world.  When  two  people  suiter  and  cannot  IK  IP  each 
other's  suffering,  exasperation  is  fatal  :  each  in  the  end  holds  the 
other  responsible  for  the  suffering;  and  each  in  the  end  believes 
it.  It  were  better  to  be  alone;  alone  in  suffering. 

It  was  a  daily  torment  for  both  of  them.  They  would  never 
have  broken  free  if  chance  had  not  come  to  break  the  cruel 
indecision,  against  which  they  were  struggling,  in  a  way  that 
seemed  unfortunate — but  it  was  really  fortunate. 


576  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

It  was  a  Sunday  in  October.  Four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon. 
The  weather  was  brilliant.  Christophe  had  stayed  in  his  room 
all  day,  chewing  the  cud  of  melancholy. 

He  could  bear  it  no  longer;  he  wanted  desperately  to  go  out, 
to  walk,  to  expend  his  energy,  to  tire  himself  out,  so  as  to  stop 
thinking. 

Eolations  with  his  mother  had  been  strained  since  the  day 
before.  He  was  just  going  out  without  saying  good-bye  to  her; 
but  on  the  stairs  he  thought  how  it  would  hurt  her  the  whole 
evening  when  she  was  left  alone.  He  went  back,  making  an 
excuse  of  having  left  something  in  his  room.  The  door  of  his 
mother's  room  was  ajar.  He  put  his  head  in  through  the  aper- 
ture. He  watched  his  mother  for  a  few  moments.  . 
(What  a  place  those  two  seconds  were  to  fill  in  his  life  ever 
after!)  .  .  . 

Louisa  had  just  come  in  from  vespers.  She  was  sitting  in 
her  favorite  place,  the  recess  of  the  window.  The  wall  of 
the  house  opposite,  dirty  white  and  cracked,  obstructed  the  view, 
but  from  the  corner  where  she  sat  she  could  see  to  the  right 
through  the  yards  of  the  next  houses  a  little  patch  of  lawn 
the  size  of  a  pocket-handkerchief.  On  the  window  sill  a  pot  of 
convolvulus  climbed  along  its  threads  and  over  this  frail  ladder 
stretched  its  tendrils  which  were  caressed  by  a  ray  of  sunlight. 
Louisa  was  sitting  in  a  low  chair  bending  over  her  great  Bible 
which  was  open  on  her  lap,  but  she  was  not  reading.  Her  hands 
were  laid  flat  on  the  book — her  hands  with  their  swollen  veins, 
worker's  nails,  square  and  a  little  bent — and  she  was  devouring 
with  loving  eyes  the  little  plant  and  the  patch  of  sky  she  could 
see  through  it.  A  sunbeam,  basking  on  the  green  gold  leaves, 
lit  up  her  tired  face,  with  its  rather  blotchy  complexion,  her 
white,  soft,  and  rather  thick  hair,  and  her  lips,  parted  in  a 
smile.  She  was  enjoying  her  hour  of  rest.  It  was  the  best  mo- 
ment of  the  week  to  her.  She  made  use  of  it  to  sink  into  that 
state  so  sweet  to  those  who  suffer,  when  thoughts  dwell  on  noth- 
ing, and  in  torpor  nothing  speaks  save  the  heart  and  that  is  half 
asleep. 

"  Mother,"  he  said,  "  I  want  to  go  out.  I  am  going  by 
Buir.  I  shall  be  rather  late." 

Louisa,  who  was   dozing   off,   trembled  a  little.     Then   she 


REVOLT  577 

turned  her  head  towards  him  and  looked  at  him  with  her  calm, 
kind  eyes. 

"  Yes,  my  dear,  go,"  she  said.  "  You  arc  right ;  make  use  of 
the  fine  weather." 

She  smiled  at  him.  He  smiled  at  her.  They  looked  at  each 
other  for  a  moment,  then  they  said  good-night  affectionately, 
nodding  and  smiling  with  the  eyes. 

He  closed  the  door  softly.  She  slipped  hack  into  her  reverie, 
which  her  son's  smile  had  lit  up  with  a  bright  ray  of  light  like 
the  sunbeam  on  the  pale  leaves  of  the  convolvulus. 

So  he  left  her — forever. 

An  October  evening.  A  pale  watery  sun.  The  drowsy  coun- 
try is  sinking  to  sleep.  Little  village  bells  are  slowly  ringing 
in  the  silence  of  the  fields.  Columns  of  smoke  rise  slowly  in 
the  midst  of  the  plowed  fields.  A  fine  mist  hovers  in  the 
distance.  The  white  fogs  are  awaiting  the  coming  of  the  night 
to  rise.  ...  A  dog  with  his  nose  to  the  ground  was  running 
in  circles  in  a  field  of  beat.  Great  flocks  of  crows  whirled 
against  the  gray  sky. 

Christophe  went  on  dreaming,  having  no  fixed  object,  but  yet 
instinctively  he  was  walking  in  a  definite  direction.  For  several 
weeks  his  walks  round  the  town  had  gravitated  whether  he  liked 
it  or  not  towards  another  village  where  he  was  sure  to  meet  a 
pretty  girl  who  attracted  him.  It  was  only  an  attraction,  but  it 
was  very  vivid  and  rather  disturbing.  Christophe  could  hardly 
do  without  loving  some  one;  and  his  heart  was  rarely  left  empty; 
it  always  had  some  lovely  image  for  its  idol.  Generally  it  did 
not  matter  whether  the  idol  knew  of  his  love;  bis  need  was  to 
love,  the  fire  must  never  be  allowed  to  go  out ;  there  must  never 
be  darkness  in  his  heart. 

The  object  of  this  new  flame  was  the  daughter  of  a  peasant 
whom  be  had  met,  as  Eliezer  met  "Rebecca,  by  a  well:  but  she 
did  not  give  him  to  drink:  she  threw  water  in  his  face.  She 
was  kneeling  by  the  edge  of  a  stream  in  a  hollow  in  the  bank 
between  two  willows,  the  roots  of  which  made  a  sort  of  nest  about 
her:  she  was  washing  linen  vigorously:  and  her  tongue  was  not 
less  active  than  her  arms;  she  was  talking  and  laughing  loudly 
with  other  girls  of  the  village  who  were  washing  opposite  her  on 


5T8  JEAX-CH  RISTO  L'H'E 

the  other  side  of  the  stream.  Christophe  was  lying  in  the  grass  a 
few  yards  away,  and,  with  his  chin  resting  in  his  hands,  he 
watched,  them.  They  were  not  put  out  by  it;  they  went  on 
chattering  in  a  style  which  sometimes  did  not  lack  bluntness. 
He  hardly  listened ;  he  heard  only  the  sound  of  their  merry 
voices,  mingling  with  the  noise  of  their  washing  pots,  and  with 
the  distant  lowing  of  the  cows  in  the  meadows,  and  he  was 
dreaming,  never  taking  his  eyes  off  the  beautiful  washerwoman. 
A  bright  young  face  would  make  him  glad  for  a  whole  day.  It 
was  not  long  before  the  girls  made  out  which  of  them  he  was 
looking  at;  and  they  made  caustic  remarks  to  each  other;  the 
girl  he  preferred  was  not  the  least  cutting  in  the  observations 
she  threw  at  him.  As  he  did  not  budge,  she  got  up,  took  a 
bundle  of  linen  washed  and  wrung,  and  began  to  lay  it  out  on 
the  bushes  near  him  so  as  to  have  an  excuse  for  looking  at  him. 
As  she  passed  him  she  continued  to  splash  him  with  her  wet 
clothes  and  she  looked  at  him  boldly  and  laughed.  She  was 
thin  and  strong:  she  had  a  fine  chin,  a  little  underhung,  a  short 
nose,  arching  eyebrows,  deep-set  blue  eyes,  bold,  bright  and  hard, 
a  pretty  mouth  with  thick  lips,  pouting  a  little  like  those  of  a 
Greek  maid,  a  mass  of  fair  hair  turned  up  in  a  knot  on  her 
head,  and  a  full  color.  She  carried  her  head  very  erect,  tittered 
at  every  word  she  said  and  even  when  she  said  nothing,  and 
walked  like  a  man,  swinging  her  sunburned  arms.  She  went  on 
laying  out  he*  linen  while  she  looked  at  Christophe  with  a  pro- 
voking smile — waiting  for  him  to  speak.  Christophe  stared 
at  her  too:  but  he  had  no  desire  to  talk  to  her.  At  last  she 
burst  out  laughing  to  his  face  and  turned  back  towards  her 
companions.  He  stayed  lying  where  he  was  until  evening  fell 
and  he  saw  her  go  with  her  bundle  on  her  back  and  her  bare 
arms  crossed,  her  back  bent  under  her  load,  still  talking  and 
laughing. 

He  saw  her  again  a  few  days  later  at  the  town  market  among 
heaps  of  carrots  and  tomatoes  and  cucumbers  and  cabbages.  He 
lounged  about  watching  the  crowd  of  women,  selling,  who  were 
standing  in  a  line  by  their  baskets  like  slaves  for  sale.  The 
police  official  went  up  to  each  of  thorn  with  his  .satchel  and  roll 
of  tickets,  receiving  a  piece  of  money  and  giving  a  paper.  The 
coffee  seller  went  from  row  to  row  with  a  basket  full  of  little 


REVOLT  579 

coffee  pots.  And  an  old  nun.  plump  and  jovial,  wont  round  the 
market  with  two  large  baskets  on  her  arms  and  without  any 
sort  of  humility  begged  vegetables,  or  talked  of  the  good  God. 
The  women  shouted  :  the  old  scales  with  their  green  painted 
pans  jingled  and  clanked  with  the  noise  of  their  chains;  the  big 
dogs  harnessed  to  the  little  carts  harked  loudly,  proud  of  their 
importance.  Tn  the  midst  of  the  rabble  Christophe  saw  Ko- 
becca. — Her  real  name  was  Lorchen  (Eleanor).— On  her  fair 
hair  she  had  placed  a  large  cabbage  leaf,  green  and  white,  which 
made  a  dainty  lace  cap  for  her.  She  was  sitting  on  a  basket 
by  a  heap  of  golden  onions,  lit'le  pink  turnips,  haricot  beans, 
and  ruddy  apples,  and  she  was  munching  her  own  apple?  one 
after  another  without  trying  to  sell  them.  She  never  stopped 
eating.  From  time  to  time  she  would  dry  her  chin  and  wipe  it 
with  her  apron,  brush  back  her  hair  with  her  arm,  rub  her 
cheek  against  her  shoulder,  or  her  nose  with  the  back  of  her 
hand.  Or,  with  her  hands  on  her  knees,  she  would  go  on  and 
on  throwing  a  handful  of  shelled  peas  from  one  to  the  other. 
And  she  would  look  to  right  and  left  idly  and  indifferently. 
But  she  missed  nothing  of  what  was  going  on  about  her.  And 
without  seeming  to  do  so  she  marked  every  glance  cast  in  her 
direction.  She  saw  Christophe.  As  she  talked  to  her  customers 
she  had  a  way  of  raising  her  eyebrows  and  looking  at  her  ad- 
mirer over  their  heads.  She  was  as  dignified  and  serious  as  a 
Pope;  but  inwardly  she  was  laughing  at  Christophe.  And  he 
deserved  it;  he  stood  there  a  few  yards  away  devouring  her 
with  his  eyes,  then  he  went  away  without  speaking  to  her.  He 
had  not  the  least  desire  to  do  so. 

He  came  back  more  than  once  to  prowl  round  the  market 
and  the  village  where  she  lived.  She  would  be  about  the  yard 
of  the  farm  :  he  would  stop  on  the  road  to  look  at  her.  He  did 
not  admit  that  he  came  to  see  her.  and  indeed  lie  did  so  almost 
unconsciously.  When,  as  often  happened,  he  was  absorbed  by 
the  composition  of  some  work  he  would  be  rather  like  a  som- 
nambulist: while  his  conscious  soul  was  following  its  musical 
ideas  the  rest  of  him  would  he  delivered  up  to  the  other  uncon- 
scious soul  which  is  forever  watching  for  the  smallest  distrac- 
tion of  the  mind  to  take  the  freedom  of  the  fields.  He  was 
often  bewildered  bv  the  buxzinsr  of  his  musical  ideas  when  he 


580  JEAN-CHKISTOPHE 

was  face  to  face  with  her;  and  he  would  go  on  dreaming  as 
he  watched  her.  He  could  not  have  said  that  he  loved  her; 
he  did  not  even  think  of  that;  it  gave  him  pleasure  to  see  her, 
nothing  more.  He  did  not  take  stock  of  the  desire  which  was 
always  bringing  him  back  to  her. 

His  insistence  was  remarked.  The  people  at  the  farm  joked 
about  it,  for  the}'  had  discovered  who  Christophe  was.  But  they 
left  him  in  peace;  for  he  was  quite  harmless.  He  looked  silly 
enough  in  truth;  but  he  never  bothered  about  it. 

There  was  a  holiday  in  the  village.  Little  boys  were  crush- 
ing crackers  between  stones  and  shouting  "  God  save  the  Em- 
peror!" ("Kaiser  Icbc!  IIocli!"}.  A  cow  shut  up  in  the  barn 
and  the  men  drinking  at  the  inn  were  to  be  heard.  Kites  with 
long  tails  like  comets  dipped  and  swung  in  the  air  above  the 
fields.  The  fowls  were  scratching  frantically  in  the  straw  and 
the  golden  dung-heap ;  the  wind  blew  out  their  feathers  like  the 
skirts  of  an  old  lady.  A  pink  pig  was  sleeping  voluptuously  on 
his  side  in  the  sun. 

Christophe  made  his  way  towards  the  red  roof  of  the  inn 
of  the  Three  Kings  above  which  floated  a  little  flag.  Strings 
of  onions  hung  by  the  door,  and  the  windows  were  decorated 
with  red  and  yellow  flowers.  He  went  into  the  saloon,  filled 
with  tobacco  smoke,  where  yellowing  chromos  hung  on  the 
walls  and  in  the  place  of  honor  a  colored  portrait  of  the  Em- 
peror-King surrounded  with  a  wreath  of  oak  leaves.  People 
were  dancing.  Christophc  was  sure  his  charmer  would  be  there. 
He  sat  in  a  corner  of  the  room  from  which  lie  could  watch 
the  movement  of  the  dancers  undisturbed.  But  in  spite  of  all 
his  care  to  pass  unnoticed  Lorchen  spied  him  out  in  his  corner. 
While  she  waltzed  indefatigably  she  threw  quick  glances  at  him 
over  her  partner's  shoulder  to  make  sure  that  he  was  still  look- 
ing at  her;  and  it  amused  her  to  excite  him  ;  she  coquetted  with 
the  young  men  of  the  village,  laughing  the  while  with  her  wide 
mouth.  She  talked  a  great  deal  and  said  silly  things  and  was 
not  very  different  from  the  girls  of  the  polite  world  who  think 
they  must  laugh  and  move  about  and  play  to  the  gallery  when 
anybody  looks  at  them,  instead  of  keeping  their  foolishness  to 


REVOLT  581 

themselves.  But  they  are  not  so  very  foolish  either;  for  they 
know  quite  well  that  the  gallery  only  looks  at  them  and  does  not 
listen  to  what  they  say. — 'With  his  elbows  on  the  table  and  his 
chin  in  his  hands  Christophe  watched  the  girl's  tricks  with 
burning,  furious  eyes ;  his  mind  was  free  enough  not  to  be  taken 
in  by  her  wiles,  but  he  was  not  enough  himself  not  to  be  led 
on  by  them;  and  he  growled  with  rage  and  he  laughed  in  silence 
and  shrugged  his  shoulders  in  falling  into  the  snare. 

Not  only  the  girl  was  watching  him;  Lorchen's  father  also 
had  his  eyes  on  him.  Thick-set  and  short,  bald-headed — a  big 
head  with  a  short  nose — sunburned  skull  with  a  fringe  of  hair 
that  had  been  fair  and  hung  in  thick  curls  like  Diirer's  St.  John, 
clean-shaven,  expressionless  face,  with  a  long  pipe  in  the  corner 
of  his  mouth,  he  was  talking  very  deliberately  to  some  other 
peasants  while  all  the  time  he  was  watching  Christophe's  panto- 
mime out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye ;  and  he  laughed  softly.  After 
a  moment  he  coughed  and  a  malicious  light  shone  in  his  little  gray 
eyes  and  he  came  and  sat  at  Christophe's  table.  Christophe  was  an- 
noyed and  turned  and  scowled  at  him ;  he  met  the  cunning  look 
of  the  old  man,  who  addressed  Christophe  familiarly  without  tak- 
ing his  pipe  from  his  lips.  Christophe  knew  him ;  he  knew  him 
for  a  common  old  man ;  but  his  weakness  for  his  daughter  made 
him  indulgent  towards  the  father  and  even  gave  him  a  queer 
pleasure  in  being  with  him ;  the  old  rascal  saw  that.  After  talk- 
ing about  rain  and  fine  weather  and  some  chaffing  reference  to 
the  pretty  girls  in  the  room,  and  a  remark  on  Christophe's  not 
dancing  he  concluded  that  Christophe  was  right  not  to  put 
himself  out  and  that  it  was  much  better  to  sit  at  table  with  a 
mug  in  his  hand;  without  ceremony  he  invited  himself 
to  have  a  drink.  While  he  drank  the  old  man  went  on  talking 

o 

deliberately  as  always.  He  spoke  about  his  affairs,  the  difficulty 
of  gaining  a  livelihood,  the  bad  weather  and  high  prices.  Chris- 
tophe hardly  listened  and  only  replied  with  an  occasional  grunt ; 
he  was  not  interested;  he  was  looking  at  Lorchen.  Christophe 
wondered  what  had  procured  him  the  honor  of  the  old  man's 
company  and  confidences.  At  last  he  understood.  When  the 
old  man  had  exhausted  his  complaints  he  passed  on  to  another 
chapter;  he  praised  the  quality  of  his  produce,  his  vegetables, 


582  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

his  fowls,  his  eggs,  his  milk,  and  suddenly  he  asked  if  Christophe 
could  not  procure  him  the  custom  of  the  Palace.  Christophe 
started : 

"  How  the  devil  did  lie  know?     ...     He  knew  him  then?  " 
"  Oh,  yes,"  said  the  old  man.    "  Everything  is  known    .    .    ." 
He  did  not  add : 

".  .  .  when  you  take  the  trouble  to  make  enquiries." 
But  Christophe  added  it  for  him.  He  took  a  wicked  pleasure 
in  telling  him  that  although  everything  was  known,  "he  was 
no  doubt  unaware  that  he  had  just  quarreled  with  the  Court 
and  that  if  he  had  ever  been  able  to  flatter  himself  on  having 
some  credit  with  the  servants'  quarters  and  butchers  of  the 
Palace — (which  he  doubted  strongly) — that  credit  at  present 
was  dead  and  buried.  The  old  man's  lips  twitched  impercepti- 
bly. However,  he  was  not  put  out  and  after  a  moment  he  asked 
if  Christophe  could  not  at  least  recommend  him  to  such  and 
such  a  family.  And  he  mentioned  all  those  with  whom  Chris^ 
tophe  had  had  dealings;  for  he  had  informed  himself  of 
them  at  the  market,  and  there  was  no  danger  of  his  forgetting 
any  detail  that  might  be  useful  to  him.  Christophe  would  have 
been  furious  at  such  spying  upon  him  had  he  not  rather  wanted 
to  laugh  at  the  thought  that  the  old  man  would  be  robbed  in 
spite  of  all  his  cunning  (for  he  had  no  doubt  of  the  value  of 
the  recommendation  he  was  asking — a  recommendation  more 
likely  to  make  him  lose  his  customers  than  to  procure  him  fresh 
ones).  So  he  let  him  empty  all  his  bag  of  clumsy  tricks  and 
answered  neither  "  Yes  "  nor  "  No."  But  the  peasant  persisted 
and  finally  he  came  down  to  Christophe  and  Louisa  whom  he 
had  kept  for  the  end,  and  expressed  his  keen  desire  to  provide 
them  with  milk,  butter  and  cream.  He  added  that  as  Chris- 
tophe was  a  musician  nothing  was  so  good  for  the  voice  as  a 
fresh  egg  swallowed  raw  morning  and  evening:  and  he  tried  hard 
to  make  him  let  him  provide  him  with  these,  warm  from  the 
hen.  The  idea  of  the  old  peasant  taking  him  for  a  singer  made 
Christophe  roar  with  laughter.  The  peasant  took  advantage  of 
that  to  order  another  bottle.  And  then  having  got  all  be  could 
out  of  Christophe  for  the  time  being  be  went  away  without 
further  ceremony. 

Xight  had  fallen.     The  dancing  bad  become  more  and  more 


REVOLT  583 

excited.  Lorclien  had  ceased  to  pay  any  attention  to  Christophe; 
ohe  was  too  busy  turning  the  head  of  a  young  lout  of  the  village, 
the  son  of  a  rich  farmer,  for  whom  all  the  girls  were  competing. 
Christophe  was  interested  by  the  struggle;  the  young  women 
smiled  at  each  other  and  would  have  been  only  too  pleased  to 
scratch  each  other.  Christophe  forgot  himself  and  prayed  for 
the  triumph  of  Lorchen.  But  when  her  triumph  was  won  he 
felt  a  little  downcast.  He  was  enraged  by  it.  He  did  not  love 
Lorchen;  he  did  not  want  to  lie  loved  by  her;  it  was  natural 
that  she  should  love  anybody  she  liked. — Xo  doubt.  But  it  was 
not  pleasant  to  receive  so  little  sympathy  himself  when  he  had 
so  much  need  of  giving  and  receiving.  Here,  as  in  the  town, 
he  was  alone.  All  these  people  were  only  interested  in  him 
while  they  could  make  use  of  him  and  then  laugh  at  him.  He 
sighed,  smiled  as  he  looked  at  Lorchen,  whom  her  joy  in  the 
discomfiture  of  her  rivals  had  made  ten  times  prettier  than 
ever,  and  got  ready  to  go.  It  was  nearly  nine.  He  had  fully 
two  miles  to  go  to  the  town. 

He  got  up  from  the  table  when  the  door  opened  and  a  hand- 
ful of  soldiers  burst  in.  Their  entry  dashed  the  gaiety  of  the 
place.  The  people  began  to  whisper.  A  few  couples  stopped 
dancing  to  look  uneasily  at  the  new  arrivals.  The  peasant? 
standing  near  the  door  deliberately  turned  their  backs  on  them 
and  began  to  talk  among  themselves ;  but  without  seeming  to 
do  so  they  presently  contrived  to  leave  room  for  them  to  pass. 
For  some  time  past  the  whole  neighborhood  had  been  at  logger- 
heads with  the  garrisons  of  the  fortresses  round  it.  The  sol- 
diers were  bored  to  death  and  wreaked  their  vengeance  on  the 
peasants.  They  made  coarse  fun  of  them,  maltreated  them, 
and  used  the  women  as  though  they  were  in  a  conquered  country. 
The  week  before  some  of  them,  full  of  wine,  had  disturbed  a 
feast  at  a  neighboring  village  and  had  half  killed  a  farmer. 
Christophe,  who  knew  these  things,  shared  the  state  of  mind  of 
the  peasant,  and  he  sat  down  again  and  waited  to  see  what 
would  happen. 

The  soldiers  were  not  worried  bv  the  ill-will  witli  which  their 
entry  was  received,  and  went  noisily  and  sat.  down  at  the  full 
tables,  jostling  the  people  away  from  them  to  make  room;  it 
was  the  affair  of  a  moment.  Most  of  the  people  went  away 


584  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

grumbling.  An  old  man  sitting  at  the  end  of  a  bench  did  not 
move  quickly  enough;  they  lifted  the  bench  and  the  old  man 
toppled  over  amid  roars  of  laughter.  Christophe  felt  the  blood 
rushing  to  his  head;  he  got  up  indignantly;  but,  as  he  was  on 
the  point  of  interfering,  he  saw  the  old  man  painfully  pick 
himself  up  and  instead  of  complaining  humbly  crave  pardon. 
Two  of  the  soldiers  came  to  Christophe's  table ;  he  watched  them 
come  and  clenched  his  fists.  But  he  did  not  have  to  defend 
himself.  They  were  two  tall,  strong,  good-humored  louts,  who 
had  followed  sheepishly  one  or  two  daredevils  and  were  trying  to 
imitate  them.  They  were  intimidated  by  Christophe's  defiant 
manner,  and  when  he  said  curtly :  "  This  place  is  taken/'  they 
hastily  begged  his  pardon  and  withdrew  to  their  end  of  the 
bench  so  as  not  to  disturb  him.  There  had  been  a  masterful 
inflection  in  his  voice;  their  natural  servility  came  to  the  fore. 
They  saw  that  Christophe  was  not  a  peasant. 

Christophe  was  a  little  mollified  by  their  submission,  and 
was  able  to  watch  things  more  coolly.  It  was  not  difficult  to  see 
that  the  gang  were  led  by  a  non-commissioned  officer — a  little 
bull-dog  of  a  man  with  hard  eyes — with  a  rascally,  hypocritical 
and  wicked  face;  he  was  one  of  the  heroes  of  the  affray  of  the 
Sunday  before.  He  was  sitting  at  the  table  next  to  Christophe. 
He  was  drunk  already  and  stared  at  the  people  and  threw  in- 
sulting sarcasms  at  them  which  they  pretended  not  to  hear. 
He  attacked  especially  the  couples  dancing,  describing  their 
physical  advantages  or  defects  with  a  coarseness  of  expression 
which  made  his  companions  laugh.  The  girls  blushed  and 
tears  came  to  their  eyes;  the  young  men  ground  their  teeth  and 
raged  in  silence.  Their  tormentor's  eyes  wandered  slowly  round 
the  room,  sparing  nobody;  Christophe  saw  them  moving  to- 
wards himself.  He  seized  his  mug.  and  clenched  his  fist  on  the 
table  and  waited,  determined  to  throw  the  liquor  at  his  head 
on  the  first  insult.  He  said  to  himself: 

"I  am  mad.  It  would  be  better  to  go  away.  They  will  slit 
me  up;  and  then  if  I  escape  they  will  put  me  in  prison;  the 
game  is  not  worth  the  caudle.  I'd  better  <ro  before  he  provokes 
me." 

But  his  pride  would  not  let  him.  he  would  not  seem  to  be 
running  away  from  such  brutes  as  these.  The  officer's  cunning 


REVOLT  585 

brutal  stare  was  fixed  on  him.  Christophe  stiffened  and  glared 
at  him  angrily.  The  officer  looked  at  him  for  a  moment ; 
Christophe's  face  irritated  him ;  he  nudged  his  neighbor  and 
pointed  out  the  young  man  with  a  snigger;  and  he  opened  his 
lips  to  insult  him.  Christophe  gathered  himself  together  and 
was  just  about  to  fling  his  mug  at  him.  .  .  .  Once  more 
chance  saved  him.  Just  as  the  drunken  man  was  about  to  speak 
an  awkward  couple  of  dancers  bumped  into  him  and  made  him 
drop  his  glass.  He  turned  furiously  and  let  loose  a  flood  of  in- 
sults. His  attention  was  distracted;  he  forgot  Christophe.. 
Christophe  waited  for  a  few  minutes  longer;  then  seeing  that 
his  enemy  had  no  thought  of  going  on  with  his  remarks  he  got 
up,  slowly  took  his  hat  and  walked  leisurely  towards  the  door. 
He  did  not  take  his  eyes  off  the  bench  where  the  other  was  sit- 
ting, just  to  let  him  feel  that  he  was  not  giving  in  to  him.  But 
the  officer  had  forgotten  him  altogether;  no  one  took  any  notice 
of  him. 

He  was  just  turning  the  handle  of  the  door ;  in  a  few  seconds 
he  would  have  been  outside.  But  it  was  ordered  that  he  should 
not  leave  so  soon.  An  angry  murmur  rose  at  the  end  of  the 
room.  When  the  soldiers  had  drunk  they  had  decided  to  dance. 
And  as  all  the  girls  had  their  cavaliers  they  drove  away  their 
partners,  who  submitted  to  it.  But  Lorchen  was  not  going  to 
put  up  with  that.  It  was  not  for  nothing  that  she  had  her  bold 
eyes  and  her  firm  chin  which  so  charmed  Christophe.  She 
was  waltzing  like  a  mad  thing  when  the  officer  who  had  fixed 
his  choice  upon  her  came  and  pulled  her  partner  away  from 
her.  She  stamped  with  her  foot,  screamed,  and  pushed  the 
soldier  away,  declaring  that  she  would  never  dance  with  such  a 
boor.  He  pursued  her.  He  dispersed  with  his  fists  the  people 
behind  whom  she  was  trying  to  hide.  At  last  she  took  refuge 
behind  a  table;  and  then  protected  from  him  for  a  moment 
she  took  breath  to  scream  abuse  at  him  :  she  saw  that  all  her 
resistance  would  be  useless  and  she  stamped  with  rage  and 
groped  for  the  most  violent  words  to  fling  at  him  and  compared 
his  face  to  that  of  various  animals  of  the  farm-yard.  He  leaned 
towards  her  over  the  table,  smiled  wickedly,  and  his  eyes  glit- 
tered with  rage.  Suddenly  he  pounced  and  jumped  over  the 
table.  He  caught  hold  of  her.  She  struggled  with  feet  and  fists 


586  JEAX-CHKTSTOPHE 

like  the  cow-woman  she  was.  He  was  not  too  steady  on  his 
legs  and  almost  lost  his  halancc.  ID  his  fury  he  flung  her 
against  the  wall  and  slapped  her  face.  He  had  no  time  to  do  it 
again;  some  one  had  jumped  on  his  hack,  and  was  culling  him 
and  kicking  him  hack  into  the  crowd.  It  was  Christophe  who 
had  flung  himself  on  him.  overturning  tables  and  people  without 
stopping  to  think  of  what  he  was  doing.  Mad  with  rage,  the 
officer  turned  and  drew  his  saber.  Before  lie  could  make  use 
of  it  Christophe  felled  him  with  a  stool.  The  whole  thing  had 
been  so  sudden  that  none  of  the  spectators  had  time  to  think  of 
interfering.  The  other  soldiers  ran  to  Christophe  drawing  their 
sabers.  The.  peasants  flung  themselves  at  them.  The  uproar 
became  general.  Mugs  flew  across  the  room  ;  the  tallies  were 
overturned.  The  peasants  woke  up;  they  had  old  scores  to  pay 
off.  The  men  rolled  about  on  the  ground  and  bit  each  other 
savagely.  Lorchen's  partner,  a  stolid  farm-hand,  had  caught 
hold  of  the  head  of  the  soldier  who  had  just  insulied  him  and 
was  banging  it  furiously  against  the  wall.  Lorchon,  armed  with 
a  cudgel,  was  striking  out  blindly.  The  other  girls  ran  away 
screaming,  except  for  a  few  wantons  who  joined  in  heariily. 
One  of  them — a  fat  little  fair  girl — seeing  a  gigantic  soldier — 
the  same  who  had  sat  at  Christophe's  table — crushing  in  the 
chest  of  his  prostrate  adversary  with  his  boot,  ran  to  the  fire, 
came  back,  dragged  the  brute's  head  backwards  and  flung  a 
handful  of  burning  ashes  into  his  eyes.  The  man  bellowed. 
The  girl  gloated,  abused  the  disarmed  enemy,  whom  the  peas- 
ants now  thwacked  at  their  ease.  At  last  the  soldiers  finding 
themselves  on  the  losing  side  rushed  away  leaving  two  of  their 
number  on  the  floor.  The  fight  went  on  in  the  village  street. 
They  burst  into  the  houses  crying  murder,  and  trying  to  smash 
everything.  The  peasants  followed  them  with  forks,  and  set 
their  savage  dogs  on  them.  A  third  soldier  fell  with  his 
belly  cleft  by  a  fork.  The  others  had  to  tlv  and  were  hunted 
out  of  the  village,  and  from  a  distance  they  shouted  as  they 
ran  across  the  fields  that  they  would  fetch  their  comrades  and 
come  back  immediately. 

The  peasants,  left  masters  of  the  field,  returned  to  the  inn: 
they  were  exultant;  it  was  a  revenge  for  all  the  outrages  they 
had  suffered  for  so  long.  Thev  had  as  vet  no  thought  of  the 


REVOLT  587 

consequences  of  the  affray.  They  all  talked  at  once  and  boasted 
of  their  prowess.  They  fraternized  with  Christophe,  who  was 
delighted  to  feel  in  touch  with  them.  Lorchcn  came  and  took 
his  hand  and  held  it  for  a  moment  in  her  rough  paw  while  she 
giggled  at  him.  She  did  not  think  him  ridiculous  for  the  mo- 
ment. 

They  looked  to  the  wounded.  Among  the  villagers  there  were 
only  a  few  teeth  knocked  out,  a  few  ribs  broken  and  a  few  slight 
bruises  and  scars.  But  it  was  very  different  with  the  soldiers. 
They  were  seriously  injured :  the  giant  whose  eyes  had  been 
burned  had  had  his  shoulder  half  cut  off  with  a  hatchet;  the 
man  whose  belly  had  been  pierced  was  dying;  and  there  was 
the  officer  who  had  been  knocked  down  by  ('hristopho.  They 
were  laid  out  by  the  hearth.  The  officer,  who  was  the  least 
injured  of  the  three,  had  just  opened  his  eyes.  He  took  a  long 
look  at  the  ring  of  peasants  leaning  over  him,  a  look  filled  with 
hatred.  Hardly  had  he  regained  consciousness  of  what  had 
happened  than  he  began  to  alnise  them.  He  swore  that  he 
would  be  avenged  and  would  settle  their  hash,  the  whole  lot 
of  them;  he  choked  with  rage;  it  was  palpable  that  if  he  could 
he  would  exterminate  them.  They  tried  to  laugh,  but  their 
laughter  was  forced.  A  young  peasant  shouted  to  the  wounded 
man: 

"Hold  your  gal)   or   I'll   kill   you." 

The  officer  tried  to  get  up.  and  he  glared  at  the  man  who 
had  just  spoken  to  him  with  blood-shot  eyes: 

"  Swine !  "  he  said.    "  Kill  me !    They'll  cut  you-r  heads  off." 

He  went  on  shouting.  The  man  who  had  been  ripped  up 
screamed  like  a  bleeding  pig.  The  third  was  stiff  and  still  like 
a  dead  man.  A  crushing  terror  came  over  the  peasants.  Lor- 
chen  and  some  women  carried  the  wounded  men  to  another 
room.  The  shouts  of  the  officer  and  the  screams  of  the  dying 
man  died  aAvay.  The  peasants  were  silent  :  they  stood  Hxed  in 
the  circle  as  though  the  three  bodies  were  still  lying  at  their 
feet:  they  dared  not  budge  and  looked  at  each  other  in  panic. 
At  last  Lorchen's  father  said : 

"  You  have  done  a  fine  piece  of  work  !  " 

There  was  an  agonized  murmuring:  their  throats  were  dry. 
Then  they  began  all  to  talk  at  once.  At  first  they  whispered  as 


588  JEAX-CHRISTOPHE 

though  they  were  afraid  of  eavesdroppers,  but  soon  they  raised 
their  voices  and  became  more  vehement;  they  accused  each  other j; 
they  blamed  each  other  for  the  blows  they  had  struck.  The 
dispute  became  acrid;  they  seemed  to  be  on  the  point  of  going 
for  each  other.  Lorchen's  father  brought  them  to  unanimity. 
With  his  arms  folded  he  turned  towards  Christophe  and  jerked 
his  chin  at  him : 

"  And/'  he  said,  "  what  business  had  this  fellow  here  ?  " 

The  Avrath  of  the  rabble  was  turned  on  Christophe: 

"  True !  True  !  "  they  cried.  "  He  began  it !  But  for  him 
nothing  would  have  happened." 

Christophe  was  amazed.     He  tried  to  reply : 

"  You  know  perfectly  that  what  I  did  was  for  you,  not  for 
myself." 

But  they  replied  furiously: 

"Aren't  we  capable  of  defending  ourselves?  Do  you  think 
we  need  a  gentleman  from  the  town  to  tell  us  what  we  should 
do?  Who  asked  your  advice?  And  besides  who  asked  you  to 
come  ?  Couldn't  you  stay  at  home  ?  " 

Christophe  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  turned  towards  the 
door.  But  Lorchen's  father  barred  the  way,  screaming: 

"That's  it!  That's  it!"  he  shouted.  "He  would" like  to 
cut  away  now  after  getting  us  all  into  a  scrape.  He  shan't  go  !  " 

The  peasants  roared : 

"  He  shan't  go !  He's  the  cause  of  it  all.  He  shall  pay  for  it 
all !  " 

They  surrounded  him  and  shook  their  fists  at  him.  Chris- 
tophe saw  the  circle  of  threatening  faces  closing  in  upon  him  : 
fear  had  infuriated  them.  He  said  nothing,  made  a  face  of 
disgust,  threw  his  hat  on  the  table,  went  and  sat  at  the  end  of 
the  room,  and  turned  his  back  on  them. 

But  Lorchen  was  angry  and  flung  herself  at  the  peasants. 
Her  pretty  face  was  rod  and  scowling  with  rage.  She  pushed 
back  the  people  who  were  crowding  round  Christophe: 

"  Cowards !  Brute  beasts !  "  she  cried.  "  Aren't  you 
ashamed  ?  You  want  to  pretend  that  he  brought  it  all  on  you  ! 
As  if  they  did  not  see  you  all !  As  if  there  was  a  single  one 
of  you  who  had  not  hit  out  his  hand  as  he  could!  ...  If 
there  had  been  a  man  who  had  stayed  with  his  arms  folded 


REVOLT  589 

while  the  others  were  fighting  I  would  spit  in  his  face  and  call 
him  :  Coward !  Coward  !  .  .  ." 

The  peasants,  surprised  by  this  unexpected  outburst,  stayed 
for  a  moment  in  silence;  they  began  to  shout  again: 

"  He  began  it !     Xothing  would  have  happened  but  for  him.  * 

In  vain  did  Lorchen's  father  make  signs  to  his  daughter. 
She  went  on : 

"  Yes.  He  did  begin  it !  That  is  nothing  for  you  to  boast 
about.  But  for  him  you  would  have  let  them  insult  you.  You 
would  have  let  them  insult  you.  You  cowards !  You  funks  !  " 

She  abused  her  partner: 

"  And  you,  you  said  nothing.  Your  heart  was  in  your  mouth ; 
3Tou  held  out  your  bottom  to  be  kicked.  You  would  have 
thanked  them  for  it !  Aren't  you  ashamed  ?  .  .  .  Aren't 
you  all  ashamed  ?  You  are  not  men !  You're  as  brave  as  sheep 
with  your  noses  to  the  ground  all  the  time !  He  had  to  give 
you  an  example ! — And  now  you  want  to  make  him  bear  every- 
thing? .  .  .  Well,  I  tell  you,  that  shan't  happen!  He 
fought  for  us.  Either  you  save  him  or  you'll  suffer  along  with 
him.  I  give  you  my  word  for  it !  " 

Lorchen's  father  caught  her  arm.  He  was  beside  himself  and 
shouted : 

"  Shut  up !  Shut  up !  .  .  .  Will  you  shut  up,  you 
bitch !  " 

But  she  thrust  him  away  and  went  on  again.  The  peasants 
yelled.  She  shouted  louder  than  they  in  a  shrill,  piercing 
scream  : 

"What  have  you  to  say  to  it  all?  Do  you  think  T  did  not 
see  you  just  now  kicking  the  man  who  is  lying  half  dead  in 
the  next  room?  And  you,  show  me  your  hands!  .  .  . 
There's  blood  on  them.  Do  you  think  I  did  not  see  you  with 
your  knife?  I  shall  tell  everything  I  saw  if  you  do  the  least 
thing  against  him.  I  will  have  you  all  condemned." 

The  infuriated  peasants  thrust  their  faces  into  Lorchcn's 
and  bawled  at  her.  One  of  them  made  as  though  to  box  her 
ears,  but  Lorchen's  lover  seized  him  by  the  scruff  of  the  neck 
and  they  jostled  each  other  and  were  on  the  point  of  coining 
to  blows.  An  old  man  said  to  Lorchen: 

"  If  we  are  condemned,  you  will  be  too.'* 


590  JEAX-CHIttSTOPIIE 

"  I  shall  be  too/'  she  said,  "  I  am  not  so  cowardly  as  you." 

And  she  burst  out  again. 

They  did  not  know  what  to  do.     They  turned  to  her  father : 

"  Can't  you  make  her  be  silent?  " 

The  old  man  had  understood  that  it  was  not  wise  to  push 
Lorchen  too  far.  ITe  signed  to  them  to  be  calm.  Silence  came. 
Lorchen  went  on  talking  alone;  then  as  she  found  no  response. 
like  a  fire  without  fuel,  she  stopped.  After  a  moment  her 
father  coughed  and  said : 

"Well,  then,  what  do  you  want?  You  don't  want  to  ruin 
us." 

She  said: 

"  I  want  him  to  be  saved." 

They  began  to  think.  Christophe  had  not  moved  from  where 
he  sat;  he  was  stiff  and  proud  and  seemed  not  to  understand 
that  they  were  discussing  him ;  but  he  was  touched  by  Lorchen's 
intervention.  Lorchen  seemed  not  to  be  aware  of  his  presence; 
she  was  leaning  against  the  table  by  which  he  was  sitting,  and 
glaring  defiantly  at  the  peasants,  who  were  smoking  and  looking 
down  at  the  ground.  At  last  her  father  chewed  his  pipe  for  a 
little  and  said: 

"Whether  we  say  anything  or  not, — if  he  stays  he  is  done 
for.  The  sergeant  major  recognized  him;  he  won't  spare  him. 
There  is  only  one  thing  for  him  to  do — to  get  away  at  once  to 
the  other  side  of  the  frontier." 

ITe  had  come  1o  the  conclusion  it  would  be  better  for  them  all 
if  Ohristopho  escaped;  in  that  way  he  would  admit  his  guilt, 
and  when  ho  was  no  longer  there  to  defend  himself  it  would 
not  be  diilieult  to  put  upon  him  the  burden  of  the  affair.  The 
others  agreed.  They  understood  each  other  perfectly. — Xow 
that  they  had  come  to  a  decision  they  were  all  in  a  hurry  for 
Christophe  to  go.  Without  being  in  the  least  embarrassed  by 
what  they  had  been  saying  a  moment  before  they  came  up  to 
him  and  pretended  to  be  deeply  interested  in  his  welfare. 

"There  is  not  a  moment  to  lose,  sir,"  said  Lori-l^nx  father. 
"They  will  come  back.  Half  an  hour  to  go  to  the  fortress. 
Half  an  hour  to  come  back.  .  .  .  There,  is  only  just  time  to 
slip  away." 

Christophe  had  risen.     He  too  had  been  thinking.     He  knew 


REVOLT  591 

that  if  he  stayed  he  was  lost.  But  to  go,  to  go  without  seeing 
his  mother?  .  .  .  No.  It  was  impossible.  lie  said  that 
he  would  first  go  back  to  the  town  and  would  still  have  time 
to  go  during  the  night  and  cross  the  frontier.  But  they  pro- 
tested loudly.  They  had  barred  the  door  just  before  to  prevent 
his  going;  now  they  wanted  to  prevent  his  not  going.  If  he 
went  back  to  the  town  he  was  certain  to  be  caught;  they  would 
know  at  the  fortress  before  he  got  there;  they  would  await  him 
at  home. — He  insisted.  Lorchen  had  understood  him: 

"  You  want  to  see  your  mother  ?  .  .  .  I  will  go  instead 
of  you.'' 

"  When  ?  " 

"  To-night." 

"Really!     You  will  do  that?" 

"  I  will  go." 

She  took  her  shawl  and  put  it  round  her  head. 

"  Write  a  letter.  I  will  take  it  to  her.  Come  with  me.  I 
will  give  you  some  ink." 

She  took  him  into  the  inner  room.  At  the  door  she  turned, 
and  addressing  her  lover : 

"And  do  you  get  ready/'  she  said.  "You  must  take  him. 
You  must  not  leave  him  until  you  have  seen  him  over  the 
frontier." 

He  was  as  eager  as  anybody  to  see  Christophe  over  into 
France  and  farther  if  possible. 

Lorchen  went  into  the  next  room  with  Christophe.  He  was 
still  hesitating.  He  was  torn  by  grief  at  the  thought  that 
he  would  not  be  able  to  embrace  his  mother.  When  would  he 
see  her  again?  She  was  so  old.  so  worn  out.  so  lonely!  This 
fresh  blow  would  be  too  much  for  her.  What  would  become  of 
her  without  him?  .  .  .  But  what  would  become 'of  him  if 
he  stayed  and  were  condemned  and  put  in  prison  for  years? 
Would  not  that  even  more  certainly  mean  destitution  and  mis- 
ery for  her?  1C  he  were  free,  though  far  away,  lie  eould  always 
help  her,  or  she  could  come  to  him. — lie  had  not  time  to  see 
clearly  in  his  mind.  Loivhen  took  his  baud- — she  stood  near 
him  and  looked  at  him;  their  faces  were  almost  touching;  she 
threw  her  arms  round  his  neck  and  kissed  his  mouth  : 

"Quick!     Quick!"  she  whispered,  pointing  to  the  table. 


592  JEAKT-CHRISTOPHE 

He  gave  up  trying  to  think.     He  sat  down.     She  tore  a  sheet 
of  squared  paper  with  red  lines  from  an  account  book. 
He  wrote: 

"My  DEAR  MOTHER:  Forgive  me.  I  am  going  to  hurt  you 
much.  I  cannot  do  otherwise.  I  have  done  nothing  wrong. 
But  now  I  must  fly  and  leave  the  country.  The  girl  who 
brings  you  this  letter  will  tell  you  everything.  I  wanted  to 
say  good-bye  to  you.  They  will  not  let  me.  They  say  that  I 
should  be  arrested.  I  am  so  unhappy  that  I  have  no  will  left. 
I  am  going  over  the  frontier  but  I  shall  stay  near  it  until  you 
have  written  to  me ;  the  girl  who  brings  you  my  letter  will  bring 
me  your  reply.  Tell  me  what  to  do.  I  will  do  whatever  you 
say.  Do  you  want  me  to  come  back  ?  Tell  me  to  come  back ! 
I  cannot  bear  the  idea  of  leaving  you  alone.  What  will  you 
do  to  live  ?  Forgive  me !  Forgive  me !  I  love  you  and  I  kiss 
you  .  .  ." 

"  Be  quick,  sir,  or  we  shall  be  too  late,"  said  Lorchen' s  swain, 
pushing  the  door  open. 

Christophe  wrote  his  name  hurriedly  and  gave  the  letter  to 
Lorchen. 

"  You  will  give  it  to  her  yourself  ?  " 

"  I  am  going,"  she  said. 

She  was  already  ready  to  go. 

"  To-morrow,"  she  went  on,  "  I  will  bring  you  her  reply ; 
you  must  wait  for  me  at  Leiden, —  (the  first  station  beyond  the 
German  frontier)- — on  the  platform." 

(She  had  read  Christophe' s  letter  over  his  shoulder  as  he 
wrote.) 

"  You  will  tell  me  everything  and  how  she  bore  the  blow  and 
everything  she  says  to  you?  You  will  not  keep  anything  from 
me?"  said  Christophe  beseechingly. 

"  I  will  tell  you  everything." 

They  were  not  so  free  to  talk  now,  for  the  young  man  was 
at  the  door  watching  them : 

"And  then,  Herr  Christophe,"  said  Lorchen.  "I  will  go  and 
see  her  sometimes  and  I  will  send  you  news  of  her;  do  not  be 
anxious." 


REVOLT  593 

She  shook  hands  with  him  vigorously  like  a  man. 

"  Let  us  go !  "  said  the  peasant. 

"  Let  us  go  !  "  said  Christophe. 

All  three  went  out.  On  the  road  they  parted.  Lorchen  went 
one  way  and  Christophe,  with  his  guide,  the  other.  They  did 
not  speak.  The  crescent  moon  veiled  in  7nists  was  disappear- 
ing behind  the  woods.  A  pale  light  hovered  over  the  fields.  In 
the  hollows  the  mists  had  risen  thick  and  milky  white.  The 
shivering  trees  were  bathed  in  the  moisture  of  the  air. — They 
were  not  more  than  a  few  minutes  gone  from  the  village  when 
the  peasant  flung  back  sharply  and  signed  to  Christophe  to  stop. 
They  listened.  On  the  road  in  front  of  them  they  heard  the 
regular  tramp  of  a  troop  of  soldiers  coming  towards  them. 
The  peasant  climbed  the  hedge  into  the  fields.  Christophe  fol- 
lowed him.  They  walked  away  across  the  plowed  fields.  They 
heard  the  soldiers  go  by  on  the  road.  In  the  darkness  the 
peasant  shook  his  fist  at  them.  Christophe's  heart  stopped  like 
a  hunted  animal  that  hears  the  baying  of  the  hounds.  They 
returned  to  the  road  again,  avoiding  the  villages  and  isolated 
farms  where  the  barking  of  the  dogs  betrayed  them  to  the  coun- 
tryside. On  the  slope  of  a  wooded  hill  they  saw  in  the  distance 
the  red  lights  of  the  railway.  They  took  the  direction  of  the 
signals  and  decided  to  go  to  the  first  station.  It  was  not  easy. 
As  they  came  down  into  the  valley  they  plunged  into  the  fog. 
They  had  to  jump  a  few  streams.  Soon  they  found  themselves 
in  immense  fields  of  beetroot  and  plowed  land ;  they  thought 
they  would  never  be  through.  The  plain  was  uneven ;  there 
were  little  rises  and  hollows  into  which  they  were  always  in  dan- 
ger of  falling.  At  last  after  walking  blindly  through  the  fog 
they  saw  suddenly  a  few  yards  away  the  signal  light  of  the  rail- 
way at  the  top  of  an  embankment.  They  climbed  the  bank.  At 
the  risk  of  being  run  over  they  followed  the  rails  until  they 
were  within  a  hundred  yards  of  the  station;  then  they  took  to 
the  road  again.  They  reached  the  station  twenty  minutes  before 
the  train  went.  In  spite  of  Lorchen's  orders  the  peasant  left 
Christophe;  he  was  in  a  hurry  to  go  back  to  see  what  had  hap- 
pened to  the  others  and  to  his  own  property. 

Christophe  took  a  ticket  for  Leiden  and  waited  alone  in  the 
empty  third-class  waiting  room.  An  oilieial  who  was  asleep 


594  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

on  a  scat  came  and  looked  at  Christophe's  ticket  and  opened 
the  door  for  him  when  the  train  came  in.  There  was  nobody 
in  the  carriage.  Everybody  in  the  train  was  asleep.  In  the 
fields  all  was  asleep.  Only  Christophe  did  not  sleep  in 
spite  of  his  weariness.  As  the  heavy  iron  wheels  approached 
the  frontier  he  felt  a  fearful  longing  to  be  out  of  reach.  In 
an  hour  he  would  be  free.  But  till  then  a  word  would  be 
enough  to  have  him  arrested.  .  .  .  Arrested !  His  whole 
being  revolted  at  the  word.  To  be  stifled  by  odious  force ! 
.  .  .  He  could  not  breathe.  His  mother,  his  country,  that 
he  was  leaving,  were  no  longer  in  his  thoughts.  Tn  the  egoism 
of  his  threatened  liberty  he  thought  only  of  that  liberty  of  his 
life  which  he  wished  to  save.  Whatever  it  might  cost !  Even 
at  the  cost  of  crime.  He  was  bitterly  sorry  that  he  had  taken 
the  train  instead  of  continuing  the  journey  to  the  frontier  on 
foot.  He  had  wanted  to  gain  a  few  hours.  A  fine  gain!  Pie 
was  throwing  himself  into  the  jaws  of  the  wolf.  Surely  they 
were  waiting  for  him  at  the  frontier  station;  orders  must  have 
been  given;  he  would  be  arrested.  .  .  .  He  thought  for  a 
moment  of  leaving  the  train  while  it  Avas  moving,  before  it 
reached  the  station;  he  even  opened  the  door  of  the  carriage, 
but  it  was  too  late;  the  train  was  at  the  station.  It  stopped. 
Eive  minutes.  An  eternity.  Christophe  withdrew  to  the  end  of 
the  compartment  and  hid  behind  the  curtain  and  anxiously 
watched  the  platform  on  which  a  gendarme  was  standing  mo- 
tionless. The  station  master  came  out  of  his  office  with  a  tele- 
gram in  his  hand  and  went  hurriedly  up  to  the  gendarme.  Cirri s- 
tophe  had  no  doubt  that  it  was  about  himself.  He  looked  for  a 
weapon.  He  had  only  a  strong  knife  with  two  blades.  He 
opened  it  in  his  pocket.  An  official  with  a  lamp  on  his  chest 
had  passed  the  station  master  and  was  running  along  the  train. 
Christophe  saw  him  coming.  His  fist  closed  on  the  handle  of 
the  knife  in  his  pocket  and  he  thought : 

"I  am  lost," 

He  was  in  such  a  state  of  excitement  that  he  would  have 
been  capable  of  plunging  the  knife  into  the  man's  breast  if  he 
had  been  unfortunate  enough  to  come  straight  to  him  and  open 
his  compartment,  But  the  official  stopped  at  the  next  carriage 


REVOLT  595 

to  look  at  the  ticket  of  a  passenger  who  had  just  taken  his 
seat.  The  train  moved  on  again.  Christophe  repressed  the 
throbbing  of  his  heart.  He  did  not  stir.  He  dared  hardly  say  to 
himself  that  he  was  saved.  He  would  not  say  it  until  he  had 
crossed  the  frontier.  .  .  .  Day  was  beginning  to  dawn.  The 
silhouettes  of  the  trees  were  starting  out  of  the  night.  A  car- 
riage was  passing  on  the  road  like  a  fantastic  shadow  with  a 
jingle  of  bells  and  a  winking  eye.  .  .  .  With  his  face  close 
pressed  to  the  window  Christophe  tried  to  see  the  post  with  the 
imperial  arms  which  marked  the  bounds  of  his  servitude.  He 
was  still  looking  for  it  in  the  growing  light  when  the  train 
whistled  to  announce  its  arrival  at  the  first  Belgian  station. 

He  got  up,  opened  the  door  wide,  and  drank  in  the  icy  air. 
Free !  His  whole  life  before  him  !  The  joy  of  life !  .  .  . 
And  at  once  there  came  upon  him  suddenly  all  the  sadness 
of  what  he  was  leaving,  all  the  sadness  of  what  he  was  going 
to  meet;  and  he  was  overwhelmed  by  the  fatigue  of  that  night 
of  emotion.  He  sank  down  on  the  seat.  He  had  hardly  been 
in  the  station  a  minute.  When  a  minute  later  an  otlicial  opened 
the  door  of  the  carriage  he  found  Christophe  asleep.  Chris- 
tophe awoke,  dazed,  thinking  he  had  been  asleep  an  hour;  he  got 
out  heavily  and  dragged  himself  to  the  customs,  and  when  he 
was  definitely  accepted  on  foreign  territory,  having  no  more  to 
defend  himself,  he  lay  down  along  a  seat  in  the  waiting  room 
and  dropped  off  and  slept  like  a  log. 

He  awoke  about  noon.  Lorchen  could  hardly  come  before 
two  or  three  o'clock.  While  he  was  waiting  for  the  trains  he 
walked  up  and  down  the  platform  of  the  little  station.  Then 
he  went  straight  on  into  the  middle  of  the  fields.  It  was  a 
gray  and  joyless  day  giving  warning  of  the  approach  of  winter. 
The  light  was  dim.  The  plaintive  whistle  of  a  train  stopping 
was  all  that  broke  the  melancholy  silence.  Christophe  stopped 
a  few  yards  away  from  the  frontier  in  the  deserted  country. 
"Before  him  was  a  little  pond,  a  clear  pool  of  water,  in  which 
the  gloomy  sky  was  reflected.  It  was  inclosed  by  a  fence  and 
two  trees  grew  by  its  side.  On  the  right,  a  poplar  with  leafless 
trembling  top.  Behind,  a  great  walnut  tree  with  black  naked 


596  JEAN-CHEISTOPHE 

branches  like  a  monstrous  polypus.  The  black  fruit  of  it  swung 
heavily  on  it.  The  last  withered  leaves  were  decaying  and  fall- 
ing one  by  one  upon  the  still  pond.  .  .  . 

It  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  already  seen  them,  the  two 
trees,,  the  pond  .  .  .  — and  suddenly  he  had  one  of  those 
moments  of  giddiness  which  open  great  distances  in  the  plain 
of  life.  A  chasm,  in  Time.  He  knew  not  where  he  was,  who 
he  was,  in  what  age  he  lived,  through  how  many  ages  he  had 
been  so.  Christophe  had  a  feeling  that  it  had  already  been, 
that  what  was,  now,  was  not,  now.  but  in  some  other  time.  He 
was  no  longer  himself.  He  wras  able  to  see  himself  from  out- 
side, from  a  great  distance,  as  though  it  were  some  one  else 
standing  there  in  that  place.  He  heard  the  buzzing  of  memory 
and  of  an  unknown  creature  within  himself ;  the  blood  boiled  in 
his  veins  and  roared : 

"Thus     .     .     .      Thus     .     .     .      Thus     .     .     ." 

The  centuries  whirled  through  him.  .  .  .  Many  other 
Kraffts  had  passed  through  the  experiences  which  were  his  on 
that  day,  and  had  tasted  the  wretchedness  of  the  last  hour  on 
their  native  soil.  A  wandering  race,  banished  everywhere  for 
their  independence  and  disturbing  qualities.  A  race  always 
the  prey  of  an  inner  demon  that  never  let  it  settle  anywhere. 
A  race  attached  to  the  soil  from  which  it  was  torn,  and  never, 
never  ceasing  to  love  it. 

Christophe  in  his  turn  was  passing  through  these  same  sor- 
rowful experiences;  and  he  was  finding  on  the  way  the  footsteps 
of  those  who  had  gone  before  him.  With  tears  in  his  eyes  he 
watched  his  native  land  disappear  in  the  mist,  his  country  to 
which  he  had  to  say  farewell. — Had  lie  not  ardently  desired  to 
leave  it? — Yes;  but  now  that  he  was  actually  leaving  it  he  felt 
himself  racked  by  anguish.  Only  a  brutish  heart  can  part 
without  emotion  from  the  motherland.  Happy  or  unhappy  he 
had  lived  with  her;  she  was  his  mother  and  his  comrade:  ho 
had  slept  in  her,  he  had  slept  on  her  bosom,  he  was  impregnated 
with  her;  in  her  bosom  she  hold  the  treasure  of  his  dreams,  all 
his  past  life,  the  sacred  dust  of  those  whom  he  had  loved.  Chris- 
tophe saw  now  in  review  the  days  of  his  life,  and  the  dear  men 
and  women  whom  he  was  leaving  on  that  soil  or  beneath  it.  His 
sufferings  were  not  less  dear  to  him  than  his  joys.  Minna, 


REVOLT  597 

Sabine,  Ada,  his  grandfather,  Undo  Gottfried,  old  Schulz — all 
passed  before  him  in  the  space  of  a  few  minutes.  He  could  not 
tear  himself  away  from  the  dead — (for  he  counted  Ada  also 
among  the  dead) — the  idea  of  his  mother  whom  he  was  leaving, 
the  only  living  creature  of  all  those  whom  he  loved,  among  these 
phantoms  was  intolerable  to  him. 

He  was  almost  on  the  point  of  crossing  the  frontier  again, 
so  cowardly  did  his  flight  seem  to  him.  He  made  up  his  mind 
that  if  the  answer  Lorchen  was  to  bring  him  from  his  mother 
betrayed  too  great  grief  he  would  return  at  all  costs.  But  if 
he  received  nothing?  If  Lorchen  had  not  been  able  to  reach 
Louisa,  or  to  bring  back  the  answer?  Well,  he  would  go  back. 

He  returned  to  the  station.  After  a  grim  time  of  waiting  the 
train  at  last  appeared.  Christophe  expected  to  see  Lorchcn's 
bold  face  in  the  train;  for  he  was  sure  she  would  keep  her 
promise;  but  she  did  not  appear.  He  ran  anxiously  from  one 
compartment  to  another;  he  said  to  himself  that  if  she  had  1  ""n 
in  the  train  she  would  have  been  one  of  the  first  to  get  out. 
As  he  was  plunging  through  the  stream  of  passengers  coming 
from  the  opposite  direction  he  saw  a  face  which  he  seemed  to 
know.  It  was  the  face  of  a  little  girl  of  thirteen  or  fourteen, 
chubby,  dimpled,  and  ruddy  as  an  apple,  with  a  little  turncd-up 
nose  and  a  large  mouth,  and  a  thick  plait  coiled  around  her 
head.  As  he  looked  more  closely  at  her  he  saw  that  she  had 
in  her  hand  an  old  valise  very  much  like  his  own.  She  was 
watching  him  too  like  a  sparrow ;  and  when  she  saw  that  he 
was  looking  at  her  she  came  towards  him ;  hut  she  stood  firmly 
in  front  of  Christophe  and  stared  at  him  with  her  little  mouse- 
like eyes,  without  speaking  a  word.  Christopho  knew  her :  she 
was  a  little  milkmaid  at  Lorchcn's  farm.  Pointing  to  the  valise 
he  said : 

"That  is  mine,  isn't  it?" 

The  girl  did  not  move  and  replied  cunningly: 

"I'm  not  sure.     Where  do  you  come  from,  first  of  all?" 

"  Buir." 

"And  who  sent  it  you?" 

"  Lorchen.    Come.    Give  it  me." 

The  little  girl  hold  out  the  valise. 

"  There  it  is." 


598  JKAX-CHEISTOniE 

And  she  added: 

"Oh!  But  1  know  YOU  at  once!" 

"What  were  yon  waiting  for  then?" 

"  I  was  waiting  for  yon  to  tell  nio  that  it  AVHS  yon." 

"  And  Lorchen?  "  asked  Christophe.  "  Why  didn't  she  come?'* 

The  girl  did  not  reply.  Christophe  understood  that  she  did 
not  want  to  say  anything  among  all  the  people.  They  had  first 
to  pass  through  the  customs.  When  that  was  done  Christophe 
took  the  girl  to  the  end  of  the  platform: 

"The  police  came."  said  the  girl,  now  very  talkative.  "They 
came  almost  as  soon  as  yon  had  gone.  They  went  into  all  the 
houses.  They  questioned  everybody,  and  they  arrested  big  Sami 
and  Christian  and  old  Kaspar.  And  also  Melanie  and  Ger- 
trude, though  they  declared  they  had  done  nothing,  and  they 
wept;  and  Gertrude  scratched  the  gendarmes.  It  was  not 
any  good  then  saying  that  you  had  done  it  all." 

"I?"  exclaimed  Christophe. 

"Oh!  yes,"  said  the  girl  quietly.  "It  was  no  good  as  you 
had  gone.  Then  they  looked  for  you  everywhere  and  hunted 
for  you  in  everv  direction." 

"And  Lorchen?" 

"Lorchen  was  not  there.  She  came  hack  afterwards  after 
she  had  been  to  the  town." 

"Did  she  see  my  mother?" 

"Yes.  Here  is  the  letter.  And  she  wanted  to  come  herself, 
but  she  was  arrested  too.'' 

""Row  did  you  manage  to  come?" 

"Well,  -he  came  back  to  the  village  without  being  seen  by 
the  police,  and  she  was  going  to  set  out  again.  But  Irmina, 
Gertrude's  sister,  denounced  her.  They  came  to  arrest  her, 
Then  when  she  saw  the  gendarmes  coming  she  went  up  to  her 
room  and  shouted  that  she  would  come  down  in  a  minute,  that 
she  was  dressing.  I  was  in  the  vineyard  behind  the  house:  she 
.called  to  me  from  the  window:  'Lydia  !  Lydia ! '  I  went  to 
her:  she  threw  down  vmir  valise  and  the  letter  which  your 
mother  had  given  her.  and  she  explained  where  I  should,  find 
you.  I  ran.  and  here  I  am." 

"Didn't  she  sav  anvthinu  more?" 


KEVOLT  595 

"  Yes.  She  told  me  to  give  you  this  shawl  to  show  you  that 
I  came  from  her." 

Christophe  recognized  the  white  shawl  with  red  spots  and 
embroidered  flowers  which  Lorchen  had  tied  round  her  head 
when  she  left  him  on  the  night  before.  The  naive  improbability 
of  the  excuse  she  had  made  for  sending  him  such  a  love-token 
did  not  make  him  smile. 

"  Xow,"  said  the  girl,  "  here  is  the  return  train.  I  must  go 
home.  Good-night." 

"  Wait/'  said  Christophe.  "  And  the  fare,  what  did  you  do 
about  that?" 

"  Lorchen  gave  it  me." 

"  Take  this,"  said  Christophe,  pressing  a  few  pieces  of  money 
into  her  hand. 

lie  held  her  back  as  she  was  trying  to  go. 

"And  then     .     .     ."  he  said. 

He  stooped  and  kissed  her  cheeks.  The  girl  affected  to  pro- 
test. 

"Don't  mind,"  said  Christophe  jokingly.     "It  was  not  for 

you." 

"Oh!  I  know  that,"  said  the  girl  mockingly.  "It  was  for 
Lorchen." 

It  was  not  only  Lorchen  that  Christophe  kissed  as  he  kissed 
the  little  milkmaid's  chubby  cheeks;  it  was  all  Germany. 

The  girl  slipped  away  and  ran  towards  the  train  which  was 
just  going.  She  hung  out  of  the  window  and  waved  her  hand- 
kerchief to  him  until  she  was  out  of  sight.  He  followed  with 
his  eyes  the  rustic  messenger  who  had  brought  him  for  the 
last  time  the  breath  of  his  country  and  of  those  he  loved. 

When  she  had  gone  he  found  himself  utterly  alone,  this  time, 
a  stranger  in  a  strange  land.  lie  had  in  his  hand  his  mother's 
letter  and  the  shawl  love-token.  He  pressed  the  shawl  to  his 
breast  and  tried  to  open  the  letter.  But  his  hands  trembled. 
What  would  he  find  in  it?  What  suffering  would  be  written  in 
it? — Xo ;  he  could  not  bear  the  sorrowful  words  of  reproach 
which  already  he  seemed  to  hear:  be  would  retrace  his  steps. 

At  last  he  unfolded  the  letter  and  read:  "My  poor  child, 
do  not  be  anxious  about  me.  I  will  be  wise.  God  has  punished 


600  JEAjST-CHRISTOPHE 

me.  I  must  not  be  selfish  and  keep  you  here.  Go  to  Paris. 
Perhaps  it  will  be  better  for  you.  Do  not  worry  about  me.  I 
can  manage  somehow.  The  chief  thing  is  that  you  should  be 
happy.  I  kiss  you.  MOTHER. 

"  Write  to  me  when  you  can." 

Christophe  sat  down  on  his  valise  and  wept. 

The  porter  was  shouting  the  train  for  Paris. 

The  heavy  train  was  slowing  down  with  a  terrific  noise.  Chris- 
tophe dried  his  tears,  got  up  and  said : 

"  I  must  go." 

He  looked  at  the  sky  in  the  direction  in  which  Paris  must 
be.  The  sky,  dark  everywhere,  was  even  darker  there.  It  was 
like  a  dark  chasm.  Christophe' s  heart  ached,  but  he  said  again : 

"  I  must  go." 

He  climbed  into  the  train  and  leaning  out  of  the  window 
went  on  looking  at  the  menacing  horizon: 

"  0,  Paris  !  "  he  ch ought,  "  Paris  !  Come  to  my  aid  !  Save 
me !  Save  my  thoughts  !  " 

The  thick  fog  grew  denser  still.  Behind  Christophe.  above 
the  country  he  was  leaving,  a  little  patch  of  sky.  pale  blue, 
large,  like  two  eyes — like  the  eyes  of  Sabine — smiled  sorrowfully 
through  the  heavy  veil  of  clouds  and  then  was  gone.  The  train 
departed.  Rain  fell.  Night  fell. 


THE    MARKET-PLACE 


JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 


DISORDER  in  order.  Untidy  officials  offhanded  in  manner. 
Travelers  protesting  against  the  rules  and  regulations,  to  which 
they  submitted  all  the  same.  Christophe  was  in  France. 

After  having  satisfied  the  curiosity  of  the  customs,  he  took 
his  seat  again  in  the  train  for  Paris.  Night  was  over  the  fields 
that  were  soaked  with  the  rain.  The  hard  lights  of  the  sta- 
tions accentuated  the  sadness  of  the  interminable  plain  buried 
in  darkness.  The  trains,  more  and  more  numerous,  that  passed, 
rent  the  air  with  their  shrieking  whistles,  which  broke  upon 
the  torpor  of  the  sleeping  passengers.  The  train  was  nearing 
Paris. 

Christophe  was  ready  to  get  out  an  hour  before  they  ran 
in;  he  had  jammed  his  hat  down  on  his  head;  he  had  buttoned 
his  coat  up  to  his  neck  for  fear  of  the  robbers,  with  whom 
he  had  been  told  Paris  was  infested ;  twenty  times  he  had 
got  up  and  sat  down;  twenty  times  he  had  moved  his  bag 
from  the  rack  to  the  seat,  from  the  seat  to  the  rack,  to  the 
exasperation  of  his  fellow-passengers,  against  whom  he  knocked 
every  time  with  his  usual  clumsiness. 

Just  as  they  were  about  to  run  into  the  station  the  train 
suddenly  stopped  in  the  darkness.  Christophe  flattened  his 
nose  against  the  window  and  tried  vainly  to  look  out.  lie 
turned  towards  his  fellow-travelers,  hoping  to  find  a  friendly 
glance  which  would  encourage  him  to  ask  where  they  were. 
But  they  were  all  asleep  or  pretending  to  be  so :  they  were 
bored  and  scowling :  not  one  of  them  made  any  attempt  to 

3 


4  JEAX-OimiSTOPHE  IN  PAKIS 

discover  why  they  had  stopped.  Christophe  was  surprised  by 
their  indifference:  these  still',  somnolent  creatures  were  so  ut- 
terly unlike  the  French  of  his  imagination!  At  last  he  sat 
down,  discouraged,  on  his  hag,  rocking  with  every  jolt  of  the 
train,  and  in  his  turn  he  was  just  dozing  oil'  when  he  was 
roused  by  the  noise  of  the  doors  being  opened.  .  .  .  Paris ! 
.  .  .  His  fellow-traveler*  were  already  getting  out. 

Jostling  and  jostled,  he  walked  towards  the  exit  of  the  sta- 
tion, refusing  the  porter  who  oll'ered  to  carry  his  bag.  With 
a  peasant's  suspiciousness  he  thought  every  one  was  going  to 
rob  him.  He  lifted  his  precious  bag  on  to  his  shoulder  and 
walked  straight  ahead,  indifferent  to  the  curses  of  the  people 
as  lie  forced  his  way  through  them.  At  last  he  found  himself 
in  the  greasy  streets  of  Paris. 

He  was  too  much  taken  up  with  the  business  in  hand,  the 
finding  of  lodgings,  and  too  weary  of  the  whirl  of  carriages 
into  which  he  was  swept,  to  think  of  looking  at  anything.  The 
first  thing  was  to  look  for  a  room.  There  was  no  lack  of 
hotels:  the  station  was  surrounded  with  them  on  all  sides: 
their  names  were  flaring  in  gas  letters.  Christophe  wanted  to 
find  a  less  dazzling  place  than  any  of  these:  none  of  them 
seemed  to  him  to  be,  humble  enough  for  his  purse.  At  last 
in  a  side  street  he  saw  a  dirty  inn  with  a  cheap  eating-house 
on  the  ground  floor.  It  was  called  Jfoicl  <Je  la  CiriJi,i/tfion. 
A  fat  man  in  his  shirt-sleeves  was  sitting  smoking  at  a  table: 
he  hurried  forward  as  he  saw  Chrisfophe  enter.  ITe  could  not 
understand  a  word  of  his  jargon  :  but  at  the  first  glance  ho 
marked  and  judged  the  awkward  childish  Oierman.  who  re- 
fused to  let  his  bag  out  of  his  hands,  and  struggled  hard  to 
make  himself  understood  in  an  incredible  language.  He  took 
him  up  an  evil-smelling  staircase  to  an  airless  room  which 
opened  on  to  a  closed  court.  He  vaunted  the  quietness  of 
the  room,  to  which  no  noise  from  outside  could  penetrate:  and 
he  asked  a  good  price  for  it.  Christophe  only  half  understood 
him:  knowing  nothing  of  the  conditions  of  life  in  Paris,  and 
with  his  shoulder  aching  with  the  weight  of  his  bag.  he  a<- 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  5 

cepted  everything:  he  was  eager  to  be  alone.  But  hardly  was 
he  left  alone  when  he  was  struck  by  the  dirtiness  of  it  all :  and 
to  avoid  succumbing  to  the  melancholy  which  was  creeping 
over  him,  he  went  out  again  very  soon  after  having  dipped 
his  face  in  the  dusty  water,  which  was  greasy  to  the  touch. 
He  tried  hard  not  to  see  and  not  to  feel,  so  as  to  escape 
disgust. 

He  went  down  into  the  street.  The  October  mist  was  thick 
and  keenly  cold:  it  had  that  stale  Parisian  smell,  in  which 
are  mingled  the  exhalations  of  the  factories  of  the  outskirts 
and  the  heavy  breath  of  the  town.  He  could  not  see  ten  yards 
in  front  of  him.  The  light  of  the  gas-jets  flickered  like  a 
candle  on  the  point  of  going  out.  In  the  semi-darkness  there 
were  crowds  of  people  moving  in  all  directions.  Carriages 
moved  in  front  of  each  other,  collided,  obstructed  the  road, 
stemming  the  flood  of  people  like  a  dam.  The  oaths  of  the 
drivers,  the  horns  and  bells  of  the  trams,  made  a  deafening 
noise.  The  roar,  the  clamor,  the  smell  of  it  all,  struck  fearfully 
on  the  mind  and  heart  of  Christophe.  He  stopped  for  a  mo- 
ment, but  was  at  once  swept  on  by  the  people  behind  him  and 
borne  on  by  the  current.  He  went  down  the  Jlonlcranl  de 
Strasbourg,  seeing  nothing,  bumping  awkwardly  into  the 
passers-by.  He  had  eaten  nothing  since  morning.  The  cafes, 
which  he  found  at  every  turn,  abashed  and  revolted  him,  for 
they  were  all  so  crowded.  He  applied  to  a  policeman;  but 
he  was  so  slow  in  finding  words  that  the  man  did  not'  even 
take  the  trouble  to  hear  him  out.  and  turned  his  back  on  him 
in  the  middle  of  a  sentence  and  shrugged  his  shoulders.  He 
went  on  walking  mechanically.  There  was  a  small  crowd  in 
front  of  a  shop-window.  He  stopped  mechanically.  It  was  a 
photograph  and  picture-postcard  shop:  there  were  pictures  of 
girls  in  chemises,  or  without  them:  illustrated  papers  displayed 
obscene  jests.  Children  and  young  girls  were  looking  at  them 
calmly.  There  was  a  slim  girl  with  red  hair  who  saw  Chris- 
tophe lost  in  contemplation  and  accosted  him.  lie  looked  at  her 
and  did  not  understand.  She  took  his  arm  with  a  sillv  smile. 


6  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PAEIS 

He  shook  her  off,  and  rushed  away,  blushing  angrily.  There 
were  rows  of  cafe  concerts :  outside  the  doors  were  displayed 
grotesque  pictures  of  the  comedians.  The  crowd  grew  thicker 
and  thicker.  Christophe  was  struck  by  the  number  of  vicious 
faces,  prowling  rascals,  vile  beggars,  painted  women  sickeningly 
scented.  He  was  frozen  by  it  all.  Weariness,  weakness,  and 
the  horrible  feeling  of  nausea,  which  more  and  more  came  over 
him,  turned  him  sick  and  giddy.  He  set  his  teeth  and  walked 
on  more  quickly.  The  fog  grew  denser  as  lie  approached  the 
Seine.  The  whirl  of  carriages  became  bewildering.  A  horse 
slipped  and  fell  on  its  side:  the  driver  flogged  it  to  make  it 
get  up :  the  wretched  beast,  held  down  by  its  harness,  struggled 
and  fell  down  again,  and  la}r  still  as  though  it  were  dead.  The 
sight  of  it — common  enough — was  the  last  drop  that  made  the 
wretchedness  that  rilled  the  soul  of  Christophe  flow  over.  The 
miserable  struggles  of  the  poor  beast,  surrounded  by  indifferent 
and  careless  faces,  made  him  feel  bitterly  his  own  insignificance 
among  these  thousands  of  men  and  women — the  feeling  of 
revulsion,  which  for  the  last  hour  had  been  choking  him,  his 
disgust  with  all  these  human  beasts,  with  the  unclean  atmos- 
phere, with  the  morally  repugnant  people,  burst  forth  in  him 
with  such  violence  that  he  could  not  breathe.  He  burst  into 
tears.  The  passers-by  looked  in  amazement  at  the  tall  young 
man  whose  face  was  twisted  with  grief.  He  strode  along  with 
the  tears  running  down  his  cheeks,  and  made  no  attempt  to 
dry  them.  People  stopped  to  look  at  him  for  a  moment:  and 
if  he  had  been  able  to  read  the  soul  of  the  mob,  which  seemed  to 
him  to  be  so  hostile,  perhaps  in  some  of  them  he  might  have 
seen — mingled,  no  doubt,  with  a  little  of  the  ironic  feeling  of 
the  Parisians  for  any  sorrow  so  simple  and  ridiculous  as  to  show 
itself — pity  and  brotherhood.  But  he  saw  nothing:  his  tears 
blinded  him. 

He  found  himself  in  a  square,  near  a  large  fountain.  He 
bathed  his  hands  and  dipped  his  face  in  it.  A  little  news- 
vendor  watched  him  curiously  and  passed  comment  on  him, 
waggishly  though  not  maliciously :  and  he  picked  up  his  hat 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  7 

for  him — Christophe  had  let  it  fall.  The  icy  coldness  of  the 
water  revived  Christophe.  He  plucked  up  courage  again.  He 
retraced  his  steps,  hut  did  not  look  ahout  him  :  he  did  not  even 
think  of  eating:  it  would  have  been  impossible  for  him  to  speak 
to  anybody:  it  needed  the  merest  trifle  to  set  him  off  weeping 
again.  He  was  worn  out.  He  lost  his  way,  and  wandered 
about  aimlessly  until  he  found  himself  in  front  of  his  hotel, 
just  when  he  had  made  up  his  mind  that  he  was  lost.  lie 
had  forgotten  even  the  name  of  the  street  in  which  he 
lodged. 

He  went  up  to  his  .horrible  room.  He  was  empty,  and  his 
eyes  were  burning :  he  was  aching  body  and  soul  as  he  sank 
down  into  a  chair  in  the  corner  of  the  room :  he  stayed  like 
that  for  a  couple  of  hours  and  could  not  stir.  At  last  he 
wrenched  himself  out  of  his  apathy  and  went  to  bed.  He  fell 
into  a  fevered  slumber,  from  which  he  awoke  every  few  minutes, 
feeling  that  he  had  been  asleep  for  hour?.  The  room  was 
stifling:  he  was  burning  from  head  to  foot:  he  was  horribly 
thirsty:  he  suffered  from  ridiculous  nightmares,  which  clung 
to  him  even  after  he  had  opened  his  eyes :  sharp  pains  thudded 
in  him  like  the  blows  of  a  hammer.  In  the  middle  of  the 
night  he  awoke,  overwhelmed  by  despair,  so  profound  that  he 
all  but  cried  out:  he  stuffed  the  bedclothes  into  his  mouth 
so  as  not  to  be  heard :  he  felt  that  he  was  going  mad.  lie  sat 
up  in  bed,  and  struck  a  light.  He  was  bathed  in  sweat.  He 
got  up,  opened  his  bag  to  look  for  a  handkerchief.  He  laid 
his  hand  on  an  old  Bible,  which  his  mother  had  hidden  in  his 
linen.  Christophe  had  never  read  much  of  the  Book:  but  it 
was  a  comfort  beyond  words  for  him  to  find  it  at  that  moment. 
The  Bible  had  belonged  to  his  grandfather  and  to  his  grand- 
father's father.  The  heads  of  the  family  had  inscribed  on  a 
blank  page  at  the  end  their  names  and  the  important  dates 
of  their  lives — births,  marriages,  deaths.  His  grandfather  had 
written  in  pencil,  in  his  large  hand,  the  dates  when  he  had 
read  and  re-read  each  chapter:  the  Book  was  full  of  tags  of 
yellowed  paper,  on  which  the  old  man  had  jotted  down  his 


8  JEAN-CHEISTOPHE  IN  PA1US 

simple  thoughts.  The  Book  used  to  rest  on  a  shelf  above  his 
bed,  and  he  used  often  to  take  it  down  during  the  long,  sleep- 
less nights  and  hold  converse  with  it  rather  than  read  it.  It 
had  been  with  him  to  the  hour  of  his  death,  as  it  had  been 
with  his  father.  A  century  of  the  joys  and  sorrows  of  the 
family -was  breathed  forth  from  the  pages  of  the  Book.  Hold- 
ing it  in  hirf  hands,  Christophe  felt  less  lonely. 

He  opened  it  at  the  most  somber  words  of  all: 

Is  there  not  an  appointed  time  to  man  upon  earth?  Arc  not 
his  days  also  like  the  days  of  an  lit  riling? 

When-  I  He  down,  I  say,  Whcii  shall  I  arise  and  the  night  lie, 
gone?  and  I  am  full  of  tossings  to  and  fro  unto  the  dawn  of 
the  day. 

When  I  say.  My  l>cd  shall  comfort  me,  my  couch  shall  ease  my 
complaint,  then  Thou  scarest  me  with  dreams  and  terrifiest  me 
through  visions.  .  .  .  How  long  wilt  Thou  not  depart  from 
me,  nor  let  me  alone  till  1  swallow  down  my  spittle?  I  have 
sinned;  what  shall  I  do  unto  Thee,  0  Thou  preserver  of  men? 

Though  He  slay  me  yet  will  /  trust  in  Him. 

All  greatness  is  good,  and  the  height  of  sorrow  tops  deliv- 
erance. What  casts  down  and  overwhelms  and  blasts,  the  soul 
beyond  all  hope  is  mediocrity  in  sorrow  and  joy,  selfish  and 
niggardly  suffering  that  has  not  the  strength  to  be  rid  of  the 
lost  pleasure,  and  in  secret  lends  itself  to  every  sort  of  degrada- 
tion to  steal  pleasure  anew.  Cbristophe  was  braced  up  by  the 
bitter  savor  that  he  found  in  the  old  Book:  the  wind  of  Sinai 
coming  from  vast  and  lonely  spaces  and  the  mighty  sea  to 
sweep  away  the  steamy  vapors.  The  fever  in  Christophe  sub- 
sided. He  was  calm  again,  and  lay  down  and  slept  peacefully 
until  the  morrow.  When  he  opened  his  eyes  again  it  was  day. 
More  acutely  than  ever  he  was  conscious  of  the  horror  of  his 
room:  he  felt  his  loneliness  and  wretchedness:  but  be  faced 
them.  lie  was  no  longer  disheartened:  he  was  left:  only  with 
a  sturdy  melancholy.  lie  read  over  now  the  words  of  Job: 

Even  though  God  slay  me  yet  would  1  trust  in  Him. 

He  got  up.     He  was  ready  calmly  to  face  the  fight 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  9 

He  made  up  his  mind  there  and  then  to  set  to  work.  He 
knew  only  two  people  in  Paris:  two 'young  fellow-countrymen: 
his  old  friend  Otto  Diener,  who  was  in  the  of  lice  of  his  uncle, 
a  cloth  merchant  in  the  Mail  quarter:  and  a  young  Jew  from 
Mainz,  Sylvain  Kohn,  who  had  a  post  in  a  great  publishing 
house,  the  address  of  which  Christophe  did  not  know. 

He  had  been  very  intimate  with  Diener  when  he  was  four- 
teen or  fifteen.  He  had  had  for  him  one  of  those  childish 
friendships  which  precede  love,  and  are  themselves  a  sort  of 
love.1  Diener  had  loved  him  too.  The  shy,  reserved  boy  had 
been  attracted  by  Christophe's  gusty  independence :  he  had  tried 
hard  to  imitate  him,  quite  ridiculously:  that  had  both  irritated 
and  flattered  Christophe.  Then  they  had  made  plans  for  the 
overturning  of  the  world.  In  the  end  Diener  had  gone  abroad 
for  his  education  in  business,  and  they  did  not  see  each  other 
again:  but  Christophe  had  news  of  him  from  time  to  time 
from  the  people  in  the  town  with  whom  Diener  remained  on 
friendly  terms. 

As  for  Sylvain  Kohn,  his  relation  with  Christophe  had  been 
of  another  kind  altogether.  They  had  been  at  school  to- 
gether, where  the  young  monkey  had  played  inany  pranks  on 
Christophe,  who  thrashed  him  for  it  when  he  saw  the  trap  into 
which  he  had  fallen.  Kohn  did  not  put  up  a  fight :  he  let 
Christophe  knock  him  down  and  rub  his  face  in  the  dust, 
while  he  howled;  but  he  would  begin  again  at  once  with  a 
malice  that  never  tired — until  the  day  when  he  became  really 
afraid,  Christophe  having  seriously  threatened  to  kill  him. 

Christophe  went  out  early.  He  stopped  to  breakfast  at  a  cafe. 
In  spite  of  his  self-consciousness,  he  forced  himself  In  lose 
no  opportunity  of  speaking  French.  Since  he  had  to  live  in 
Paris,  perhaps  for  years,  he  had  better  adapt  himself  as  quickly 
as  possible  to  the  conditions  of  life  there,  and  overcome  his 
repugnance.  So  he  forced  himself,  although  he  suiVered  hor- 
ribly, to  take  no  notice  of  the  sly  looks  of  the  waiter  as  he 
listened  to  his  horrible  lingo.  He  was  not  discouraged,  ami 
1See  Jean-Chriatophe—l:  "  The  Morniug." 


10  JEAN-CHBISTOPHE  IX  PABIS 

went  on  obstinately  constructing  ponderous,  formless  sentences 
and  repeating  them  until  'be  was  understood. 

He  set  out  to  look  for  Diencr.  As  usual,  wben  be  bad  an 
idea  in  his  head,  be  saw  nothing  of  what  was  going  on  about 
him.  During  that  first  walk  his  only  impression  of  Paris 
was  that  of  an  old  and  ill-kept  town.  Christophe  was  accus- 
tomed  to  the  towns  of  the  new  German  Empire,  that  were 
both  very  old  and  very  young,  towns  in  which  there  is  ex- 
pressed a  new  birth  of  pride :  and  he  was  unpleasantly  sur- 
prised by  the  shabby  streets,  the  muddy  roads,  the  hustling 
people,  the  confused  traffic — vehicles  of  every  sort  and  shape : 
venerable  horse  omnibuses,  steam  trams,  electric  trams,  all  sorts 
of  trams — booths  on  the  pavements,  merry-go-rounds  of  wooden 
horses  (or  monsters  and  gargoyles)  in  the  squares  that  were 
choked  up  with  statues  of  gentlemen  in  frock-coats:  all  sorts  of 
relics  of  a  town  of  the  Middle  Ages  endowed  with  the  privilege 
of  universal  suffrage,  but  quite  incapable  of  breaking  free  from 
its  old  vagabond  existence.  The  fog  of  the  preceding  day  had 
turned  to  a  light,  soaking  rain.  In  many  of  the  shops  the  gas 
was  lit,  although  it  was  past  ten  o'clock. 

Christophe  lost  his  way  in  the  labyrinth  of  streets  round 
the  Place  dcs  Victoircs,  but  eventually  found  the  shop  he  was 
looking  for  in  the  Eue  de  la  Banquc.  As  he  entered  he  thought 
he  saw  Diener  at  the  back  of  the  long,  dark  shop,  arranging 
packages  of  goods,  together  with  some  of  the  assistants.  But 
he  was  a  little  short-sighted,  and  could  not  trust  his  eyes,  al- 
though it  was  very  rarely  that  they  deceived  him.  There  was 
a  general  movement  among  the  people  at  the  back  of  the  shop 
when  Christophe  gave  his  name  to  the  clerk  who  approached 
him:  and  after  a  confabulation  a  young  man  stepped  forward 
from  the  group,  and  said  in  German: 

"  Herr  Diener  is  out." 

"Out?     For  long?" 

"  I  think  so.     lie  lias  just  gone." 

Christophe  thought  for  a  moment;  then  he  said: 

"  Very  well.     I  will  wait." 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  11 

The  clerk  was  taken  aback,  and  hastened  to  add : 

"  But  he  won't  be  back  before  two  or  three." 

"Oh!  That's  nothing,"  replied  Christophe  calmly.  "I 
haven't  anything  to  do  in  Paris.  1  can  wait  all  day  if  need  be." 

The  young  man  looked  at  him  in  amazement,  and  thought 
he  was  joking.  But  Christophe  had  forgotten  him  already. 
He  sat  down  quietly  in  a  corner,  with  his  back  turned  towards 
the  street:  and  it  looked  as  though  he  intended  to  stay  there. 

The  clerk  went  back  to  the  end  of  the  shop  and  whispered 
to  his  colleagues:  they  were  most  comically  distressed,  and  cast 
about  for  some  means  of  getting  rid  of  the  insistent  Christophe. 

After  a  few  uneasy  moments.,  the  door  of  the  office  was 
opened  and  Herr  Diener  appeared.  He  had  a  large  red  face, 
marked  with  a  purple  scar  down  his  cheek  and  chin,  a  fair 
mustache,  smooth  hair,  parted  on  one  side,  a  gold-rimmed  eye- 
glass, gold  studs  in  his  shirt-front,  and  rings  on  his  fat  fingers. 
He  had  his  hat  and  an  umbrella  in  his  hands.  lie  came  up  to 
Christophe  in  a  nonchalant  manner.  Christophe,  who  was 
dreaming  as  he  sat,  started  with  surprise.  He  seized  Diener's 
hands,  and  shouted  with  a  noisy  heartiness  that  made  the  as- 
sistants titter  and  Diener  blush.  That  majestic  personage  had 
his  reasons  for  not  wishing  to  resume  his  former  relationship 
with  Christophe:  and  he  had  made  up  his  mind  from  the  first 
to  keep  him  at  a  distance  by  a  haughty  manner.  But  he  had 
no  sooner  come  face  to  face  with  Christophe  than  he  felt  like 
a  little  boy  again  in  his  presence :  he  was  furious  and  ashamed. 
He  muttered  hurriedly : 

"  In  my  office.  .  .  .  We  shall  be  able  to  talk  better 
there." 

Christophe  recognized  Diener's  habitual  prudence. 

But  when  they  were  in  the  office  and  the  door  was  shut. 
Diener  showed  no  eagerness  to  offer  him  a  chair.  He  remained 
standing,  making  clumsy  explanations : 

"  Very  glad.  ...  I  was  just  going  out.  .  .  .  They 
thought  I  had  gone.  .  .  .  But  1  must  go  ...  I  have  only 
a  minute  ...  a  pressing  appointment.  ..." 


13  JEAN-CHRLSTOPHE  IN  PARTS 

Christophe  understood  that  the  clerk  had  lied  to  him.  and 
that  the  lie  had  been  arranged  by  Diener  to  get  rid  of  him. 
His  blood  boiled:  but  he  controlled  himself,  and  said  dryly: 

"  There  is  no  hurry." 

Diener  drew  himself  up.  He  was  shocked  by  such  off- 
handedness. 

"  What! "  he  said.  "No  hurry!  in  business  .  .  ."  Chris- 
tophe looked  him  in  the  face. 

"  No.'1 

Diener  looked  away.  He  hated  Christophe  for  having  so 
put  him  to  shame.  He  murmured  irritably.  Christophe  cut 
him  short : 

"  Come."  he  said.     "You  know   .    .    . " 

(He  used  the  "  Du,"  which  maddened  Diener,  who  from  the 
first  had  been  vainly  trying  to  set  up  between  Christophe  and 
himself  the  barrier  of  the  "  tfic.") 

"You  know  why  I  am  here?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Diener.     "  1  know." 

(He  had  heard  of  Christophe's  escapade,  and  the  warrant 
out  against  him,  from  his  friends.) 

"  Then,"  Christophe  went  on,  "  you  know  that  I  am  not  here 
for  fun.  I  have  had  to  fly.  I  have  nothing.  1  must  live." 

Diener  was  waiting  for  that,  for  the  request.  He  took  it 
with  a  mixture  of  satisfaction — (for  it  made  it  possible  for  him 
to  feel  his  superiority  over  Christophe) — and  embarrassment — 
(for  he  dared  not  make  Christophe  feel  his  superiority  as  much 
as  he  would  ha\ e  liked) . 

"'Ah!"  he  said  pompously.  "  It  is  very  tiresome,  very  tire- 
some. Life  hero  is  h;ird.  Kverything  is  so  dear.  We  have 
enormous  expenses.  And  all  these  assistants  .  .  ." 

Christopho  cut  him  short  contemptuously: 

"  I  am  not  asking  you  for  money.'' 

Diener  was  abashed.      Christophe  went  on: 

"Is  your  business  doing  well?      Have  you  many  customers?" 

"Yes.  Yes.  Not  bad.  thank  (iod!  .  .  ."  said  Diener 
cautiously.  (He  was  on  his  guard.) 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  13 

Christophe  darted  a  look  of  fury  at  him,  and  went  on: 

"  You  know  many  people  in  the  German  colony  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Very  well :  speak  for  me.  They  must  he  musical.  They 
have  children.  I  will  give  them  lessons." 

Diener  was  embarrassed  at  that. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Christophe.  "Do  you  think  I'm  not 
competent  to  do  the  work  ?  " 

He  was  asking  a  service  as  though  it  were  he  who  was 
rendering  it.  Diener,  who  would  not  have  done  a  thing  for 
Christophe  except  for  the  sake  of  putting  him  under  an 
obligation,  was  resolved  not  to  stir  a  finger  for  him. 

"  It  isn't  that.  You're  a  thousand  times  too  good  for 
it.  Only  ..." 

"  What,  then  ?  " 

"  Well,  you  see,  it's  very  difficult — very  difficult — on  account 
of  your  position." 

"My  position?" 

"  Yes.  .  .  .  You  see,  that  affair,  the  warrant.  .  .  .  If 
that  were  to  be  known.  ...  It  is  difficult  for  me.  It  might 
do  me  harm." 

He  stopped  as  he  saw  Christophe's  face  go  hot  with  anger: 
and  he  added  quickly: 

"Not  on  my  own  account.  .  .  .  I'm  not  afraid.  .  .  . 
Ah!  If  I  were  alone!  .  .  .  But  my  uncle  .  .  .  you  know, 
the  business  is  his.  I  can  do  nothing  without  him.  .  .  . " 

He  grew  more  and  more  alarmed  at  Christophe's  expression, 
and  at  the  thought  of  the  gathering  explosion  lie  said  hur- 
riedly—  (he  was  not  a  bad  fellow  at  bottom  :  avarice  and  van- 
ity were  struggling  in  him:  he  would  have  liked  to  help  Chris- 
tophe, at  a  price)  : 

"Can  I  lend  you  fifty  francs?" 

Christophe  went  crimson.  TFe  went  up  to  Diener.  who 
stepped  back  hurriedly  to  the  door  and  opened  ii.  and  held  him- 
self in  readiness  to  call  for  help,  if  necessary.  But  Chris- 
tophe only  thrust  his  face  near  his  and  bawled; 


14  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IX  PARIS 

"  You  swine !  " 

And  he  flung  him  aside  and  walked  out  through  the  little 
throng  of  assistants.  At  the  door  he  spat  in  disgust. 

He  strode  along  down  the  street.  He  was  1)1  ind  with  fury. 
The  rain  sobered  him.  Where  was  he  going?  He  did  not 
know.  He  did  not  know  a  soul.  He  stopped  to  think  out- 
side a  book-shop,  and  he  stared  stupidly  at  the  rows  of  books. 
He  was  struck  by  the  name  of  a  publisher  on  the  cover  of  one  of 
them.  He  wondered  why.  Then  he  remembered  that  it  was 
the  name  of  the  house  in  which  Sylvain  Kohn  was  employed. 
He  made  a  note  of  the  address.  .  .  .  But  what  was  the  good  ? 
He  would  not  go.  ...  Why  should  he  not  go?  ...  If 
that  scoundrel  Diener,  who  had  been  his  friend,  had  given  him 
such  a  welcome,  what  had  he  to  expect  from  a  rascal  whom  he 
had  handled  roughly,  who  had  good  cause  to  hate  him?  Vain 
humiliations !  His  blood  boiled  at  the  thought.  But  his  na- 
tive pessimism,  derived  perhaps  from  his  Christian  education, 
urged  him  on  to  probe  to  the  depths  of  human  baseness. 

"  I  have  no  right  to  stand  on  ceremony.  I  must  try  every- 
thing before  I  give  in." 

And  an  inward  voice  added : 

"  And  I  shall  not  give  in." 

He  made  sure  of  the  address,  and  went  to  hunt  up  Kohn. 
He  made  up  his  mind  to  hit  him  in  the  eye  at  the  first  show 
of  impertinence. 

The  publishing  house  was  in  the  neighborhood  of  the 
Madeleine.  Christophe  went  up  to  a  room  on  the  second 
floor,  and  asked  for  Sylvain  Kohn.  A  man  in  livery  told  him 
that  "  Kohn  was  not  known."  Christophe  was  taken  aback, 
and  thought  his  pronunciation  must  be  at  fault,  and  he  re- 
peated his  question:  but  the  man  listened  attentively,  and 
repeated  that  no  one  of  that  name  was  known  in  the  place. 
Quite  out  of  countenance,  Christophe  begged  pardon,  and  was 
turning  to  go  when  a  door  at  the  end  of  the  corridor  opened, 
and  he  saw  Kohn  himself  showing  a  ladv  out.  Still  suffering 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  15 

from  the  affront  put  upon  him  by  Diener,  he  was  inclined  to 
think  that  everybody  was  having  a  joke  at  his  expense.  His 
first  thought  was  that  Kohn  had  seen  him,  and  had  given  orders 
to  the  man  to  say  that  he  was  not  there.  His  gorge  rose  at 
the  impudence  of  it.  He  was  on  the  point  of  going  in  a  huff, 
when  he  heard  his  name :  Kohn,  with  his  sharp  eyes,  had 
recognized  him :  and  he  ran  up  to  him,  with  a  smile  on  his 
lips,  and  his  hands  held  out  with  every  mark  of  extraordinary 
delight. 

Sylvain  Kohn  was  short,  thick-set,  clean-shaven,  like  an 
American;  his  complexion  was  too  red,  his  hair  too  black;  he 
had  a  heavy,  massive  face,  coarse-featured;  little  darting, 
wrinkled  eyes,  a  rather  crooked  mouth,  a  heavy,  cunning  smile. 
He  was  modishly  dressed,  trying  to  cover  up  the  defects  of  his 
figure,  high  shoulders,  and  wide  hips.  That  was  the  only  thing 
that  touched  his  vanity:  he  would  gladly  have  put  up  with  any 
insult  if  only  he  could  have  been  a  few  inches  taller  and  of  a 
better  figure.  For  the  rest,  he  was  very  well  pleased  with 
himself:  he  thought  himself  irresistible,  as  indeed  he  was. 
The  little  German  Jew,  clod  as  he  was,  had  made  himself  the 
chronicler  and  arbiter  of  Parisian  fashion  and  smartness.  He 
wrote  insipid  society  paragraphs  and  articles  in  a  delicately 
involved  manner.  He  was  the  champion  of  French  style,  French 
smartness,  French  gallantry,  French  wit — Regency,  red  heels, 
Laimm.  People  laughed  at  him:  but  that  did  not  prevent  his 
success.  Those  who  say  that  in  Paris  ridicule  kills  do  not 
know  Paris:  so  far  from  dying  of  it.  there  are  people  who  live 
on  it:  in  Paris  ridicule  leads  to  everything,  even  to  fame  and 
fortune.  Sylvain  Kohn  was  far  beyond  any  need  to  reckon 
the  good-will  that  every  day  accumulated  to  him  through  his 
Frankfortian  affectations. 

He  spoke  with  a  thick  accent  through  his  nose. 

"Ah!  What  a  surprise!"  he  cried  gaily,  taking  Chris- 
tophe's  hands  in  his  own  clumsy  paws,  with  their  stubby  fingers 
that  looked  as  though  they  were  crammed  into  too  tight  a 
skin.  He  could  not  let  go  of  Christophe's  hands.  ]t  was  as 


16  JEAN-OHRISTOPHE  IX  PARTS 

though  he  were  encountering  his  best  friend.  Christophe  was 
so  staggered  that  lie  wondered  again  if  Kohn  was  not  making 
fun  of  him.  But  Kohn  was  doing  nothing  of  the  kind — -or, 
rather,  if  lie  was  joking,  it  was  no  more  than  usual.  There  was 
no  rancor  about  Kohn:  lie  was  too  clever  for  that.  He  had 
long  ago  forgotten  the  rough  treatment  he  had  suffered  at 
Christophe's  hands:  and  if  ever  he  did  remember  it,  it  did 
not  worry  him.  He  was  delighted  to  have  the  opportunity  of 
showing  his  old  schoolfellow  his  importance  and  his  new  duties, 
and  the  elegance  of  his  Parisian  manners.  He  was  not  lying  in 
expressing  his  surprise:  a  visit  from  Christophe  was  the  last 
thing  in  the  world  that  he  expected:  and  if  he  was  too  worldly- 
wise  not  to  know  that  the  visit  was  of  set  material  purpose, 
he  took  it  as  a  reason  the  more  for  welcoming  him,  as  it  was, 
in  fact,  a  tribute  to  his  power. 

"And  yon  have  come  from  Germany?  How  is  your 
mother?"  he  asked,  with  a  familiarity  which  at  any  other  time 
would  have  annoyed  Christophe,  but  now  gave  him  comfort  in 
the  strange  city. 

"But  how  was  it."  asked  Christophe,  who  was  still  inclined 
to  be  suspicious,  "  that  they  told  me  just  now  that  Jlerr  Kohn 
did  not  belong  here  ?  " 

"  Herr  Kohn  doesn't  belong  here,"  said  Sylvain  Kohn,  laugh- 
ing. "My  name  isn't  Kohn  now.  My  name  is  Hamilton." 

He  broke  off. 

"  Excuse  me."  he  said. 

He  \vent  and  shook  hands  with  a  lady  who  was  passing  and 
smiled  grimacingly.  Then  he  came  back.  He  explained  that 
the  lady  was  a  writer  famous  for  her  voluptuous  and  pas- 
sionate novels.  The  modern  Sappho  had  a  purple  ribbon  on 
her  bosom,  a  full  figure,  bright  golden  hair  round  a  painted 
face:  she  made  a  few  pretentious  remarks  in  a  mannish  fashion 
with  the  accent  of  Franehe-Comte. 

Kohn  plied  Christophe  with  questions.  He  asked  about  all 
the  people  at  home,  and  what  had  become  of  so-and-so,  pluming 
himself  on  the  fact  that  he  remembered  everybody.  Christophe 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  17 

had  forgotten  his  antipathy;  lie  replied  cordially  and  gratefully, 
giving  a  mass  of  detail  about  which  Kohn  cared  nothing  at  all, 
and  presently  he  broke  off  again. 

"  Excuse  me,"  he  said. 

And  he  went  to  greet  another  lady  who  had  come  in. 

"  Dear  me !  "  said  Christophe.  "  Are  there  only  women 
writers  in  France  ?  " 

Kohn  began  to  laugh,  and  said  fatuously : 

"France  is  a  woman,  my  dear  fellow.  If  you  want  to  suc- 
ceed, make  up  to  the  women." 

Christophe  did  not  listen  to  the  explanation,  and  went  on 
with  his  own  story.  To  put  a  stop  to  it,  Kohn  asked : 

"But  how  the  devil  do  you  come  here?" 

"  Ah  !  "  thought  Christophe,  "  he  doesn't  know.  That  is  why 
he  was  so  amiable.  He'll  be  different  when  he  knows." 

He  made  it  a  point  of  honor  to  tell  everything  against  him- 
self: the  brawl  with  the  soldiers,  the  warrant  out  against  him, 
his  flight  from  the  country. 

Kohn  rocked  with  laughter. 

"Bravo!"   he   cried.     "Bravo!     That's   a   good   story!" 

He  shook  Christophe's  hand  warmly.  lie  was  delighted  by 
any  smack  in  the  eye  of  authority:  and  the  story  tickled  him 
the  more  as  he  knew  the  heroes  of  it :  he  saw  the  funny  side 
of  it. 

"I  say,"  he  said,  "it  is  past  twelve.  Will  you  give  me  the 
pleasure  .  .  .?  Lunch  with  me?" 

Christophe  accepted  gratefully.     He  thought : 

"  This  is  a  good  fellow — decidedly  a  good  fellow.  I  was 
mistaken." 

They  went  out  together.  On  the  way  Christophe  put  for- 
ward his  request: 

"  You  see  how  I  am  placed.  T  came  here  to  look  for  work 
— music  lessons — until  T  can  make  my  name.  Could  you  speak 
for  me?" 

"Certainly,"  said  Kohn.  "To  any  one  you  like.  I  know 
everybody  here.  I'm  at  your  service." 


18  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PAEIS 

He  was  glad  to  be  able  to  show  how  important  he  was. 

Christophe  covered  him  with  expressions  of  gratitude.  He 
felt  that  he  was  relieved  of  a  great  weight  of  anxiety. 

At  lunch  he  gorged  with  the  appetite  of  a  man  who  has 
not  broken  fast  for  two  days.  He  tucked  his  napkin  round 
his  neck,  and  ate  with  his  knife.  Kohn-Hamilton  was  horribly 
shocked  by  his  voracity  and  his  peasant  manners.  And  he  was 
hurt,  too,  by  the  small  amount  of  attention  that  his  guest  gave 
to  his  bragging.  He  tried  to  da/zle  him  by  telling  of  his  line 
connections  and  his  prosperity:  but  it  was  no  good:  Christophe 
did  not  listen,  and  bluntly  interrupted  him.  His  tongue  was 
loosed,  and  he  became  familiar.  His  heart  was  full,  and  he 
overwhelmed  Kohn  with  his  simple  confidences  of  his  plans  for 
the  future.  Above  all,  he  exasperated  him  by  insisting  on  tak- 
ing his  hand  across  the  table  and  pressing  it  effusively.  zVnd 
he  brought  him  to  the  pitch  of  irritation  at  last  by  wanting  to 
clink  glasses  in  the  German  fashion,  and,  with  sentimental 
speeches,  to  drink  to  those  at  home  and  to  Valer  Rliein.  Kohn 
saw,  to  his  horror,  that  he  was  on  the  point  of  singing.  The 
people  at  the  next  table  were  casting  ironic  glances  in  their 
direction.  Kohn  made  some  excuse  on  the  score  of  pressing 
business,  and  got  up.  Christophe  clung  to  him:  he  wanted 
to  know  when  he  could  have  a  letter  of  introduction,  and  go 
and  see  some  one,  and  begin  giving  lessons. 

"I'll  see  about  it.  To-day — this  evening,"  said  Kohn.  "I'll 
talk  about  you  at  once.  You  can  be  easy  on  that  score." 

Christophe  insisted. 

"  When  shall  J  know  ?  " 

"  To-morrow   .    .    .   to-morrow   ...    or  the  day  after." 

"Very  well.     I'll  come  back  to-morrow." 

"ATo,  no!"  said  Kohn  quickly.  "I'll  let  you  know.  Don't 
you  worry." 

"Oh!  it's  no  trouble.  Quite  the  contrary.  Eh?  I've 
nothing  else  to  do  in  Paris  in  the  meanwhile." 

"  Good  God !  "  thought  Kohu.  "  Xo,"  he  said  aloud, 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  19 

"  But  I  would  rather  write  to  you.     You  wouldn't  find  me  the 
next  few  days.     Give  me  your  address." 

Christophe  dictated  it. 

"  Good.     I'll  write  you  to-morrow." 

"  To-morrow  ?  " 

"  To-morrow.     You  can  count  on  it." 

He  cut  short  Christophe's  hand-shaking,  and  escaped. 

"  Ugh  !  "  he  thought.     "  What  a  bore !  " 

As  he  went  into  his  office  he  told  the  boy  that  he  would  not 
be  in  when  "  the  German  "  came  to  see  him.  Ten  minutes  later 
he  had  forgotten  him. 

Christophe  went  back  to  his  lair.  He  was  full  of  gentle 
thoughts. 

"  What  a  good  fellow !  What  a  good  fellow !  "  he  thought. 
"  How  unjust  I  was  about  him.  And  he  bears  me  no  ill-will !  " 

He  was  remorseful,  and  he  was  on  the  point  of  writing  to 
tell  Kohn  how  sorry  he  was  to  have  misjudged  him,  and  to  beg 
his  forgiveness  for  all  the  harm  he  had  done  him.  The  tears 
came  to  his  eyes  as  he  thought  of  it.  But  it  was  harder  for 
him  to  write  a  letter  than  a  score  of  music :  and  after  he  had 
cursed  and  cursed  the  pen  and  ink  of  the  hotel — which  were, 
in  fact,  horrible — after  he  had  blotted,  criss-crossed,  and  torn 
up  five  or  six  sheets  of  paper,  he  lost  patience  and  dropped  it. 

The  rest  of  the  day  dragged  wearily :  but  Christophe  was  so 
worn  out  by  his  sleepless  night  and  his  excursions  in  the  morn- 
ing that  at  length  he  dozed  off  in  his  chair.  He  only  woke  up 
in  the  evening,  and  then  he  went  to  bed :  and  he  slept  for  twelve 
hours  on  end. 

Next  day  from  eight  o'clock  on  he  sat  waiting  for  the  prom- 
ised letter.  He  had  no  doubt  of  Kolm's  sincerity.  He  did  not 
go  out,  telling  himself  that  perhaps  Kohn  would  come  round 
by  the  hotel  on  his  way  to  his  otlice.  So  as  not  to  be  out, 
about  midday  he  had  his  lunch  sent  up  from  the  eating-house 
downstairs.  Then  he  sat  waiting  again.  He  was  sure  Kohn 
would  come  on  his  way  back  from  lunch.  lie  paced  up  and 


20  JEAN-CHE1STOPHE  IN  PARIS 

down  his  room,  sat  down,  paced  up  and  down  again,  opened  his 
door  whenever  he  heard  footsteps  on  the  stairs.  He  had  no 
desire  to  go  walking  about  Paris  to  stay  his  anxiety.  He  lay 
down  on  his  bed.  His  thoughts  went  back  and  back  to  his  old 
mother,  who  was  thinking  of  him  too — she  alone  thought  of 
him.  He  had  an  infinite  tenderness  for  her,  and  he  was  re- 
morseful at  having  left  her.  But  he  did  not  write  to  her.  He 
was  waiting  until  he  could  tell  her  that  he  had  found  work. 
In  spite  of  the  love  they  had  for  each  other,  it  would  never  have 
occurred  to  either  of  them  to  write  just  to  tell  their  love :  let- 
ters were  for  things  more  definite  than  that.  He  lay  on  the 
bed  with  his  hands  locked  behind  his  head,  and  dreamed.  Al- 
though his  room  was  away  from  the  street,  the  roar  of  Paris 
invaded  the  silence:  the  house  shook.  Night  came  again,  and 
brought  no  letter. 

Came  another  day  like  unto  the  last. 

On  the  third  day,  exasperated  by  his  voluntary  seclusion, 
Christophe  decided  to  go  out.  But  from  the  impression  of  his 
first  evening  he  was  instinctively  in  revolt  against  Paris.  He 
had  no  desire  to  see  anything:  no  curiosity-  he  was  too  much 
taken  up  with  the  problem  of  his  own  life  to  take  any  pleasure 
in  watching  the  lives  of  others :  and  the  memories  of  lives  past, 
the  monuments  of  a  city,  had  always  left  him  cold.  And  so, 
hardly  had  he  set  foot  out  of  doors,  than,  although  he  had 
made  up  his  mind  not  to  go  near  Kohn  for  a  week,  he  went 
straight  to  his  ollicc. 

The  boy  obeyed  his  orders,  and  said  that  M.  Hamilton  had 
left  Paris  on  business.  Jt  was  a  blow  to  Christophe.  He  gasped 
and  asked  when  M.  Hamilton  \vould  return.  The  boy  replied 
at  random : 

"  In  ten  days." 

Christophe  went  back  utterly  downcast,  and  buried  himself 
in  his  room  during  the  following  days.  He  found  it  impos- 
sible to  work.  His  heart  sank  as  he  saw  that  his  small  supply 
of  money — the  little  sum  that  his  mother  had  sent  him,  care- 
fully wrapped  up  in  a  handkerchief  at  the  bottom  of  his  bag — • 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  21 

was  rapidly  decreasing.  He  imposed  a  severe  regime  on  liiin- 
self.  He  only  went  down  in  the  evening  to  dinner  in  the  little 
pot-house,  where  he  quickly  hecame  known  to  the  frequenters 
of  it  as  the  "  Prussian,"  or  "  Sauerkraut."  With  frightful  effort, 
he  wrote  two  or  three  letters  to  French  musicians  whose  names 
he  knew  hazily.  One  of  them  had  been  dead  for  ten  years. 
He  asked  them  to  be  so  kind  as  to  give  him  a  hearing.  His  spell- 
ing was  wild,  and  his  style  was  complicated  by  those  long  in- 
versions and  ceremonious  formulae  which  are  the  custom  in 
Germany.  He  addressed  his  letters :  "  To  the  Palace  of  the 
Academy  of  France."  The  only  man  to  read  his  gave  it  to  his 
friends  as  a  joke. 

After  a  week  Christophe  went  once  more  to  the  publisher's 
office.  This  time  he  was  in  luck.  He  met  Sylvain  Kohn  go- 
ing out,  on  the  doorstep.  Kohn  made  a  face  as  he  saw  that 
he  was  caught:  but  Christophe  was  so  happy  that  he  did  not 
see  that.  He  took  his  hands  in  his  usual  uncouth  way,  and 
asked  gaily : 

"  You've  been  away  ?     Did  you  have  a  good  time  ?  " 

Kohn  said  that  he  had  had  a  very  good  time,  but  he  did 
not  unbend.  Christophe  went  on : 

"  I  came,  you  know.  .  .  .  They  told  you,  I  suppose?  .  .  . 
Well,  any  news?  You  mentioned  my  name?  What  did  they 
say?" 

Kohn  looked  blank.  Christophe  was  amazed  at  his  frigid 
manner :  he  was  not  the  same  man. 

"  I  mentioned  you,"  said  Kohu :  "  but  I  haven't  heard  yet. 
I  haven't  had  time.  I  have  been  very  busy  since  1  saw  you — 
up  to  my  ears  in  business.  I  doult  know  how  1  can  get 
through.  It  is  appalling.  I  shall  be  ill  with  it  all." 

"  Aren't  you  well  ? "  asked  Christophe  anxiously  and 
solicitously. 

Kohn  looked  at  him  slyly,  and  replied: 

"  Not  at  all  well.  I  don't  know  what's  the  matter,  the  last 
few  days.  I'm  very  unwell." 

"  I'm  so  sorry,"  said  Christophe,  taking  his  arm.     "  Do  be 


22  JEAN-CHPJSTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

careful.  You  must  rest,  I'm  so  sorry  to  have  been  a  bother 
to  you.  You  should  have  told  me.  What  is  the  matter  with 
you,  really  ?  " 

He  took  Kohn's  sham  excuses  so  seriously  that  the  little 
Jew  was  hard  put  to  it  to  hide  his  amusement,  and  disarmed  by 
his  funny  simplicity.  Irony  is  so  dear  a  pleasure  to  the  Jews 
—  (and  a  number  of  Christians  in  Paris  are  Jewish  in  this  re- 
spect)— that  they  are  indulgent  with  bores,  and  even  with 
their  enemies,  if  they  give  them  the  opportunity  of  tasting  it 
at  their  expense.  Besides,  Kohn  was  touched  by  Christophe's 
interest  in  himself.  He  felt  inclined  to  help  him. 

"  I've  got  an  idea/'  he  said.  "  While  you  are  waiting  for 
lessons,  would  you  care  to  do  some  work  for  a  music  publisher  ?  " 

Christophc  accepted  eagerly. 

"  I've  got  the  very  thing,"  said  Kohn.  "  I  know  one  of  the 
partners  in  a  big  firm,  of  music  publishers — Daniel  Hecht.  I'll 
introduce  you.  You'll  see  what  there  is  to  do.  I  don't  know 
anything  about  it,  you  know.  But  Hecht  is  a  real  musician. 
You'll  get  on  with  him  all  right." 

They  parted  until  the  following  day.  Kohn  was  not  sorry 
to  be  rid  of  Christophe  by  doing  him  this  service. 

Next  day  Christophe  fetched  Kohn  at  his  office.  On  his 
advice,  he  had  brought  several  of  his  compositions  to  show 
to  Hccht.  They  found  him  in  his  music-shop  near  the  Opera. 
Hecht  did  not  put  himself  out  when  they  went  in:  lie  coldly 
held  out  two  fingers  to  take  Kohn's  hand,  did  not  reply  to  Chris- 
tophe's ceremonious  bow,  and  at  Kohn's  request  he  took  them 
into  the  next  room.  He  did  not  ask  them  to  sit  down.  He 
stood  with  his  back  to  the  empty  chimney-place,  and  stared  at 
the  wall. 

Daniel  Hecht  was  a  man  of  forty,  tall,  cold,  correctly 
dressed,  a  marked  Phenician  type;  he  looked  clever  and  dis- 
agreeable: there  was  a  scowl  on  his  face:  he  had  black  hair 
and  a  beard  like  that  of  an  Assyrian  King,  long  and  square-cut. 
He  hardly  ever  looked  straight  forward,  and  he  had  an  icy 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  23 

brutal  way  of  talking  which  sounded  insulting  even  when  he 
only  said  "  Good-day."  His  insolence  was  more  apparent  than 
real.  No  doubt  it  emanated  from  a  contemptuous  strain  in  his 
character:  but  really  it  was  more  a  part  of  the  automatic  and 
formal  element  in  him.  Jews  of  that  sort  are  quite  common: 
opinion  is  not  kind  towards  them :  that  hard  stiffness  of  theirs 
is  looked  upon  as  arrogance,  while  it  is  often  in  reality  the  out- 
come of  an  incurable  boorishness  in  body  and  soul. 

Sylvain  Kohn  introduced  his  protege,  in  a  bantering,  pre- 
tentious voice,  with  exaggerated  praises.  Christophe  was 
abashed  by  his  reception,  and  stood  shifting  from  one  foot 
to  the  other,  holding  his  manuscripts  and  his  hat  in  his  hand. 
When  Kohn  had  finished,  Hecht,  who  up  to  then  had  seemed  to 
be  unaware  of  Christophe's  existence,  turned  towards  him  dis- 
dainfully, and,  without  looking  at  him,  said : 

"  Krafft  .  .  .  Christophe  Krafft.  .  .  .  Xever  heard  the 
name." 

To  Christophe  it  was  as  though  he  had  been  struck,  full  in 
the  chest.  The  blood  rushed  to  his  cheeks,  lie  replied  angrily: 

"  You'll  hear  it  later  on." 

Hecht  took  no  notice,  and  went  on  imperturbably,  as  though 
Christophe  did  not  exist: 

"  Krafft   ,    .    .   no,  never  heard  it." 

He  was  one  of  those  people  for  whom  not  to  be  known  to 
them  is  a  mark  against  a  man. 

He  went  on  in  German : 

"And  you  come  from  the  Rhine-land?  .  .  .  It's  wonder- 
ful how  many  people  there  are  there  who  dabble  in  music! 
But  I  don't  think  there  is  a  man  among  them  who  has  any 
claim  to  be  a  musician." 

He  meant  it  as  a  joke,  not  as  an  insult :  but  Christoplie  did 
not  take  it  so.  He  would  have  replied  in  kind  if  Kohn  had 
not  anticipated  him. 

"Oh,  come,  come!"  he  said  to  Hecht.  "You  must  do  me 
the  justice  to  admit  that  1  know  nothing  at  all  about  it." 

"That's  to  your  credit,"  replied  Hecht. 


24  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PAKTS 

"  If  I  am  to  be  no  musician  in  order  to  please  you."  said 
Christophe  dryly,  "  I  am  sorry,  but  I'm  not  that." 

Hecht,  still  looking  aside,  went  on,  as  indifferently  as  ever. 

"You  have  written  music?  What  have  you  written?  Lieder, 
I  suppose  ?  " 

"Lieder,,  two  symphonies,  symphonic  poems,  quartets,  piano 
suites,  theater  music/''  said  Christophe,  boiling. 

"  People  write  a  great  deal  in  Germany,"  said  Hecht,  with 
scornful  politeness. 

It  made  him  all  the  more  suspicious  of  the  newcomer  to 
think  that  he  had  written  so  many  works,  and  that  he.  Daniel 
Hecht,  had  not  heard  of  them. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  I  might  perhaps  find  work  for  you  as 
you  are  recommended  by  my  friend  Hamilton.  At  present  we 
are  making  a  collection,  a  '  Library  for  Young  People/  in 
which  we  are  publishing  some  easy  pianoforte  pieces.  Could 
you  '  simplify'  the  Carnival  of  Schumann,  and  arrange  it  for  six 
and  eight  hands?" 

Christophe  was  staggered. 

"  And  you  offer  that  to  me,  to  me — me   .    .    .  ?  " 

His  naive  "Me"  delighted  Kobn :  but  Hecht  was  offended. 

"  1  don't  see  that  there  is  anything  surprising  in  that."  he 
said.  "It  is  not  such  easy  work  as  all  that!  If  you  think  it 
too  easy,  so  much  the  better.  We'll  see  about  that  later  on. 
You  tell  me  you  are  a  good  musician.  I  must  believe  you. 
But  I've  never  heard  of  you." 

He  thought  to  himself: 

"  If  one  were  to  believe  all  these  young  sparks,  they  would 
knock  the  shilling  out  of  Johannes  Brahms  himself." 

Ohristophe  made  no  reply — (for  he  had  vowed  to  hold  him- 
self in  check) — clapped  his  hat  on  his  bead,  and  turned  towards 
the  door.  Kohn  stopped  him.  laughing: 

"Wait,  wait!"  lie  said.  And  be  turned  lo  Hecht:  "'He  has 
brought  some  of  his  work  to  give  you  an  idea." 

"Ah!"  said  Hecht  warily.  "'Very  well,  then:  let  us  see 
them/' 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  25 

Without  a  word  Christophe  held  out  his  manuscripts.     Hccht  . 
cast  his  eyes  over  them  carelessly. 

"What's  this?  A  suite  for  piano  .  .  .  (reading):  A  Day. 
...  Ah!  Always  program  music!  ..." 

In  spite  of  his  apparent  indifference  he  was  reading  care- 
fully. He  was  an  excellent  musician,  and  knew  his  job :  he 
knew  nothing  outside  it:  with  the  iirst  bar  or  two  he  gauged 
his  man.  He  was  silent  as  he  turned  over  the  pages  with  a 
scornful  air:  he  was  struck  by  the  talent  revealed  in  them: 
but  his  natural  reserve  and  his  vanity,  piqued  by  Christophe's 
manner,  kept  him  from  showing  anything.  He  went  on  to  the 
end  in  silence,  not  missing  a  note. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  in  a  patronizing  tone  of  voice,  "  they're  well 
enough." 

Violent  criticism  would  have  hurt  Christophe  less. 

"  I  don't  need  to  be  told  that,"  he  said  irritably. 

"  I  fancy,"  said  Hecht,  "  that  you  showed  me  them  for  me 
to  say  what  J  thought." 

"  Not  at  all." 

"Then,"  said  Hecht  coldly,  "I  fail  to  see  what  you  have 
come  for." 

"I  came  to  ask  for  work,  and  nothing  else." 

"1  have  nothing  to  offer  you  for  the  time  being,  except  what 
I  told  you.  And  I'm  not  sure  of  that.  J  said  it  was  possible, 
that's  all." 

"And  you  have  no  other  work  to  offer  a  musician  like  my- 
self?" 

"A  musician  like  you?"  said  I  Fee-lit  ironically  and  cuttingly. 
"Other  musicians  at  least  as  good  as  yourself  bave  not 
thought  the  work  beneath  their  dignity.  There  are  men  whose 
names  I  could  give  you,  men  who  are  now  verv  well  known  in 
Paris,  have  been  very  grateful  to  me  for  it." 

"Then  they  must  have  been — swine!"  bellowed  Christophe. 
—  (He  had  already  learned  certain  of  the  most  useful  words  in 
the  French  language)—"  You  are  wrong  if  von  think  you  have 
to  do  with  a  mail  of  that  kidney.  Do  von  think  you  can  take 


26  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  TX  PARTS 

me  in  with  looking  anywhere  but  at  me,  and  clipping  your 
words?  You  didn't  even  deign  to  acknowledge  my  bow  when 
I  came  in.  ...  But  what  the  hell  are  you  to  treat  me  like 
that?  Are  you  even  a  musician?  Have  you  ever  written  any- 
thing? .  .  .  And  you  pretend  to  teach  me  how  to  write— 
me.  to  whom  writing  is  life!  .  .  .  And  you  can  find  nothing 
better  to  offer  me,  when  you  have  read  my  music,  than  a 
hashing  up  of  great  musicians,  a  filthy  scrabbling  over  their 
works  to  turn  them  into  parlor  tricks  for  little  girls !  .  .  . 
You  go  to  your  Parisians  who  are  rotten  enough  to  be  taught 
their  work  by  yon  !  I'd  rather  die  first !  " 

It  was  impossible  to  stem  the  torrent  of  his  words. 

Hecht  said  icily : 

"  Take  it  or  leave  it." 

Christophe  went  out  and  slammed  the  doors.  Hecht 
shrugged,  and  said  to  Sylvain  Kohn,  who  was  laughing: 

"  He  will  come  to  it  like  the  rest." 

At  heart  he  valued  Christophe.  He  was  clever  enough  to 
feel  not  only  the  worth  of  a  piece  of  work,  but  also  the  worth 
of  a  man.  Behind  Christophe's  outburst  he  had  marked  a 
force.  And  he  knew  its  rarity — in  the  world  of  art  more  than 
anywhere  else.  But  his  vanity  was  rutlled  by  it:  nothing  would 
ever  induce  him  to  admit  himself  in  the  wrong.  He  desired 
loyally  to  be  just  to  Christophe,  but  he  could  not  do  it  unless 
Cliristophc  came  and  groveled  to  him.  He  expected  Chris- 
tophe to  return:  his  melancholy  skepticism  and  his  experience 
of  men  had  told  him  how  inevitably  the  will  is  weakened  and 
worn  down  by  poverty. 

Christophe  went  home.  Anger  had  given  place  to  despair. 
He  felt  that  he  was  lost.  The  frail  prop  on  which  he  had 
counted  had  failed  him.  He  had  no  doubt  but  that  he  had 
made  a  deadly  enemy,  not  only  of  Ilecht,  but  of  Kohn,  who  had 
introduced  him.  He  was  in  absolute  solitude  in  a  hostile  city. 
Outside  Diener  and  Kohn  he  knew  no  one.  His  friend  Corinne. 
the  beautiful  actress  whom  he  had  met  in  Germany,,  was  not 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  27 

in  Paris :  she  was  still  touring  abroad,  in  America,,  this  time 
on  her  own  account:  the  papers  published  clamatory  descrip- 
tions of  her  travels.  As  for  the  little  French  governess  whom 
he  had  unwittingly  robbed  of  her  situation, — the  thought  of  her 
had  long  filled  him  with  remorse — how  often  had  he  vowed 
that  he  would  find  her  when  he  reached  Paris.1  But  now  that 
he  was  in  Paris  he  found  that  he  had  forgotten  one  important 
thing:  her  name.  He  could  not  remember  it.  He  could  only 
recollect  her  Christian  name:  Antoinette.  And  then,  even  if  he 
remembered,  how  was  he  to  find  a  poor  little  governess  in  that 
ant-heap  of  human  beings  ? 

He  had  to  set  to  work  as  soon  as  possible  to  find  a  liveli- 
hood. He  had  five  francs  left.  In  spite  of  his  dislike  of  him, 
he  forced  himself  to  ask  the  innkeeper  if  he  did  not  know  of 
anybody  in  the  neighborhood  to  whom  he  could  give  music- 
lessons.  The  innkeeper,  who  had  no  great  opinion  of  a  lodger 
who  only  ate  once  a  day  and  spoke  German,  lost  what  respect 
he  had  for  him  when  he  heard  that  he  was  only  a  musician. 
He  was  a  Frenchman  of  the  old  school,  and  music  was  to  him 
an  idler's  job.  He  scoffed : 

"  The  piano !  .  .  .  I  don't  know.  You  strum  the  piano ! 
Congratulations !  .  .  .  But  'tis  a  queer  thing  to  take  to  that 
trade  as  a  matter  of  taste !  "When  I  hear  music,  it's  just  for 
all  the  world  like  listening  to  the  rain.  .  .  .  But  perhaps 
you  might  teach  me.  "What  do  you  say,  you  fellows?"  he 
cried,  turning  to  some  fellows  who  were  drinking. 

They  laughed  loudly. 

"  It's  a  fine  trade,"  said  one  of  them.  "  Xot  dirty  work. 
And  the  ladies  like  it." 

Christophe  did  not  rightly  understand  the  French  or  the 
jest:  he  floundered  for  his  words:  he  did  not  know  whether  to 
be  angry  or  not.  The  innkeeper's  wife  took  pity  on  him: 

"  Come,  come,  Philippe,  you're  not  serious,"  she  said  to  her 
husband.  "  All  the  same,"  she  went  on.  turning  to  Christophe, 
"  there  is  some  one  who  might  do  for  you." 

1  See  Jean-CJiristophe — I :   "  Revolt." 


28  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

"Who?"  asked  her  husband. 

"  The  Grasset  girl.     Yoa  know,  they've  hought  a  piano." 

"  All !     Those  stuck-up  folk  !     So  tliey  have." 

They  told  Christophe  that  the  girl  in  question  was  the 
(laughter  of  a  butcher:  her  parents  were  trying  to  make  a  lady 
of  her;  they  would  perhaps  like  her  to  have  lessons,  if  only 
for  the  sake  of  making  people  talk.  The  innkeeper's  wife 
promised  to  see  to  it. 

Next  day  she  told  Christophe  that  the  butcher's  wife  would 
like  to  see  him.  He  went  to  her  house,  and  found  her  in  the 
shop,  surrounded  with  great  pieces  of  meat.  She  was  a  pretty, 
rather  florid  woman.,  and  she  smiled  sweetly,  but  stood  on  her 
dignity  when  she  heard  why  he  had  come.  Quite  abruptly  she 
came  to  the  question  of  payment,  and  said  quickly  that  she 
did  not  wish  to  give  much,  because  the  piano  is  quite  an  agree- 
able thing,  but  not  necessary:  she  offered  him  fifty  centimes  an 
hour.  In  any  case,  she  would  not  pay  more  than  four  francs 
a  week.  After  that  she  asked  Christophe  a  little  doubtfully  if 
he  knew  much  about  music.  She  was  reassured,  and  became 
more  amiable  when  he  told  her  that  not  only  did  he  know 
about  music,  but  wrote  it  into  the  bargain:  that  nattered  her 
vanity:  it  would  be  a  good  thing  to  spread  about  the  neigh- 
borhood that  her  daughter  was  taking  lessons  with  a  com- 
poser. 

Next  day,  when  Christophe  found  himself  sitting  by  the 
piano — a  horrible  instrument,  bought  second-hand,  which 
sounded  like  a  guitar — with  the  butcher's  little  daughter,  whose 
short,  stubby  fingers  fumbled  with  the  keys;  who  was  unable 
to  tell  one  note  from  another;  who  was  bored  to  tears;  who 
began  at  once  to  yawn  in  his  face;  and  he  had  to  submit  to 
the  mothers  superintendence,  and  to  her  conversation,  and  to 
her  ideas  on  music  and  the  teaching  of  music — then  he  felt  so 
miserable,  so  wretchedly  humiliated,  that  he  had  not  even  the 
strength  to  be  angry  about  it.  lie  relapsed  into  a  state  of 
despair:  there  were  evenings  when  he  could  not  eat.  If  in  a 
few  weeks  lie  had  fallen  so  low.,  when'  would  he  end?  What 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  29 

good  was  it  to  have  rebelled  against  Hecht's  offer?  The  thing 
to  which  he  had  submitted  was  even  more  degrading. 

One  evening,  as  he  sat  in  his  room,  he  could  not  restrain  his 
tears:  he  flung  himself  on  his  knees  by  his  bed  and  prayed. 
...  To  whom  did  he  pray?  To  whom  could  he  pray?  He 
did  not  believe  in  God ;  he  believed  that  there  was  no  God.  .  .  . 
But  he  had  to  pray — he  had  to  pray  within  his  soul.  Only  the 
mean  of  spirit  never  need  to  pray.  They  never  know  the  need 
that  comes  to  the  strong  in  spirit  of  taking  refuge  within  the 
inner  sanctuary  of  themselves.  As  he  left  behind  him  the 
humiliations  of  the  day,  in  the  vivid  silence  of  his  heart  Chris- 
tophe  felt  the  presence  of  his  eternal  Being,  of  his  God.  The 
waters  of  his  wretched  life  stirred  and  shifted  above  Him  and 
never  touched  Him :  what  was  there  in  common  between  that 
and  Him?  All  the  sorrows  of  the  world  rushing  on  to  destruc- 
tion dashed  against  that  rock.  Christophe  heard  the  blood  beat- 
ing in  his  veins,  beating  like  an  inward  voice,  crying: 

"Eternal   ...   1   am    ...    1  am.    ..." 

Well  did  he  know  that  voice :  as  long  as  he  could  remember 
he  had  heard  it.  Sometimes  he  forgot  it:  often  for  months  to- 
gether he  would  lose  consciousness  of  its  mighty  monotonous 
rhythm:  but  he  knew  that  it  was  there,  that  it  never  ceased,  like 
the  ocean  roaring  in  the  night.  In  the  music  of  it  he  found 
once  more  the  same  energy  that  he  gained  from  it  whenever 
he  bathed  in  its  waters.  He  rose  to  his  feet.  He  was  fortilied. 
Xo :  the  hard  life  that  he  led  contained  nothing  of  which  he 
need  be  ashamed:  he  could  eat  the  bread  he  earned,  and  never 
blush  for  it:  it  was  for  those  who  made  him  earn  it  at  such  a 
price  to  blush  and  be  ashamed.  Patience!  Patience!  The 
time  would  come.  .  .  . 

But  next  day  he  began  to  lose  patience  again :  and,  in  spite 
of  all  his  efforts,  he  did  at  last  explode  angrily,  one  day  during 
a  lesson,  at  the  silly  little  ninny,  who  had  been  maddeningly  im- 
pertinent and  laughed  at  his  accent,  and  had  taken  a  malu-ious 
delight  in  doing  exactly  the  opposite  of  what  he  told  her. 
The  girl  screamed  in  response  to  Christophe's  angry  shouts. 


30  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

She  was  frightened  and  enraged  at  a  man  whom  she  paid  dar- 
ing to  show  her  no  respect.  She  declared  that  he  had  struck 
her — (Christophe  had  shaken  her  arm  rather  roughly).  Her 
mother  bounced  in  on  them  like  a  Fury,  and  covered  her 
daughter  with  kisses  and  Christophe  with  abuse.  The  butcher 
also  appeared,  and  declared  that  he  would  not  suffer  any  in- 
fernal Prussian  to  take  upon  himself  to  touch  his  daughter. 
Furious,  pale  with  rage,  itching  to  choke  the  life  out  of  the 
butcher  and  his  wife  and  daughter,  Christophe  rushed  away. 
His  host  and  hostess,  seeing  him  come  in  in  an  abject  condi- 
tion, had  no  difficulty  in  worming  the  story  out  of  him :  and 
it  fed  the  malevolence  with  which  they  regarded  their  neigh- 
bors. But  by  the  evening  the  whole  neighborhood  was  saying 
that  the  German  was  a  brute  and  a  child-beater. 

Christophe  made  fresh  advances  to  the  music-vendors:  but 
in  vain.  He  found  the  French  lacking  in  cordiality:  and  the 
whirl  and  confusion  of  their  perpetual  agitation  crushed  him. 
They  seemed  to  him  to  live  in  a  state  of  anarchy,  directed  by  a 
cunning  and  despotic  bureaucracy. 

One  evening,  he  was  wandering  along  the  boulevards,  dis- 
couraged by  the  futility  of  his  efforts,  when  he  saw  Sylvain 
Kohn  coming  from  the  opposite  direction.  He  was  convinced 
that  they  had  quarreled  irrevocably  and  looked  away  and  tried 
to  pass  unnoticed.  But  Kohn  called  to  him : 

"  What  became  of  you  after  that  great  day  ?  "  he  asked  with 
a  laugh.  "  I've  been  wanting  to  look  you  up,  but  I  lost  your 
address.  .  .  .  Good  Lord,  my  dear  fellow,  I  didn't  know 
you!  You  were  epic:  that's  what  you  were,  epic!" 

Christophe  stared  at  him.  He  was  surprised  and  a  little 
ashamed. 

"  You're  not  angry  with  me  ?  " 

"  Angry?     What  an  idea  !  " 

So  far  from  being  angry,  he  had  been  delighted  with  the 
way  in  which  Christophe  had  trounced  Hecht:  it  had  been  a 
treat  to  him.  It  really  mattered  nothing  to  him  whether  Chris- 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  31 

tophe  or  Hecht  was  right :  he  only  regarded  people  as  source  of 
entertainment:  and  he  saw  in  Christophe  a  spring  of  high 
comedy,  which  he  intended  to  exploit  to  the  full. 

"  You  should  have  come  to  see  me,"  he  went  on.  "  I  was 
expecting  you.  What  are  you  doing  this  evening?  Come  to 
dinner.  1  won't  let  you  off.  Quite  informal :  just  a  few  artists : 
we  meet  once  a  fortnight.  You  should  know  these  people. 
Come.  I'll  introduce  you." 

In  vain  did  Christophe  beg  to  he  excused  on  the  score  of  his 
clothes.  Sylvain  Kohn  carried  him  off. 

They  entered  a  restaurant  on  one  of  the  houlevards,  and 
went  up  to  the  second  floor.  Christophe  found  himself  among 
about  thirty  young  men.  whose  ages  ranged  from  twenty  to 
thirty-five,  and  they  were  all  engaged  in  animated  discussion. 
Kohn  introduced  him  as  a  man  who  had  just  escaped  from  a 
German  prison.  They  paid  no  attention  to  him  and  did  not 
stop  their  passionate  discussion,  and  Kohn  plunged  into  it  at 
once. 

Christophe  was  shy  in  this  select  company,  and  said  nothing : 
but  he  was  all  ears.  He  could  not  grasp — he  had  great  dif- 
ficulty in  following  the  volubility  of  the  French — what  great 
artistic  interests  were  in  dispute.  He  listened  attentively,  but 
he  could  only  make  out  words  like  "trust/'  "monopoly,"  ''fall 
in  prices,"  "  receipts,"  mixed  up  with  phrases  like  ''  the  dignity 
of  art,"  and  the  "  rights  of  the  author."  And  at  last  he  saw  that 
they  were  talking  business.  A  certain  number  of  authors,  it 
appeared,  belonged  to  a  syndicate  and  were  angry  about  certain 
attempts  which  had  been  made  to  float  a  rival  concern,  which, 
according  to  them,  would  dispute  their  monopoly  of  exploita- 
tion. The  defection  of  certain  of  their  members  who  had 
found  it  to  their  advantage  to  go  over  hag  and  baggage  to  the 
rival  house  had  roused  them  to  the  wildest  fury.  They  talked 
of  decapitation.  "...  Burked.  .  .  .  -Treachery.  .  .  . 
Shame.  .  .  .  Sold.  ..." 

Others  did  not  worry  about  the  living:  they  were  incensed 
against  the  dead,  whose  sales  without  royalties  choked  up  the 


32  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IX  PARIS 

market.  It  appeared  that  the  works  of  De  Musset  had  just 
become  public  property,  and  were  selling  far  too  well.  And 
so  they  demanded  that  the  State  should  give  them  rigorous 
protection,  and  heavily  tax  the  masterpieces  of  the  past  so  as 
to  check  their  circulation  at  reduced  prices,  which,  they  de- 
clared, was  unfair  competition  with  the  work  of  living  artists. 

They  stopped  each  other  to  hear  the  takings  of  such  and 
such  a  theater  on  the  preceding  evening.  They  all  went  into 
ecstasies  over  the  fortune  of  a  veteran  dramatist,  famous  in 
two  continents — a  man  whom  they  despised,  though  they  en- 
vied him  even  more.  From  the  incomes  of  authors  they  passed 
to  those  of  the  critics.  They  talked  of  the  sum — (pure  cal- 
umny, no  doubt) — received  by  one  of  their  colleagues  for  every 
first  performance  at  one  of  the  theaters  on  the  boulevards,  the 
consideration  being  that  he  should  speak  well  of  it.  He  was 
an  honest  man:  having  made  his  bargain  he  stuck  to  it:  but  his 
great  secret  lay — (so  they  said) — in  so  eulogizing  the  piece  that 
it  would  be  taken  oir'  as  quickly  as  possible  so  that  there  might  be 
many  new  plays.  The  tale — (or  the  account) — caused  laughter, 
but  nobody  was  surprised. 

And  mingled  with  all  that  talk  they  threw  out  fine  phrases : 
they  talked  of  "  poetry  "  and  "  art  for  art's  sake."  But  through 
it  all  there  rang  "art  for  money's  sake";  and  this  jobbing 
spirit,  newly  come  into  French  literature,  scandalized  Chris- 
tophe.  As  he  understood  nothing  at  all  about  their  talk  of 
money  he  had  given  it  up.  But  then  they  began  to  talk  of  let- 
ters, or  rather  of  men  of  letters. — Christophe  pricked  up  his 
ears  as  he  heard  the  name  of  Victor  Hugo. 

They  were  debating  whether  he  had  been  cuckolded :  they 
argued  at  length  about  the  love  of  Sainte-Beuve  and  Madame 
Hugo.  And  then  they  turned  to  the  lovers  of  (Jeorge  Sand 
and  their  respective  merits.  That  was  the  chief  occupation  of 
criticism  just  then:  when  tliev  had  ransacked  the  houses  of 
great  men,,  rummaged  through  the  closets,  turned  out  the 
drawers,  ransacked  the  cupboards,  they  burrowed  down  to  their 
inmost  lives.  The  attitude  of  Monsieur  de  Lauzuii  lying  flat 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  33 

under  the  bed  of  the  King  and  Madame  do  Montespan  was 
the  attitude  of  criticism  in  its  cult  of  history  and  truth — 
(everybody  just  then,  of  course,  made  a  cult  of  truth).  These 
young  men  were  subscribers  to  the  cult :  no  detail  was  too  small 
for  them  in  their  search  for  truth.  They  applied  it  to  the  art 
of  the  present  as  well  as  to  -that  of  the  past :  and  they  analyzed 
the  private  life  of  certain  of  the  more  notorious  of  their  contem- 
poraries with  the  same  passion  for  exactness.  It  was  a  queer 
thing  that  they  were  possessed  of  the  smallest  details  of  scenes 
which  are  usually  enacted  without  witnesses.  It  was  really  as 
though  the  persons  concerned  had  been  the  first  to  give  exact 
information  to  the  public  out  of  their  great  devotion  to  the 
truth. 

Christophe  was  more  and  more  embarrassed  and  tried  to  talk 
to  his  neighbors  of  something  else;  but  nobody  listened  to  him. 
At  first  they  asked  him  a  few  vague  questions  about  Germany — 
questions  which,  to  his  amazement,  displayed  the  almost  com- 
plete ignorance  of  these  distinguished  and  apparently  cultured 
young  men  concerning  the  most  elementary  things  of  their  work 
— literature  and  art — outside  Paris;  at  most  they  had  heard 
of  a  few  great  names:  Hauptmann,  Sudermann,  Liebermann, 
Strauss  (David,  Johann,  Richard),  and  they  picked  their  way 
gingerly  among  them  for  fear  of  getting  mixed.  It'  they  had 
questioned  Christophe  it  was  from  politeness  rather  than  from 
curiosity:  they  had  no  curiosity:  they  hardly  seemed  to  notice 
his  replies :  and  they  hurried  back  at  once  to  the  Parisian  topics 
which  were  regaling  the  rest  of  the  company. 

Christophe  timidly  tried  to  talk  of  music.  Xot  one  of  these 
men  of  letters  was  a  musician.  At  heart  they  considered  music 
an  inferior  art.  But  the  growing  success  of  music  during  the 
last  few  years  had  made  them  secretly  uneasy:  and  since  it  was 
the  fashion  they  pretended  to  be  interested  in  it.  They  t'rotlu'd 
especially  about  a  new  opera  and  declared  that  music-  dated 
from  its  performance,  or  at  least  the  new  era  in  music.  This 
idea  made  things  easy  for  their  ignorance  and  snobbishness,  for 
it  relieved  them  of  the  necessity  of  knowing  anything  else. 


34  JEAX-CHRISTOPHE  IX  PARIS 

The  author  of  the  opera,  a  Parisian,  whose  name  Christophe 
heard  for  the  first  time,  had,  said  some,  made  a  clean  sweep 
of  all  that  had  gone  before  him,  cleaned  up,  renovated,  and 
recreated  music.  Christophe  started  at  that.  He  asked 
nothing  better  than  to  believe  in  genius.  Pmt  such  a  genius  as 
that,  a  genius  who  had  at  one  swoop  wiped  out  the  past.  .  .  . 
Good  heavens!  He  must  be  a  lusty  lad  :  how  the  devil  had  he 
done  it?  He  asked  for  particulars.  The  others,  who  would 
have  been  hard  put  to  it  to  give  any  explanation  and  were 
disconcerted  by  Christophe,  referred  him  to  the  musician 
of  the  company,  Theophile  Goujart.  the  great  musical  critic, 
who  began  at  once  to  talk  of  sevenths  and  ninths.  Goujart 
knew  music  much  as  Sganarelle  knew  Latin.  .  .  . 

"...    You  don't  know  Latin  ?  " 

"  No." 

(With  cnth-usi(ism)  "  Cabricias,  arci  tliuram,  catalamus, 
singular  Her  .  .  .  bonus,  bona,  bonum." 

Finding  himself  with  a  man  who  "  understood  Latin "  he 
prudently  look  refuge  in  the  chatter  of  esthetics.  From  that 
impregnable  fortress  he  began  to  bombard  Beethoven,  Wagner, 
and  classical  art,  which  was  not  before  the  house  (but  in  France 
it  is  impossible  to  praise  an  artist  without  making  as  an  offer- 
ing a  holocaust  of  all  those  who  are  unlike  him).  He  an- 
nounced the  advent  of  a  new  art  which  trampled  under  foot 
the  conventions  of  the  past.  He  spoke  of  a  ne\v  musical  lan- 
guage which  had  been  discovered  by  the  Christopher  Columbus 
of  Parisian  music,  and  he  said  it  made  an  end  of  the  language 
of  the  classics:  that  was  a  dead  language. 

Christophe  reserved  his  opinion  of  this  reforming  genius  to 
wait  until  he  had  seen  his  work  before  he  said  anything:  but 
in  spite  of  himself  lie  felt  an  instinctive  distrust  of  this  musical 
Baal  to  whom  all  music  was  sacrificed,  lie  was  scandalized 
to  hear  the  Masters  so  spoken  of:  and  he  forgot  that  he  had 
said  much  the  same  sort  of  thing  in  Germany.  He  who  at 
home  had  thought  himself  a  revolutionary  in  art,  he  who  had 
scandalized  others  by  the  boldness  of  his  judgments  and  the 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  35 

frankness  of  his  expressions,  felt,  as  soon  as  he  heard  these 
words  spoken  in  France,  that  he  was  at  heart  a  conservative. 
He  tried  to  argue,  and  was  tactless  enough  to  speak,  not  like  a 
man  of  culture,  who  advances  arguments  without  exposition, 
but  as  a  professional,  bringing  out  disconcerting  facts.  lit.' 
did  not  hesitate  to  plunge  into  technical  explanations:  and  his 
voice,  as  he  talked,  struck  a  note  which  was  well  calculated 
to  oifend  the  ears  of  a  company  of  superior  persons  to  whom 
his  arguments  and  the  vigor  with  which  he  supported  them 
were  alike  ridiculous.  The  critic  tried  to  demolish  him  with 
an  attempt  at  wit,  and  to  end  the  discussion  which  had  shown 
Christophe  to  his  stupefaction  that  he  had  to  deal  with  a  man 
who  did  not  in  the  least  know  what  he  was  talking  about.  And 
so  they  came  to  the  opinion  that  the  German  was  pedantic  and 
superannuated:  and  without  knowing  anything  about  it  they 
decided  that  his  music  was  detestable.  But  Christophe's  bizarre 
personality  had  made  an  impression  on  the  company  of  young 
men,  and  with  their  quickness  in  seizing  on  the  ridiculous  they 
had  marked  the  awkward,  violent  gestures  of  his  thin  arms 
with  their  enormous  hands,  and  the  furious  glances  that  darted 
from  his  eyes  as  his  voice  rose  to  a  falsetto.  Sylvain  Kohn  saw 
to  it  that  his  friends  wen1  kept  amused. 

Conversation  had  deserted  literature  in  favor  of  women.  As 
a  matter  of  fact  they  were  only  two  aspects  of  the  same  subject: 
for  their  literature  was  concerned  with  nothing  but  women, 
and  their  women  were  concerned  with  nothing  but  literature, 
they  were  so  much  taken  up  with  the  affairs  and  men  of  letters. 

Thev  spoke  of  one  good  lady,  well  known  in  Parisian  society, 
who  had.  it  was  said,  just  married  her  lover  to  her  daughter, 
the  better  to  keep  him.  Christophe  souirmed  in  his  chair,  and 
tactlessly  made  a  face  of  disgust.  Kohn  saw  it.  and  nudged  his 
neighbor  and  pointed  out  that  the  subject  seemed  to  excite 
the  Clei-man — thaf.  no  doubt  he  wa<  longing  to  know  the  lady. 
Christophe  blushed,  muttered  angrily,  and  finally  said  hotly 
that  such  women  ought  to  he  whipped.  His  proposition  was 
received  with  a  shout  of  Homeric  laughter:  and  Sylvain  Kohn 


36  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  TX  PARIS 

cooingly  protested  that  no  man  should  touch  a  woman,  even 
with  a  flower,  etc.,  etc.  (In  Paris  he  was  the  very  Knight  of 
Love.)  Christophe  replied  that  a  woman  of  that  sort  was 
neither  more  nor  less  than  a  hitch,  and  that  there  was  only  one 
remedy  for  vicious  dogs:  the  whip.  They  roared  at  him. 
Christophe  said  that  their  gallantry  was  hypocritical,  and  that 
those  who  talked  most  of  their  respect  for  women  were  those 
who  possessed  the  least  of  it :  and  he  protested  against  these 
scandalous  tales.  They  replied  that  there  was  no  scandal  in 
it,  and  that  it  was  only  natural :  and  they  were  all  agreed 
that  the  heroine  of  the  story  was  not  only  a  charming  woman, 
but  the  Woman,  par  excellence.  The  German  waxed  indignant. 
Sylvain  Kolm  asked  him  slyly  what  he  thought  Woman  was 
like.  Christophe  felt  that  they  were  pulling  his  leg  and  laying 
a  trap  for  him :  but  he  fell  straight  into  it  in  the  violent  ex- 
pression of  his  convictions.  lie  began  to  explain  his  ideas  on 
love  to  these  bantering  Parisians.  He  could  not  find  his  words, 
floundered  about  after  them,  and  finally  fished  up  from  the 
phrases  he  remembered  such  impossible  words,  such  enormities, 
that  he  had  all  his  hearers  rocking  with  laughter,  while  all  the 
time  he  was  perfectly  and  admirably  serious,  never  bothered 
about  them,  and  was  touch  ingly  impervious  to  their  ridicule:  for 
he  could  not  help  seeing  that  they  were  making  fun  of  him. 
At  last  he  tied  himself  up  in  a  sentence,  could  not  extricate 
himself,  brought  his  fist  down  on  the  table,  and  was  silent. 

They  tried  to  bring  him  back  into  the  discussion:  he  scowled 
and  did  not  flinch,  but  sat  with  his  elbows  on  the  table, 
ashamed  and  irritated.  He  did  not  open  his  lips  again,  ex- 
cept to  eat  and  drink,  until  the  dinner  was  over.  Ife  drank 
enormously,  unlike  the  Frenchmen,  who  only  sipped  their  wine. 
His  neighbor  wickedly  encouraged  him.  and  went  on  filling  his 
glass,  which  he  emptied  absently.  P>ut.  although  he  was  not 
used  to  these  excesses,  especially  after  the  wfeLs  of  privation 
through  which  he  had  passed,  he  took  his  liquor  well,  and  did 
riot  cut  so  ridiculous  a  figure  as  the  others  hoped.  He  sat  there 
lost  in  thought:  they  paid  no  attention  to  him  :  they  thought  he 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  3? 

was  made  drowsy  by  the  wine.  He  was  exhausted  by  the  ef- 
fort of  following  the  conversation  in  French,  and  tired  of  hear- 
ing about  nothing  but  literature — actors,  authors,  publishers, 
the  chatter  of  the  coulisses  and  literary  life:  everything  seemed 
to  be  reduced  to  that.  Amid  all  these  new  faces  and  the  buzz 
of  words  he  could  not  fix  a.  single  face,  nor  a  single  thought. 
His  short-sighted  eyes,  dim  and  dreamy,  wandered  slowly  round 
the  table,  and  they  rested  on  one  man  after  another  without 
seeming  to  see  them.  And  yet  he  saw  them  better  than  any  one, 
though  he  himself  was  not  conscious  of  it.  He  did  not,  like 
these  Jews  and  Frenchmen,  peck  at  the  things  he  saw  and  dis- 
sect them,  tear  them  to  rags,  and  leave  them  in  tiny,  tiny  pieces. 
Slowly,  like  a  sponge,  he  sucked  up  the  essence  of  men  and 
women,  and  bore  away  their  image  in  his  soul.  He  seemed 
to  have  seen  nothing  and  to  remember  nothing.  It  was  only 
long  afterwards — hours,  often  days — when  he  was  alone,  gazing 
in  upon  himself,  that  he  saw  that  he  had  borne  away  a  whole 
impression. 

But  for  the  moment  he  seemed  to  be  just  a  German  boor, 
stuffing  himself  with  food,  concerned  only  with  not  missing  a 
mouthful.  And  he  heard  nothing  clearly,  except  when  he 
heard  the  others  calling  each  other  by  name,  and  then,  with  a 
silly  drunken  insistency,  he  wondered  why  so  many  French- 
men have  foreign  names:  Flemish,  German,  Jewish,  Levantine, 
Anglo-  or  Spanish- American. 

He  did  not  notice  when  they  got  up  from  the  table.  He 
went  on  sitting  alone:  and  he  dreamed  of  the  Rhenish  hills, 
the  great  woods,  the  tilled  iields,  the  meadows  by  the  water- 
side, his  old  mother.  Most  of  the  others  had  gone.  At  last 
he  thought  of  going,  and  got  up,  too,  without  looking  at  any- 
body, and  went  and  took  down  his  hat  and  cloak,  which  were 
hanging  by  the  door.  When  he  had  put  them  on  he  was  turn- 
ing away  without  saying  good-night,  when  through  a  half-open 
door  he  saw  an  object  which  fascinated  him:  a  piano.  He  had 
not  touched  a  musical  instrument  for  weeks.  He  went  in  and 
lovingly  touched  the  keys,  sat  down  just  as  he  was,  with  his 


38  JEAN-CHBISTOPHE  IN  PAEIS 

hat  on  his  head  and  his  cloak  on  his  shoulders,  and  began  to 
play.  He  had  altogether  forgotten  where  he  was.  He  did  not 
notice  that  two  men  crept  into  the  room  to  listen  to  him.  One 
was  Sylvain  Kohn,  a  passionate  lover  of  music— fiod  knows 
why!  for  he  knew  nothing  at  all  about  it,  and  he  liked  bad 
music  just  as  well  as  good.  The  otber  was  the  musical  critic. 
Theophile  Goujart.  lie — it  simplifies  matters  so  much— 
neither  understood  nor  loved  music:  but  that  did  not  keep  him 
from  talking  about  it.  On  the  contrary :  nobody  is  so  five 
in  mind  as  the  man  who  knows  nothing  of  what  he  is  talking 
about:  for  to  such  a  man  it  does  not  matter  whether  lie  says 
one  thing  more  than  another. 

Theophile  Goujart  was  tall,  strong,  and  muscular:  he  had 
a  black  beard,  thick  curls  on  his  forehead,  which  was  lined 
with  deep  inexpressive  wrinkles,  short  arms,  short  legs,  a  big 
chest:  a  type  of  woodman  or  porter  of  the  Auvergne.  He  had 
common  manners  and  an  arrogant  way  of  speaking.  He  had 
gone  into  music  through  politics,  at  that  time  the  only  road  to 
success  in  France.  He  had  attached  himself  to  the  fortunes  of  a 
Minister  to  whom  he  had  discovered  that  he  was  distantly 
related — a  son  "of  the  bastard  of  his  apothecary."  Ministers 
are  not  eternal,  and  when  it  seemed 'that  the  day  of  his  Minister 
was  over  Theophile  Goujart  deserted  the  ship,  taking  with  him 
all  that  he  could  lay  his  hands  on.  notably  several  orders:  for 
he  loved  glory.  Tired  of  politics,  in  which  for  some  time  pa.-t 
he  had  received  various  snubs,  both  on  his  own  account  and  on 
that  of  his  patron,  he  looked  out  for  a  shelter  from  the  storm,  a 
restful  position  in  which  he  could  annoy  others  without  being 
himself  annoved.  Everything  pointed  to  criticism.  -lust  at 
that  moment  there  fell  vacant  the  post  of  musical  critic  to  one 
of  the  great  Parisian  papers.  The  previous  holder  of  the  post, 
a  young  and  talented  composer,  had  been  dismissed  because  he 
insisted  on  saying  what  he  thought  of  the  authors  and  their 
work.  Goujart  had  never  taken  any  interest  in  music,  and 
knew  nothing  at  all  about  it:  he  was  chosen  without  a  moment's 
hesitation.  They  had  had  enough  of  competent  critics:  with 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  39 

Gcmjart  there  was  at  least  nothing  to  fear:  he  did  not  attach 
an  absurd  importance  to  his  opinions :  he  was  always  at  the 
editor's  orders,  and  ready  to  comply  with  a  slashing  article  or 
enthusiastic  approbation.  That  he  was  no  musician  was  a 
secondary  consideration.  Everybody  in  France  knows  a  little 
about  music.  Goujart  quickly  acquired  the  requisite  knowl- 
edge. His  method  was  quite  simple:  it  consisted  in  sitting  at 
every  concert  next  to  some  good  musician,  a  composer  if  pos- 
sible, and  getting  him  to  say  what  he  thought  of  the  works 
performed.  At  the  end  of  a  few  months  of  this  apprenticeship, 
he  knew  his  job:  the  fledgling  could  fly.  He  did  not.  it  is  true, 
soar  like  an  eagle:  and  God  knows  what  howlers  Goujart  com- 
mitted with  the  greatest  show  of  authority  in  his  paper!  He 
listened  and  read  haphazard,  stirred  the  mixture  up  well  in  his 
sluggish  brains,  and  arrogantly  laid  down  the  law  for  others; 
he  wrote  in  a  pretentious  style,  interlarded  with  puns,  and 
plastered  over  with  an  aggressive  pedantry:  he  had  the  mind  of 
a  schoolmaster.  Sometimes,  every  now  and  then,  he  drew 
down  on  himself  cruel  replies:  then  he  shammed  dead,  and 
took  good  care  not  to  answer  them.  He  was  a  mixture  of  cun- 
ning and  thick-headedncss,  insolent  or  groveling  as  circum- 
stances demanded.  He  cringed  to  the  master?  who  had  an  of- 
ficial position  or  an  established  fame  (he  had  no  other  means 
of  judging  merit  in  music).  He  scorned  everybody  else,  and 
exploited  writers  who  were  starving.  He  was  no  fool. 

In  spite  of  his  reputation  and  the  authority  he  had  ac- 
quired, he  knew  in  his  heart  of  hearts  that  he  knew  nothing 
about  music:  and  he  recognized  that  Christophe  knew  a  great 
deal  about  it.  Nothing  would  have  induced  him  to  say  so: 
but  it  was  borne  in  upon  him.  And  now  he  heard  Christophe 
play:  and  he  made  great  efforts  to  understand  him.  looking  ab- 
sorbed, profound,  without  a  thought  in  bis  head:  lie  could 
not  see  a  yard  ahead  of  him  through  the  fog  of  sound,  and  he 
wagged  his  head  solemnly  as  one  who  knew  anil  adjusted  the 
outward  and  visible  signs  of  bis  approval  to  ih  •  tluttering  of 
the  eyelids  of  Sylvain  Kohn,  who  found  it  hard  to  stand  still. 


40  JEAK-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

At  last  Christophe,  emerging  to  consciousness  from  the  fumes 
of  wine  and  music,  became  dimly  aware  of  the  pantomime  going 
on  behind  his  back:  he  turned  and  saw  the  two  amateurs  of 
music.  They  rushed  at  him  and  violently  shook  hands  with 
him — Sylvain  Kohn  gurgling  that  he  had  played  like  a  god, 
Goujart  declaring  solemnly  that  he  had  the  left  hand  of  liubin- 
stein  and  the  right  hand  of  Paderewski  (or  it  might  be  the 
other  way  round).  Both  agreed  that  such  talent  ought  not  to 
be  hid  under  a  bushel,  and  they  pledged  themselves  to  reveal  it, 
And,  incidentally,  they  were  both  resolved  to  extract  from  it 
as  much  honor  and  profit  as  possible. 

From  that  day  on  Sylvain  Kohn  took  to  inviting  Christophe 
to  his  rooms,  and  put  at  his  disposal  his  excellent  piano,  which 
he  never  used  himself.  Christophe,  who  was  bursting  with  sup- 
pressed music,  did  not  need  to  be  urged,  and  accepted:  and  for 
a  time  he  made  good  use  of  the  invitation. 

At  first  all  went  well.  Christophe  was  only  too  happy  to 
play :  and  Sylvain  Kohn  was  tactful  enough  to  leave  him  to 
play  in  peace.  He  enjoyed  it  thoroughly  himself.  By  one  of 
those  queer  phenomena  which  must  be  in  everybody's  observa- 
tion, the  man,  who  was  no  musician,  no  artist,  cold-hearted  and 
devoid  of  all  poetic  feeling  and  real  kindness,  was  enslaved 
sensually  by  Christophe's  music,  which  he  did  not  understand, 
though  he  found  in  it  a  strongly  voluptuous  pleasure.  Un- 
fortunately, he  could  not  hold  his  tongue.  He  had  to  talk, 
loudly,  while  Christophe  was  playing.  He  had  to  underline 
the  music  with  affected  exclamations,  like  a  concert  snob,  or 
else  he  passed  ridiculous  comment  on  it.  Then  Christophe 
would  thump  the  piano,  and  declare  that  he  could  not  go  on  like 
that.  Kohn  would  try  hard  to  be  silent :  but  he  could  not  do  it : 
at  once  he  would  begin  again  to  sniffle,  sigh,  whistle,  beat  time, 
hum,  imitate  the  various  instruments.  And  when  the  piece  was 
ended  he  would  have  burst  if  he  had  not  given  Christophe  the 
benefit  of  his  inept  comment. 

He  was  a  queer  mixture  of  German  sentimentality,  Parisian 
humbug,  and  intolerable  fatuousness.  Sometimes  he  expressed 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  41 

second-hand  precious  opinions;  sometimes  he  made  extravagant 
comparisons;  and  then  he  would  make  dirty,  obscene  remarks, 
or  propound  some  insane  nonsense.  By  way  of  praising 
Beethoven,  he  would  point  out  some  trickery,  or  read  a  lasciv- 
ious sensuality  into  his  music.  The  Quartet  in  C  Minor 
seemed  to  him  jolly  spicy.  The  sublime  Adayio  of  the  Sintk 
Symphony  made  him  think  of  Cherubino.  After  the  three 
crashing  chords  at  the  opening  of  the  Symphony  in  C  Minor, 
he  called  out :  "  Don't  come  in !  I've  some  one  here."  He  ad- 
mired the  Battle  of  ttcldcnleben  because  he  pretended  that  it 
was  like  the  noise  of  a  motor-car.  And  always  he  had  some 
image  to  explain  each  piece,  a  puerile  incongruous  image. 
Really,  it  seemed  impossible  that  he  could  have  any  love  for 
music.  However,  there  was  no  doubt  about  it:  he  really  did 
love  it:  at  certain  passages  to  which  he  attached  the  most 
ridiculous  meanings  the  tears  would  come  into  his  eyes.  But 
after  having  been  moved  by  a  scene  from  Wagner,  he  would 
strum  out  a  gallop  of  Offenbach,  or  sing  some  music-hall  ditty 
after  the  Ode  to  Joy.  Then  Christophe  would  bob  about  and 
roar  with  rage.  But  the  worst  of  all  to  bear  was  not  when 
Sylvain  Kohn  was  absurd  so  much  as  when  he  was  trying  to  be 
profound  and  subtle,  when  he  was  trying  to  impress  Chris- 
tophe, when  it  was  Hamilton  speaking,  and  not  Sylvain  Kohn. 
Then  Christophe  would  scowl  blackly  at  him,  and  squash  him 
with  cold  contempt,  which  hurt  Hamilton's  vanity:  very  often 
these  musical  evenings  would  end  in  a  quarrel.  But  Kohn 
would  forget  it  next  day,  and  Christophe,  sorry  for  his  rude- 
ness, would  make  a  point  of  going  back. 

That  would  not  have  mattered  much  if  Kohn  had  been  able 
to  refrain  from  inviting  his  friends  to  hear  Christophe.  But 
he  could  not  help  wanting  to  show  oil'  his  musician.  The  first 
time  Christophe  found  in  Kohn's  rooms  three  or  four  little  -lews 
and  Kohn's  mistress — a  large  florid  woman,  all  paint  and 
powder,  who  repeated  idiotic  jokes  and  talked  about  her  food, 
and  thought  herself  a  musician  because  she  showed  her  legs 
every  evening  in  the  Revue  of  the  Varietes — C'hristophe  looked 


4?  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PAEIS 

black.  Xext  time  lie  told  Sylvain  Kolin  curtly  that  ho  would 
never  again  play  in  his  rooms.  Sylvain  Kolm  swore  by  all  his 
gods  that  he  would  not  invite  anybody  again.  But  he  did  so 
by  stealth,  and  hid  his  guests  in  the  next  room.  Naturally,-  Chris- 
tophe  found  that  out,  and  went  away  in  a  fury,  and  .this  time 
did  not  return. 

And  yet  he  had  to  accommodate  Kohn,  who  had  introduced 
him  to  various  cosmopolitan  families,  and  found  him  pupils. 

A  few  days  after  Theophile  .Goujart  hunted  Christophe  up 
in  his  lair.  He  did  not  seem  to  mind  his  being  in  such 
a  horrible  place.  On  the  contrary,  he  was  charming,  lie 
said : 

"I  thought  perhaps  yon  would  like  to  hear  a  little  music 
from  time  to  time:  and  as  1  have  tickets  for  everything,  I 
came  to  ask  if  you  would  care  to  come  with  me." 

Christophe  was  delighted.  He  was  glad  of  the  kindlv  at- 
tention, and  thanked  him  effusively,  (ioujart  was  a  different 
man  from  what  he  had  been  at  their  first  meeting,  lie  had 
dropped  his  conceit,  and,  man  to  man,  he  was  timid,  docile, 
anxious  to  learn.  It  was  only  when  they  were  with  others 
that  he  resumed  his  superior  manner  and  his  blatant  tone  of 
voice.  His  eagerness  to  learn  had  a  practical  side  to  it.  He 
had  no  curiosity  about  anything  that  was  not  actual,  lie  wanted 
to  know  what  Christophe  thought  of  a  score  he  had  received 
which  ho  would  have1  been  hard  put  to  it  to  write  about,  for 
he  could  hardly  read  a  note. 

They  went,  to  a  symphony  concert.  They  had  to  go  in  by 
the  entrance  to  a  music-hall.  They  went  down  a  winding 
passage  to  an  ill -ventilated  hall:  the  air  was  stilling:  the  seats 
were  very  narrow,  ami  placed  too  close  together:  part  of  the 
audience  was  standing  and  blocking  up  every  wav  out: — the 
uncomfortable  French.  A  man  who  looked  as  though  he  were 
.hopelessly  bored  was  racing  through  a  Beethoven  symphony  as 
though  he  were  in  a  hurry  to  get  to  the  end  of  it.  The  voluptu- 
ous strains  of  a  stomach-dance  comiiur  from  the  music-hall 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  13 

next  door  were  mingled  with  the  funeral  march  of  the  Eroica. 
People  kept  coming  in  and  taking  their  seats,  and  turning  their 
glasses  on  the  audience.  As  soon  as  the  last  person  had  ar- 
rived, they  began  to  go  out  again.  Christophe  strained  every 
nerve  to  try  and  follow  the  thread  of  the  symphony  through  the 
babel:  and  he  did  manage  to  wrest  some  pleasure  from  it— 
(for  the  orchestra  was  skilful,  and  Christophe  had  been  de- 
prived of  symphony  music  for  a  long  time) — and  then  Goujart 
took  his  arm  and,  in  the  middle  of  the  concert,  said : 
"  Now  let  us  go.  We'll  go  to  another  concert." 
Christophe  frowned :  but  he  made  no  reply  and  followed  his 
guide.  They  went  half  across  Paris,  and  then  reached  another 
hall,  that  smelled  of  stables,  in  which  at  other  times  fairy  plays 
and  popular  pieces  were  given — (in  Paris  music  is  like  those 
poor  workingmen  who  share  a  lodging :  when  one  of  them 
leaves  the  bed,  the  other  creeps  into  the  warm  sheets).  Xo  air, 
of  course:  since  the  reign  of  Louis  XIV  the  French  have  con- 
sidered air  unhealthy:  and  the  ventilation  of  the  theaters,  like 
that  of  old  at  Versailles,  makes  it  impossible  for  people  to 
breathe.  A  noble  old  man,  waving  his  arms  like  a  lion- 
tamer,  was  letting  loose  an  act  of  Wagner:  the  wretched  beast 
• — the  act — was  like  the  lions  of  a  menagerie,  daxxled  and 
cowed  by  the  footlights,  so  that  they  have  to  be  whipped  to 
be  reminded  that  they  are  lions.  The  audience  consisted  of 
female  Pharisees  and  foolish  women,  smiling  inanelv.  After 
the  lion  had  gone  through  its  performance,  and  the  tamer  had 
bowed,  and  they  had  both  been  rewarded  by  the  applause  of 
the  audience.  Goujart  suggested  that  they  should  go  to  yet  an- 
other concert.  But  this  time  Christophc  gripped  the  arm?  of 
his  stall,  and  declared  that  he  would  not  budge:  he  had  had 
enough  of  running  from  concert  to  concert,  picking  up  the 
crumbs  of  a  symphony  and  scraps  of  a  concert  on  the  way. 
Tn  vain  did  Goujart  try  to  explain  to  him  that  musical  criti- 
cism in  Paris  was  a  trade  in  which  it  was  more  important 
to  see  than  to  hear.  Christophe  protested  that  music-  was  not 
written  to  be  heard  in  a  cab,  and  needed  more  concentra- 


44  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IX  PAEIS 

tion.  Such  a  hotch-potch  of  concerts  was  sickening  to  him : 
one  at  a  time  was  enough  for  him. 

He  was  much  surprised  at  the  extraordinary  number  of 
concerts  in  Paris.  Like  most  Germans,  he  thought  that  music 
held  a  subordinate  place  in  France:  and  he  expected  that  it 
would  be  served  up  in  small  delicate  portions.  By  way  of  a 
beginning,  he  was  given  fifteen  concerts  in  seven  days.  There 
was  one  for  every  evening  in  the  week,  and  often  two  or  three 
an  evening  at  the  same  time  in  different  qijarters  of  the  city. 
On  Sundays  there  were  four,  all  at  the  same  time.  Christophe 
marveled  at  this  appetite  for  music.  And  he  was  no  less 
amazed  at  the  length  of  the  programs.  Till  then  he  had 
thought  that  his  fellow-countrymen  had  a  monopoly  of  these 
orgies  of  sound  which  had  more  than  once  disgusted  him 
in  Germany.  He  saw  now  that  the  Parisians  could  have  given 
them  points  in  the  matter  of  gluttony.  They  were  given  full 
measure :  two  symphonies,  a  concerto,  one  or  two  overtures,  an 
act  from  an  opera.  And  they  came  from  all  sources :  German, 
Eussian,  Scandinavian,  French- — beer,  champagne,  orgeat,  wine 
— they  gulped  down  everything  without  winking.  Christophe 
was  amazed  that  these  indolent  Parisians  should  have  had  such 
capacious  stomachs.  They  did  not  sillier  for  it  at  all.  It  was 
the  cask  of  the  Danai'des.  It  held  nothing. 

It  was  not  long  before  Christophe  perceived  that  this  mass 
of  music  amounted  to  very  little  really.  He  saw  the  same 
faces  and  heard  the  same  pieces  at  every  concert.  Their  copious 
programs  moved  in  a  circle.  Practically  nothing  earlier 
than  Beethoven.  Practically  nothing  later  than  Wagner.  And 
what  gaps  between  them!  It  seemed  as  though  music  were  re- 
duced to  five  or  six  great  German  names,  three  or  four  French 
names,  and,  since  the  Franco-Russian  alliance,  half  a  dozen 
Muscovites.  None  of  the  old  French  Masters.  None  of  the 
great  Italians.  Xone  of  the  German  giants  of  the  seventeenth 
and  eighteenth  centuries.  No  contemporary  German  music, 
with  the  single  exception  of  Eichard  Strauss,  who  was  more 
acute  than  the  rest,  and  came  once  a  year  to  plant  his  ne\v 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  45 

works  on  the  Parisian  public.  No  Belgian  music.  Xo  Tschek 
music.  But,  most  surprising  of  all,  practically  no  contem- 
porary French  music.  And  yet  everybody  was  talking  about 
it  mysteriously  as  a  thing  that  would  revolutionize  the  world. 
Christophe  was  yearning  for  an  opportunity  of  hearing  it:  he 
was  very  curious  about  it,  and  absolutely  without  prejudice :  he 
was  longing  to  hear  new  music,  and  to  admire  the  works  of 
genius.  But  he  never  succeeded  in  hearing  any  of  it :  for  he 
did  not  count  a  few  short  pieces,  quite  cleverly  written,  but  cold 
and  brain-spun,  to  which  he  had  not  listened  very  attentively. 

While  he  was  waiting  to  form  an  opinion,  Christophe  tried 
to  find  out  something  about  it  from  musical  criticism. 

That  was  not  easy.  It  was  like  the  Court  of  King  Petaud. 
Not  only  did  the  various  papers  lightly  contradict  each  other: 
but  they  contradicted  themselves  in  different  articles — almost  on 
different  pages.  To  read  them  all  was  enough  to  drive  a  man 
crazy.  Fortunately,  the  critics  only  read  their  own  articles,  and 
the  public  did  not  read  any  of  them.  But  Christophe,  who 
wanted  to  gain  a  clear  idea  about  French  musicians,  labored 
hard  to  omit  nothing:  and  he  marveled  at  the  agility  of  the 
critics,  who  darted  about  in  a  sea  of  contradictions  like  fish  in 
water. 

But  amid  all  these  divergent  opinions  one  thing  struck  him : 
the  pedantic  manner  of  most  of  the  critics.  Who  was  it  said 
that  the  French  were  amiable  fantastics  who  believed  in  nothing? 
Those  whom  Christophe  saw  were  more  hag-ridden  by  the 
science  of  music — even  when  they  knew  nothing — than  all  the 
critics  on  the  other  side  of  the  Rhine. 

At  that  time  the  French  musical  critics  had  set  about  learn- 
ing what  music  was.  There  were  even  a -few  who  knew  some- 
thing about  it :  they  were  men  of  original  thought,  who  had 
taken  the  trouble  to  think  about  their  art,  and  to  think  for 
themselves.  Naturally,  they  were  not  very  well  known :  they 
were  shelved  in  their  little  reviews :  with  only  one  or  two  ex- 
ceptions, the  newspapers  were  not  for  them.  They  were  honest 


46  JEAN-CIIIUSTOPHE  IN  PAETS 

mcn — intelligent,  interesting,  sometimes  driven  by  their  isola- 
tion to  paradox  and  the  habit  of  thinking  aloud,  intolerance,  and 
garrulity.  The  rest  had  hastily  learned  the  rudiments  of  har- 
mony :  and  they  stood  gaping  in  wonder  at  their  newly  acquired 
knowledge.  Like  Monsieur  Jourdain  when  he  learned  the 
rules  of  grammar,  they  marvelled  at  their  knowledge : 

"  I),  a,  Da;  F,  a,  Fa;  U,  a,,  Ra.  .  .  .  Ah!  How  fine  it 
is!  .  .  .  Alt!  How  splendid  it  is  to  know  something!  .  .  /' 

They  only  babbled  of  theme  and  counter-theme,  of  harmonies 
and  resultant  sounds,  of  consecutive  ninths  and  tierce  major. 
When  they  had  labeled  the  succeeding  harmonies  which  made 
up  a  page  of  music,  they  proudly  mopped  their  brows :  they 
thought  they  had  explained  the  music,  and  almost  believed  that 
they  had  written  it.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  they  had  only  repeated 
it  in  school  language,  like  a  boy  making  a  grammatical  analysis 
of  a  page  of  Cicero.  But  it  was  so  diilicult  for  the  best  of  them 
to  conceive  music  as  a  natural  language  of  the  soul  that,  when 
they  did  not  make  it  an  adjunct  to  painting,  they  dragged  it 
into  the  outskirts  of  science,  and  reduced  it  to  the  level  of  a 
problem  in  harmonic  construction.  Some  wiio  were  learned 
enough  took  upon  themselves  to  show  a  thing  or  two  to  past 
musicians.  They  found  fault  with  Beethoven,  and  rapped  Wag- 
ner over  the  knuckles.  They  laughed  openly  at  Berlioz  and 
Gluek.  Nothing  existed  for  them  just  then  but  Johann  Se- 
bastian Bach,  and  Claude  Debussy.  And  Bach,  who  had  lately 
been  roundly  abused,  was  beginning  to  seem  pedantic,  a  periwig, 
and  in  fine,  a  hack.  Quito  distinguished  men  extolled  l\ameau 
in  mysterious  terms — Eameau  and  Couperin.  called  the  C.reat. 

There  were  tremendous  conflicts  waged  between  these  learned 
men.  They  wore  all  musicians:  but  as  they  all  affected  differ- 
ent styles,  each  of  them  claimed  that  his  was  the  only  true 
style,  and  cried  "IJaca!  "  to  that  of  their  colleagues.  They  ac- 
cused each  other  of  sham  writing  and  sham  culture,  and 
hurled  at  each  other's  heads  the  words  "'idealism"  and  "ma- 
terialism." "symbolism"  and  "  vcrism,"  "subjectivism"  and 
"  objectivism."  Christophe  thought  it  was  hardly  worth  while 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  47 

leaving  German}'  to  find  the  squabbles  of  the  Germans  in  Paris. 
Instead  of  being  grateful  for  having  good  music  presented  in 
so  many  different  fashions,  they  would  only  tolerate  their  o\vn 
particular  fashion:  and  a  new  Lutrin,  a  iierce  war,  divided 
musicians  into  two  hostile  camps,  the  cam])  of  counterpoint 
and  the  camp  of  harmony.  Like  the  G 'ros-bouticna  and  the 
Petits-boutiens,  one  side  maintained  with  acrimony  that  music 
should  be  read  horizontally,  and  the  other  that  it  should  be 
read  vertically.  One  party  would  only  hear  of  full-sounding 
chords,  melting  concatenations,  succulent  harmonies:  they 
spoke  of  music  as  though  it  were  a  confectioners  shop.  The 
other  party  would  not  hear  of  the  ear,  that  trumpery  organ, 
being  considered:  music  was  for  them  a  lecture,  a  Parliamentary 
assembly,  in  which  all  the  orators  spoke  at  once  without  both- 
ering about  their  neighbors,  and  went  on  talking  until  they 
had  done:  if  people  could  not  hear,  so  much  the  worse  for 
them!  They  could  read  their  speeches  next  day  in  the  (9 fficial 
Journal^  music  was  made  to  be  read,  and  not  to  lie  heard.  When 
Christophe  first  heard  of  this  quarrel  between  the  Horizontalists 
and  the  Verticalists,  he  thought  they  were  all  mad.  When  he 
was  summoned  to  join  in  the  fight  between  the  army  of  Suc- 
cession and  the  army  of  Super  position,  he  replied,  with  his 
usual  formula,  which  was  very  different  from  that  of  Sosia  : 

"  Gentlemen,  1  am  everybody's  enemy.'' 

And  when  they  insisted,  saying: 

"Which  matters  most  in  music,  harmony  or  counterpoint?" 

He  replied : 

"  Music.     Show  me  what  you  have  done." 

They  were  all  agreed  about  tlu-ir  own  music.  'These  intrepid 
warriors  who,  when  they  were  not  pummeling  each  other,  were 
whacking  away  at  some  dead  Master  whose  fame  had  en- 
dured too  long,  were  reconciled  bv  the  one  passion  which  was 
common  to  thein  all:  an  ardent  musical  patriotism.  France 
was  to  them  1lic  great  musical  nation.  Thev  \\cre  perpetually 
proclaiming  the  decay  of  Germany.  That  did  n«>t  hurt  Chris- 
tophe. He  had  declared  so  himself,  and  therefore  \va<  not  in  a 


48  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IX  PARIS 

position  to  contradict  them.  But  he  was  a  little  surprised  to 
hear  of  the  supremacy  of  French  music :  there  was,  in  fact,  very 
little  trace  of  it  in  the  past.  And  yet  French  musicians  main- 
tained that  their  art  had  been  admirable  from  the  earliest 
period.  By  way  of  glorifying  French  music,  they  set  to  work 
to  throw  ridicule  on  the  famous  men  of  tin;  last  century,  with 
the  exception  of  one  Master,  who  was  very  good  and  very  pure — 
and  a  Belgian.  Having  done  that  amount  of  slaughter,  they 
were  free  to  admire  the  archaic  Masters,  who  had  been  forgot- 
ten, while  a  certain  number  of  them  were  absolutely  unknown. 
Unlike  the  lay  schools  of  France  which  date  the  world  from  the 
French  Revolution,  the  musicians  regarded  it  as  a  chain  of 
mighty  mountains,  to  be  scaled  before  it  could  be  possible  to 
look  back  on  the  Golden  Age  of  music,  the  Eldorado  of  art. 
After  a  long  eclipse  the  Golden  Age  was  to  emerge  again :  the 
hard  wall  was  to  crumble  away:  a  magician  of  sound  was  to 
call  forth  in  full  flower  a  marvelous  spring :  the  old  tree  of 
music  was  to  put  forth  young  green  leaves :  in  the  bed  of  har- 
mony thousands  of  flowers  were  to  open  their  smiling  eyes  upon 
the  new  dawn:  and  silvery  trickling  springs  were  10  bubble  forth 
with  the  vernal  sweet  song  of  streams — a  very  idyl. 

Christophe  was  delighted.  But  when  he  looked  at  the  bills 
of  the  Parisian  theaters,  he  saw  the  names  of  Meyerbeer, 
Gounod,  Massenet,  and  Mascagni  and  Leoncavallo — names  with 
which  he  was  only  too  familiar:  and  he  asked  his  friends  if  all 
this  bra/en  music,  with  its  girlish  rapture,  its  artificial  flowers, 
like  nothing  so  much  as  a  perfumery  shop,  was  the  garden  of 
Armide  that  they  had  promised  him.  They  were  hurt  and 
protested  :  if  they  were  to  he  believed,  these  things  were  the 
last  vestiges  of  a  moribund  age :  no  one  attached  any  value  to 
them.  But  the  fact  remained  that  Carallcria  Hnxlicnna  flour- 
ished at  the  Opera  Comique,  and  PagUacci  at  the  Opera  :  Mas- 
senet and  Gounod  were  more  frequently  performed  than  any- 
body else,  and  the  musical  trinity — Mif/twn.  Lex  Iliif/uc-nots, 
and  Faust — had  safely  crossed  the  bar  of  the  thousandth  per- 
formance. But  these  were  only  trivial  accidents :  there  was 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  49 

no  need  to  go  and  see  them.  When  some  untoward  fact  up- 
sets a  theory,  nothing  is  more  simple  than  to  ignore  it.  The 
French  critics  shut  their  eyes  to  these  blatant  works  and  to 
the  public  which  applauded  them :  and  only  a  very  little  more 
was  needed  to  make  them  ignore  the  whole  music-theater  in 
France.  The  music-theater  was  to  them  a  literary  form,  and 
therefore  impure.  (Being  all  literary  men,  they  set  a  ban  on 
literature.)  Any  music  that  was  expressive,  descriptive,  sug- 
gestive— in  short,  any  music  with  any  meaning — was  con- 
demned as  impure.  In  every  Frenchman  there  is  a  Robespierre. 
He  must  be  for  ever  chopping  the  head  off  something  or  some- 
body to  purify  it.  The  great  French  critics  only  recognized 
pure  music :  the  rest  they  left  to  the  rabble. 

Christophe  was  rather  mortified  when  he  thought  how  vul- 
gar his  taste  must  be.  But  he  found  some  comfort  in  the  dis- 
covery that  all  these  musicians  who  despised  the  theater  spent 
their  time  in  writing  for  it :  there  was  not  one  of  them  who 
did  not  compose  operas.  But  no  doubt  that  was  also  a  trivial 
accident.  They  were  to  be  judged,  as  they  desired,  by 
their  pure  music.  Christophe  looked  about  for  their  pure 
music. 

Theophile  Goujart  took  him  to  the  concerts  of  a  Society 
dedicated  to  the  national  art.  There  the  new  glories  of  French 
music  were  elaborated  and  carefully  hatched.  It  was  a  club, 
a  little  church,  with  several  side-chapels.  Each  chapel  had  its 
saint,  each  saint  his  devotees,  who  blackguarded  the  saint  in 
the  next  chapel.  It  was  some  time  before  Christophe  could 
differentiate  between  the  various  saints.  Naturally  enough,  he- 
ing  accustomed  to  a  very  different  sort  of  art,  he  was  at  lirst 
baffled  by  the  new  music,  and  the  more  he  thought  he  under- 
stood it,  the  farther  was  he  from  a  real  understanding. 

It  all  seemed  to  him  to  be  bathed  in  a  perpetual  twilight. 
It  was  a  dull  gray  ground  on  which  were  drawn  lines,  shad- 
ing off  and  blurring  into  eacli  other,  sometimes  starting  from 
the  mist,  and  then  sinking  back  into  it  again.  Among  all  these 


50  JEAN-CIIIUSTOPIIE  IN  PAINS 

lines  there  were  stiff,  crabbed,  and  cramped  designs  as  though 
they  were  drawn  with  a  set-square — patterns  with  sharp  cor- 
ners, like  the  elbow  of  a  skinny  woman.  There  were  patterns 
in  curves  floating  and  curling  like  the  smoke  of  a  cigar.  But 
they  were  all  enveloped  in  the  gray  light.  Did  the  SP:I  never 
shine  in  France?  Christophe  had  only  had  rain  and  fog  since 
his  arrival,  and  was  inclined  to  believe  so;  bill  it  is  the  artist's 
business  to  create  sunshine  when  tin1  sun  fails.  These  men  lit 
up  their  little  lanterns,  it  is  true:  but  they  were  like  the  glow- 
worm's lamp,  giving  no  warmth  and  very  little  light.  The 
titles  of  their  works  were  changed  :  they  dealt  with  Spring,  the 
South,  Love,  the  Joy  of  Living,  Country  Walks;  but  the  music 
never  changed:  it  was  uniformly  soft,  pale,  enervated,  anemic, 
wasting  away.  It  was  then  the  mode  in  France,  among  the 
fastidious,  to  whisper  in  music.  And  they  were  quite  right: 
for  as  soon  as  they  tried  to  talk  aloud  they  shouted  :  there 
was  no  mean.  There  was  no  alternative  but  distinguished 
somnolence  and  melodramatic  declamation. 

Christophe  shook  oil5  the  drowsiness  that  was  creeping  over 
him,  and  looked  at  his  program;  and  he  was  surprised  to  read 
that  the  little  pull's  of  cloud  floating  across  the  gray  sky  claimed 
to  represent  certain  definite  things.  For,  in  spite  of  theory,  all 
their  pure  music  was  almost  always  program  music,  or  at  least 
music  descriptive  of  a  certain  subject.  It  was  in  vain  that  they 
denounced  literature:  they  needed  the  support  of  a  literary 
crutch.  Strange  crutches  they  were,  too,  as  a  rule!  Chris- 
tophe observed  the  odd  puerility  of  the  subjects  which  they 
labored  to  depict — orchards,  kitchen-gardens,  farmyards,  mu- 
sical menageries,  a  whole  Zoo.  Some  musicians  transposed  for 
orchestra,  or  piano  the  pictures  in  the  Louvre,  or  the  frescoes 
of  the  Opera:  they  turned  into  music  Cuyp,  Baudry.  and  Paul 
Potter:  explanatory  note's  helped  the  hearer  to  rccogni/e  the 
apple  of  Paris,  a  Dutch  inn,  or  the  crupper  of  a  white  horse. 
To  Christophe  it  was  like  the  production  of  children  obsessed 
by  images,  who,  not  knowing  how  to  draw,  scribble  down  in 
their  exercise-books  anything  that  comes  into  their  heads,  and 


THE  MAEKET-PLACB  51 

naively  write  down  under  it  in  large  letters  an  inscription  to 
the  effect  that  it  is  a  house  or  a  tree. 

But  besides  these  blind  image-fanciers  \vho  saw  with  their 
ears,  there  were  the  philosophers :  they  discussed  metaphysical 
problems  in  music :  their  symphonies  were  composed  of  the 
struggle  between  abstract  principles  and  stated  .symbols  or  re- 
ligions'. And  in  their  operas  they  affected  to  study  the  judicial 
and  social  questions  of  the  day:  the  Declaration  of  the  Rights 
of  Woman  and  the  Citizen,  elaborated  by  the  metaphysicians 
of  the  Butte  and  the  Palais-Bourbon.  They  did  not  shrink 
from  bringing  the  question  of  divorce  on  to  the  platform  to- 
gether with  the  inquiry  into  the  birth-rate  and  the  separation 
of  the  Church  and  State.  Among  them  were  to  be  found 
lay  symbolists  and  clerical  symbolists.  They  introduced 
philosophic  rag-pickers,  sociological  grisettes,  prophetic  bakers, 
and  apostolic  fishermen  to  the  stage.  Goethe  spoke  of  the 
artists  of  his  day,  "  who  reproduced  the  ideas  of  Kant  in  al- 
legorical pictures."  The  artists  of  Christophe's  day  wrote  so- 
ciology in  semi-quavers.  Zola,  Nietzsche,  Maeterlinck,  Barres, 
Jaures,  Meudes,  the  Gospel,  and  the  Moulin  IZouge.  all  fed  the 
cistern  whence  the  writers  of  operas  and  symphonies  drew  their 
ideas.  Many  of  them,  intoxicated  by  the  example  of  Wagner, 
cried:  "And  I,  too.  am  a  poet!  ''  And  with  perfect  assurance 
they  tacked  on  to  their  music  verses  in  rhyme,  or  unrhymed, 
written  in  the  style  of  an  elementary  school  or  a  decadent 
feui  He  ton. 

All  these  thinkers  and  poets  were  partisans  of  pure 
music.  But  they  preferred  talking  about  it  to  writing  it.  And 
yet  they  did  sometimes  manage  to  write  it.  Then  they  wrote 
music  that  was  not  intended  to  say  anything.  Unfortunately, 
they  often  succeeded:  their  music  was  meaningless — at  least, 
to  Christophe.  It  is  only  fair  to  sav  that  he  had  not  the 
key  to  it. 

In  order  to  understand  the  music  of  a  foreign  nation  a  man 
must  take  the  trouble  to  learn  the  language,  and  not  make 
up  his  mind  beforehand  that  he  knows  it.  Christophe,  like 


52  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IX  PARIS 

every  good  German,  thought  he  knew  it.  That  was  excusable. 
Many  Frenchmen  did  not  understand  it  any  more  than  lie. 
Like  the  Germans  of  the  time  of  Louis  XIV,  who  tried  so 
hard  to  speak  French  that  in  the  end  they  forgot  their  own 
language,  the  French  musicians  of  the  nineteenth  century  had 
taken  so  much  pains  to  unlearn  their  language  that  their  music 
had  become  a  foreign  lingo.  It  was  only  of  recent  years  that  a 
movement  had  sprung  up  to  speak  French  in  France.  They 
did  not  all  succeed :  the  force  of  habit  was  very  strong :  and 
with  a  few  exceptions  their  French  was  Belgian,  or  still  smacked 
faintly  of  Germany.  It  was  quite  natural,  therefore,  that  a 
German  should  be  mistaken,  and  declare,  with  his  usual  assur- 
ance, that  it  was  very  bad  German,  and  meant  nothing,  since 
he  could  make  nothing  of  it. 

Christophe  was  in  exactly  that  case.  The  symphonies  of  the 
French  seemed  to  him  to  be  abstract,  dialectic,  and  musical 
themes  were  opposed  and  superposed  arithmetically  in  them : 
their  combinations  and  permutations  might  just  as  well  have 
been  expressed  in  figures  or  the  letters  of  the  alphabet.  One 
man  would  construct  a  symphony  on  the  progressive  develop- 
ment of  a  sonorous  formula  which  did  not  seem  to  be  complete 
until  the  last  page  of  the  last  movement,  so  that  for  nine- 
tenths  of  the  work  it  never  advanced  beyond  the  grub  stage  of 
its  existence.  Another  would  erect  variations  on  a  theme  which 
was  not  stated  until  the  end,  so  that  the  symphony  gradually 
descended  from  the  complex  to  the  simple.  They  were  very 
clever  toys.  But  a  man  would  need  to  be  both  very  old  and 
very  young  to  be  able  to  enjoy  them.  They  had  cost  their  in- 
ventors untold  effort.  They  took  years  to  write  a  fantasy. 
They  worried  their  hair  white  in  the  search  for  new  combina- 
tions of  chords — to  express  .  .  .?  No  matter!  Xew  ex- 
pressions. As  the  organ  creates  the  need,  they  say,  so  the  ex- 
pression must  in  the  end  create  the  idea:  the  chief  thing  is 
that  the  expression  should  be  novel.  Xovelty  at  all  costs  1 
They  had  a  morbid  horror  of  anything  that  "had  been  said." 
The  best  of  them  were  paralyzed  by  it  all.  They  seemed  always 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  53 

to  be  keeping  a  fearful  guard  on  themselves,  and  crossing  out 
what  they  had  written,  wondering :  "  Good  Lord !  Where  did 
I  read  that?"  .  .  .  There  are  some  musicians — especially  in 
Germany — who  spend  their  time  in  piecing  together  other  peo- 
ple's music.  The  musicians  of  France  were  always  looking  out 
at  every  bar  to  see  that  they  had  not  included  in  their  cata- 
logues melodies  that  had  already  been  used  by  others,  and  eras- 
ing, erasing,  changing  the  shape  of  the  note  until  it  was  like  no 
known  note,  and  even  ceased  to  be  like  a  note  at  all. 

But  they  did  not  take  Christophe  in :  in  vain  did  they  muffle 
themselves  up  in  a  complicated  language,  and  make  super- 
human and  prodigious  efforts,  go  into  orchestral  fits,  or 
cultivate  inorganic  harmonies,  an  obsessing  monotony,  declama- 
tions a  la  Sarah  Bernhardt.  beginning  in  a  minor  key.  and  go- 
ing on  for  hours  plodding  along  like  mules,  half  asleep,  along 
the  edge  of  the  slippery  slope — always  under  the  mask  Chris- 
tophe found  the  souls  of  these  men,  cold,  weary,  horribly 
scented,  like  Gounod  and  Massenet,  but  even  less  natural.  And 
he  repeated  the  unjust  comment  on  the  French  of  Gluck: 

"  Let  them  be :  they  always  go  back  to  their  giddy-go-round." 

Only  they  did  try  so  hard  to  be  learned.  They  took  popular 
songs  as  themes  for  learned  symphonies,  like  dissertations  for 
the  Sorbonne.  That  was  the  great  game  at  the  time.  All 
sorts  and  kinds  of  popular  songs,  songs  of  all  nations,  were 
pressed  into  the  service.  And  they  worked  them  up  into  things 
like  the  Ninth  Symphony  and  the  Quartet  of  Cesar  Franck, 
only  much  more  difficult.  A  musician  would  conceive  quite  a 
simple  air.  At  once  he  would  mix  it  up  with  another,  which 
meant  nothing  at  all,  though  it  jarred  hideously  with  the  first. 
And  all  these  people  were  obviously  so  calm,  so  perfectly  bal- 
anced !  .  .  . 

And  there  was  a  young  conductor,  properly  haggard  and 
dressed  for  the  part,  who  produced  these  works:  he  flung  him- 
self about,  darted  lightnings,  made  Michael  Angelesque  gestures 
as  though  he  were  summoning  up  the  armies  of  Beethoven  or 
Wagner.  The  audience,  which  was  composed  of  society  people, 


54  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IX  PARIS 

was  bored  to  tears,  though  nothing  would  have  induced  them 
to  renounce  the  honor  of  paying  a  liigh  price  for  such  glorious 
boredom:  and  there  were  young  tyros  who  were  only  too  glad  to 
bring  their  school  knowledge  into  play  as  they  picked  up  the 
threads  of  the  music,  and  they  applauded  with  an  enthusiasm 
as  frantic  as  the  gestures  of  the  conductor,  and  the  fearful 
noise  of  the  music.  .  .  . 

"What  rot!"  said  Christopher.  (For  he  was  well  up  in 
Parisian  slang  by  now.) 

But  it  is  easier  to  penetrate  the  mystery  of  Parisian  slang 
than  the  mystery  of  Parisian  music.  Christophe  judged  it 
with  the  passion  which  he  brought  to  bear  on  everything,  and 
the  native  incapacity  of  the  Germans  to  understand  French 
art.  At  least,  he  was  sincere,  and  only  asked  to  be  put  right  if 
he  was  mistaken.  And  he  did  not  regard  himself  as  bound  by 
his  judgment,  but  left  it  open  to  any  new  impression  that 
might  alter  it. 

As  matters  stood,  he  readily  admitted  thai  there  was  much 
talent  in  the  music  he  heard,  interesting  stuff,  certain  odd 
happy  rhythms  and  harmonies,  an  assortment  of  fine  materials, 
mellow  and  brilliant,  glittering  colors,  a  perpetual  outpouring 
of  invention  and  cleverness.  Christophe  was  entertained  by  it, 
and  learned  a  thing  or  two.  All  these  small  masters  had  in- 
finitely more  freedom  of  thought  than  the  musicians  of  Ger- 
many: they  bravely  left  the  highroad  and  plunged  through 
the  woods.  They  did  their  best  to  lose  themselves.  But  they 
were  so  clever  that  they  could  not  manage  it.  Some  of  them 
found  themselves  on  the  road  again  in  twenty  yards.  Others 
tired  at  once,  and  stopped  wherever  thev  might  be.  There 
were  a  few  who  almost  discovered  new  paths,  but  instead  of 
following  them  up  they  sat  down  at  the  edge  of  the  wood  and 
fell  to  musing  under  n  tree.  Yvliat  they  most  lacked  was  will- 
power, force:  thev  had  all  the  gifts  save  one — vigor  and  life. 
And  all  their  multifarious  efforts  were  confusedlv  directed,  and 
were  lost  on  the  road.  Jt  was  only  rarely  that  these  artists 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  55 

became  conscious  of  the  nature  of  their  efforts,  and  could 
join  forces  to  a  common  and  a  given  end.  It  was  the  usual  re- 
sult of  French  anarchy,  which  wastes  the  enormous  wealth  of 
talent  and  good  intentions  through  the  paralyzing  influence 
of  its  uncertainty  and  contradictions.  With  hardly  an  ex- 
ception, all  the  great  French  musicians,  like  Berlioz  and  Saint- 
Saens — to  mention  only  the  most  recent — have  heen  hopelessly 
muddled,  self-destructive,  and  forsworn,  for  want  of  energy, 
want  of  faith,  and,  above  all,  for  want  of  an  inward  guide. 

Christophe,  with  the  insolence  and  disdain  of  the  latter-day 
German,  thought : 

"  The  French  do  no  more  than  fritter  away  their  energy  in 
inventing  things  which  they  are  incapable  of  using.  They 
need  a  master  of  another  race,  a  Gluck  or  a  Napoleon,  to  turn 
their  Revolutions  to  any  account/' 

And  he  smiled  at  the  notion  of  an  Eighteenth  of  Brumaire. 

And  yet,  in  the  midst  of  all  this  anarchy,  there  was  a 
group  striving  to  restore  order  and  discipline  to  the  minds 
of  artists  and  public.  By  way  of  a  beginning,  they  had  taken 
a  Latin  name  reminiscent  of  a  clerical  institution  which  had 
flourished  thirteen  or  fourteen  centuries  ago  at  the  time  of 
the  great  Invasion  of  the  Goths  and  Vandals.  Christophe  was 
rather  surprised  at  their  going  back  so  far.  ]t  was  a  good 
thing,  certainly,  to  dominate  one's  generation.  But  it  looked 
as  though  a  watch-tower  fourteen  centuries  high  might  be  a 
little  inconvenient,  and  more  suitable  pcihaps  for  observing 
the  movements  of  the  stars  than  those  of  the  men  of  the  pres- 
ent day.  But  Christophe  was  soon  reassured  when  he  saw  that 
the  sons  of  St.  Gregory  spent  very  little  time  on  their  lower: 
they  only  went  up  it  to  ring  the  bells,  and  spent  the  rest  of 
their  time  in  the  church  below.  It  was  some  time  before  Chris- 
tophe. who  attended  some  of  their  services,  saw  that  it  was  a 
Catholic  cult:  he  had  been  sure  at  the  outset  that  their  rites 
were  those  of  some  little  Protestant  sect.  The  audience  grov- 
eled: the  disciples  were  piouri,  intolerant,  aggressive  on  the 


50  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARTS 

smallest  provocation:  at  their  head  was  a  man  of  a  cold  sort 
of  purity,  rather  childish  and  wilful,  maintaining  the  integrity 
of  his  doctrine,  religious,  moral,  and  artistic,  explaining  in 
abstract  terms  the  Gospel  of  music  to  the  small  number  of  the 
Elect,  and  calmly  damning  Pride  and  Heresy.  To  these  two 
states  of  mind  he  attributed  every  defect  in  art  and  every  vice 
of  humanity:  the  Renaissance,  the  Reformation,  and  present- 
day  Judaism,  which  he  lumped  together  in  one  category.  The 
Jews  of  music  were  burned  in  effigy  after  being  ignominious!}- 
dressed.  The  colossal  Handel  was  soundly  trounced.  Only 
Johann  Sebastian  Bach  attained  salvation  by  the  grace  of  the 
Lord,  who  recognized  that  he  had  been  a  Protestant  by  mistake. 
The  temple  of  the  Rue  Saint-Jacques  fulfilled  an  apostolic 
function :  souls  and  music  found  salvation  there.  The  rules 
of  genius  were  taught  there  most  methodically.  Laborious 
pupils  applied  the  formulas  with  infinite  pains  and  absolute 
certainty.  It  looked  as  though  by  their  pious  labors  they 
were  trying  to  regain  the  criminal  levity  of  their  ancestors: 
the  Aubers,  the  Adams,  and  the  trebly  damned,  the  diabolical 
Berlioz,  the  devil  himself,  didbolus  in  niusica.  With  laudable 
ardor  and  a  sincere  piety  they  spread  the  cult  of  the  ac- 
knowledged masters.  In  ten  years  the  work  they  had  to  show 
was  considerable:  French  music  was  transformed.  Xot  onlv 
the  French  critics,  but  the  musicians  themselves  had  learned 
something  about  music.  There  were  now  composers,  and  even 
virtuosi,  who  were  acquainted  with  the  works  of  Bach.  And 
that  was  not  so  common  even  in  Germany!  But.  above  all,  a 
great  effort  had  been  made  to  combat  the  stay-at-home  spirit 
of  the  French,  who  will  shut  themselves  up  in  their  homes, 
and  cannot  be  induced  to  go  out.  So  their  music  lacks  air: 
it  is  sealed-chamber  music,  sofa  music,  music  with  no  sort  of 
vigor.  Think  of  Beethoven  composing  as  lie  strode  across  coun- 
try, rushing  down  the  hillsides,  swinging  along  through  sun 
and  rain,  terrifying  the  cattle  with  his  wild  shouts  and  gestures! 
There  was  no  danger  of  the  musicians  of  Paris  upsetting  their 
neighbors  with  the  noise  of  their  inspiration,  like  the  bear  of 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  5? 

Bonn.  When  they  composed  they  muted  the  strings  of  their 
thought:  and  the  heavy  hangings  of  their  rooms  prevented  any 
sound  from  outside  hreaking  in  upon  them. 

The  Schola  had  tried  to  let  in  fresh  air,  and  had  opened  the 
windows  upon  the  past.  But  on'y  on  the  past.  The  windows 
were  opened  upon  a  courtyard,  not  into  the  street.  And  it  was 
not  much  use.  Hardly  had  they  opened  the  windows  than 
they  closed  the  shutters,  like  old  women  afraid  of  catching 
cold.  And  there  came  up  a  gust  or  two  of  the  Middle  Ages, 
Bach,  Palestrina,  popular  songs.  But  what  was  the  good  of 
that?  The  room  still  smelt  of  stale  air.  But  really  that 
suited  them  very  well :  they  were  afraid  of  the  great  modern 
draughts  of  air.  And  if  they  knew  more  than  other  people, 
they  also  denied  more  in  art.  Their  music  took  on  a  doctrinal 
character:  there  was  no  relaxation:  their  concerts  were  history 
lectures,  or  a  string  of  edifying  examples.  Advanced  ideas  be- 
came academic.  The  great  Bach,  he  whose  music  is  like  a  tor- 
rent, was  received  into  the  bosom  of  the  Church  and  then 
tamed.  His  music  was  submitted  to  a  transformation  in  the 
minds  of  the  Schola  very  like  the  transformation  to  which  the 
savagely  sensual  Bible  has  been  submitted  in  the  minds  of  the 
English.  As  for  modern  music,  the  doctrine  promulgated  was 
aristocratic  and  eclectic,  an  attempt  to  compound  the  distinctive 
characteristics  of  the  three  or  four  great  periods  of  music  from 
the  sixth  to  the  twentieth  century.  If  it  had  been  possible  to 
carry  it  out,  the  resulting  music  would  have  been  like  those 
hybrid  structures  raised  by  a  Viceroy  of  India  on  his  return 
from  his  travels,  with  rare  materials  collected  in  every  corner 
of  the  earth.  But  the  good  sense  of  the  French  saved  them 
from  any  such  barbarically  erudite  excesses:  they  carefully 
avoided  any  application  of  their  theories:  they  treated  them  as 
Moliere  treated  his  doctors:  they  took  their  prescriptions,  but 
did  not  carry  them  out.  The  best  of  them  went  their  own  way. 
The  rest  of  them  contented  themselves  in  practice  with  very 
intricate  and  difficult  exercises  in  counterpoint:  they  called 
them  sonatas,  quartets,  and  symphonies.  ..."  Sonata,  what 


58  JEAF-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

do  you  desire  of  me  ? ''  The  poor  thing  desired  nothing  at  all 
except  to  be  a  sonata.  The  idea  behind  it  was  abstract  and 
anonymous,  heavy  and  joyless.  So  might  a  lawyer  conceive 
an  art.  Christophe,  \vho  had  at  first  been  by  way  of  being 
pleased  with  the  French  for  not  liking  Brahms,  no\v  thought 
that  there  were  many,  many  little  Brahms  in  France.  These 
laborious,  conscientious,  honest  journeymen  had  many  qualities 
and  virtues.  Christophe  left  them  edified,  but  bored  to  dis- 
traction. It  was  all  very  good,  very  good.  .  .  . 
How  fine  it  was  outside ! 

And  yet  there  were  a  few  independent  musicians  in  Paris, 
men  belonging  to  no  school.  They  alone  were  interesting  to 
Christophe.  It  was  only  through  them  that  he  could  gauge 
the  vitality  of  the  art.  Schools  and  coteries  only  express  some 
superficial  fashion  or  manufactured  theory.  But  the  inde- 
pendent men  who  stand  apart  have  more  chance  of  really  dis- 
covering the  ideas  of  their  race  and  time.  It  is  true  that 
that  makes  them  all  the  more  difficult  for  a  foreigner  to  un- 
derstand. 

That  was,  in  fact,  what  happened  when  Christophe  first 
heard  the  famous  work  which  the  French  had  so  extravagantly 
praised,  while  some  of  them  were  announcing  the  coming  of 
the  greatest  musical  revolution  of  the  last  ten  centuries.  ( It 
was  easy  for  them  to  talk  about  centuries:  they  knew  hardly 
anything  of  any  except  their  own.) 

Theophile  Goujart  and  Sylvain  Kohn  took  Christophe  to  the 
Opera  Comique  to  hear  Pc-llcas  and  Melisande.  They  were 
proud  to  display  the  opera  to  him — as  proud  as  though  they 
had  written  it  themselves.  They  gave  Christophe  to  under- 
stand that  it  would  be  the  road  to  Damascus  for  him.  And 
they  went  on  eulogizing  it  even  after  the  piece  had  begun. 
Christophe  shut  them  up  and  listened  intently.  After  the  first 
act  he  turned  to  Sylvain  Kohn,  who  asked  him.  with  glittering 
eyes : 

"  \Yell,  old  man,  what  do  you  think  of  it  ?  " 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  59 

And  he  said : 

"Is  it  like  that  all  through?" 

"Yes." 

"But  it's  nothing." 

Kolm  protested  loudly,  and  called  him  a  Philistine. 

"  Nothing  at  all,"  said  Christophe.  "  No  music.  No  de- 
velopment. No  sequence.  No  cohesion.  Very  nice  harmony. 
Quite  good  orchestral  effects,  quite  good.  But  it's  nothing — 
nothing  at  all.  ..." 

He  listened  through  the  second  act.  Little  by  little  the 
lantern  gathered  light  and  glowed :  and  he  began  to  perceive 
something  through  the  twilight.  Yes :  he  could  understand 
the  sober-minded  rebellion  against  the  Wagnerian  ideal  which 
swamped  the  drama  with  floods  of  music;  but  he  wondered  a 
little  ironically  if  the  ideal  of  sacrifice  did  not  mean  the  sacrifice 
of  something  which  one  does  not  happen  to  possess.  He  felt 
the  easy  fluency  of  the  opera,  the  production  of  an  effect  with 
the  minimum  of  trouble,  the  indolent  renunciation  o!'  the 
sturdy  effort  shown  in  the  vigorous  Wagnerian  structures. 
And  he  was  quite  struck  by  the  unity  of  it,  the  simple,  modest, 
rather  dragging  declamation,  although  it  seemed  monotonous 
to  him,  and,  to  his  German  ears,  it  sounded  false:— (and  it 
even  seemed  to  him  that  the  more  it  aimed  at  truth  the  more 
it  showed  how  little  the  French  language  was  suited  to  music: 
it  is  too  logical,  too  precise,  too  definite. — a  world  perfect  in 
itself,  but  hermetically  sealed). — However,  the  attempt  was  in- 
teresting, and  Christophe  gladly  sympathized  with  the  spirit 
of  revolt  and  reaction  against  the  over-emphasis  and  violence 
of  Wagnerian  art.  The  French  composer  seemed  to  have  de- 
voted his  attention  discreetly  and  ironically  to  all  the  tilings 
that  sentiment  and  passion  onlv  whisper,  lie  showed  love 
and  death  inarticulate.  It  was  only  by  the  imperceptible 
throbbing  of  a  melody,  a  little  thrill  from  the  orchestra  that 
was  no  more  than  a  quivering  of  the  corners  of  the  lips,  that 
the  drama  passing  through  the  souls  of  the  characters  was 
brought  home  to  the  audience.  It  was  as  though  the  artist  were 


60  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

fearful  of  letting  himself  go.  He  had  the  genius  .of  taste — 
except  at  certain  moments  when  the  Massenet  slumbering  in  the 
heart  of  every  Frenchman  awoke  and  waxed  lyrical.  Then 
there  showed  hair  that  was  too  golden,  lips  that  wrere  too  red — 
the  Lot's  wife  of  the  Third  Republic  playing  the  lover.  But 
such  moments  were  the  exception :  they  were  a  relaxation  of 
the  writer's  self-imposed  restraint :  throughout  the  rest  of  the 
opera  there  reigned  a  delicate  simplicity,  a  simplicity  which 
was  not  so  VCTJ  simple,  a  deliberate  simplicity,  the  subtle 
flower  of  an  ancient  society.  That  young  Barbarian,  Chris- 
tophe,  only  half  liked  it.  The  whole  scheme  of  the  play,  the 
poem,  worried  him.  He  saw  a  middle-aged  Parisienne  posing 
childishly  and  having  fairy-tales  told  to  her.  It  was  not  the 
Wagnerian  sickliness,  sentimental  and  clumsy,  like  a  girl  from 
the  Rhine  provinces.  But  the  Franco-Belgian  sickliness  was 
not  much  better,  with  its  simpering  parlor-tricks: — "the  hair," 
"  the  little  father,"  "  the  doves," — and  the  whole  trick  of  mys- 
tery for  the  delectation  of  society  women.  The  soul  of  the 
Parisienne  was  mirrored  in  the  little  piece,  which,  like  a  flat- 
tering picture,  showed  the  languid  fatalism,  the  boudoir  Xir- 
vana,  the  soft,  sweet  melancholy.  Xowhcre  a  trace  of  will- 
power. No  one  knew  what  he  wanted.  Xo  one  knew  what  he 
was  doing. 

"  It  is  not  my  fault !  It  is  not  my  fault !  "  these  grown-up 
children  groaned.  All  through  the  five  acts,  which  took  place 
in  a  perpetual  half-light — forests,  caves,  cellars,  death-cham- 
bers— little  sea-birds  struggled:  hardly  even  that.  Poor  little 
birds!  Pretty  birds,  soft,  pretty  birds.  .  .  .  They  were  so 
afraid  of  too  much  light,  of  the  brutality  of  deeds,  words,  pas- 
sions— life!  Life  is  not  soft  and  pretty.  Life  is  no  kid-glove 
matter.  .  .  . 

Christophe  could  hear  in  the  distance  the  rumbling  of  can- 
non, coming  to  batter  down  that  worn-out  civilization,  that 
perishing  little  Greece. 

Was  it  that  proud  feeling  of  melancholy  and  pity  that  made 
him  in  spite  of  all  sympathize  with  the  opera?  It  interested 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  61 

him  more  than  he  would  admit.  Although  he  went  on  telling 
Sylvain  Kohn,  as  they  left  the  theater,  that  it  was  "  very  fine, 
very  fine,  but  lacking  in  Scliwung  (impulse),  and  did  not  con- 
tain enough  music  for  him,"  he  was  careful  not  to  confound 
Pelleas  with  the  other  music  of  the  French.  He  was  attracted 
by  the  lamp  shining  through  the  fog.  And  then  he  saw  other 
lights,  vivid  and  fantastic,  flickering  round  it.  His  attention 
was  caught  by  these  will-o'-the-wisps:  he  would  have  liked  to 
go  near  them  to  find  out  how  it  was  that  they  shone :  but  they 
were  not  easy  to  catch.  These  independent  musicians,  whom 
Christophe  did  not  understand,  were  not  very  approachable. 
They  seemed  to  lack  that  great  need  of  sympathy  which  pos- 
sessed Christophe.  With  a  few  exceptions  they  seemed  to  read 
very  little,  know  very  little,  desire  very  little.  They  almost 
all  lived  in  retirement,  some  outside  Paris,  others  in  Paris,  but 
isolated,  by  circumstances  or  purposely,  shut  up  in  a  narrow 
circle — from  pride,  shyness,  disgust,  or  apathy.  There  were 
very  few  of  them,  but  they  were  split  up  into  rival  groups, 
and  could  not  tolerate  each  other.  They  were  extremely 
susceptible,  and  could  not  bear  with  their  enemies,  or  their 
rivals,  or  even  their  friends,  when  they  dared  to  admire  any 
other  musician  than  themselves,  or  when  they  admired  too 
coldly,  or  too  fervently,  or  in  too  commonplace  or  too  ec- 
centric a  manner.  It  was  extremely  difficult  to  please  them. 
Every  one  of  them  had  actually  sanctioned  a  critic,  armed 
with  letters  patent,  who  kept  a  jealous  watch  at  the  foot  of 
the  statue.  Visitors  were  requested  not  to  touch.  They  did 
not  gain  any  greater  understanding  from  being  understood 
only  by  their  own  little  groups.  They  were  deformed  by  the 
adulation  and  the  opinion  that  their  partisans  and  they  them- 
selves held  of  their  work,  and  they  lost  grip  of  their  art  and 
their  genius.  Men  with  a  pleasing  fantasy  thought  themselves 
reformers,  and  Alexandrine  artists  posed  as  rivals  of  Wagner. 
They  were  almost  all  the  victims  of  competition.  Every  day 
they  had  to  leap  a  little  higher  than  the  day  before,  and, 
especially,  higher  than  their  rivals.  These  exercises  in  high 


62  JEAX-CHRISTOPIIE  IX  PARIS 

jumping  were  not  always  successful,  and  were  certainly  not  at- 
tractive except  to  professionals.  They  took  no  account  of 
the  public,  and  the  public  never  bothered  about  them.  Their 
art  was  out  of  touch  with  the  people,  music  which  was  onlv  fed 
from  music.  Xow,  Christophe  was  under  the  impression, 
rightly  or  wrongly,  that  there  was  no  music  that  had  a  greater 
need  of  outside  support  than  French  music.  That  supple 
climbing  plant  needed  a  prop:  it  could  not  do  without  litera- 
ture, but  did  not  find  in  it  enough  of  the  breath  of  life.  French 
music  was  breathless,  bloodless,  will-less.  It  was  like  a  woman 
languishing  for  her  lover.  But,  like  a  Byzantine  Empress,  slen- 
der and  feeble  in  body,  laden  with  precious  stones,  it  was 
surrounded  with  eunuchs:  snobs,  esthetes,  and  critics.  The 
nation  was  not  musical:  and  the  craze,  so  much  talked  of  dur- 
ing the  last  twenty  years,  for  Wagner,  Beethoven.  Bach,  or 
Debussy,  never  reached  farther  than  a  certain  class.  The 
enormous  increase  in  the  number  of  concerts,  the  flowing  tide 
of  music  at  all  costs,  found  no  real  response  in  the  develop- 
ment of  public  taste.  It  was  just  a  fashionable  craze  confined 
to  the  few,  and  leading  them  astray.  There  was  only  a  handful 
of  people  who  really  loved  music,  and  these  were  not  the 
people  who  were  most  occupied  with  it,  composers  and  critics. 
There  are  so  few  musicians  in  France  who  really  love  music ! 

So  thought  Christophe:  but  it  did  not  occur  to  him  that 
it  is  the  same  everywhere,  that  even  in  Germany  there  are  not 
many  more  real  musicians,  and  that  the  people  who  matter  in 
art  are  not  the  thousands  who  understand  nothing  about  it, 
but  the  few  who  love  it  and  serve  it  in  proud  humilitv.  Had 
he  ever  set  eyes  on  them  in  France:'  Creators  and  critics — • 
the  best  of  them  were  working  in  silence,  far  from  the  racket, 
as  Cesar  Franck  had  done,  and  the  most  gifted  composers  of 
the  day  were  doing,  and  a  number  of  artists  who  would  live 
out  their  lives  in  obscurity,  so  that  some  day  in  the  future 
soine  journalist  might  have  the  glory  of  discovering  them  and 
posinir  as  their  frii-nd — and  the  little  army  of  industrious  and 
obscure  men  of  learning  who.  without  ambition  and  careless 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  63 

of  their  fame,  were  building  stone  by  stone  the  greatness  of 
the  past  history  of  France,  or,  being  vowed  to  the  musical  edu- 
cation of  the  country,  were  preparing  the  greatness  of  the 
France  of  the  future.  There  were  minds  there  whose  wealth 
and  liberty  and  world-wide  curiosity  would  have  attracted  Chris- 
tophe  if  he  had  been  able  to  discover  them !  But  at  most  he 
only  caught  a  cursory  glimpse  of  two  or  three  of  them :  he 
only  made  their  acquaintance  in  the  villainous  caricatures  of 
their  ideas.  He  saw  only  their  defects  copied  and  exaggerated 
by  the  apish  mimics  of  art  and  the  bagmen  of  the  Press. 

But  what  most  disgusted  him  with  these  vulgarians  of  music 
was  their  formalism.  They  never  seemed  to  consider  anything 
but  form.  Feeling,  character,  life — never  a  word  of  these ! 
It  never  seemed  to  occur  to  them  that  every  real  musician 
lives  in  a  world  of  sound,  as  other  men  live  in  a  visible  world, 
and  that  his  days  are  lived  in  and  borne  onward  by  a  flood 
of  music.  Music  is  the  air  he  breathes,  the  sky  above  him. 
Nature  wakes  answering  music  in  his  soul.  His  soul  itself  is 
music :  music  is  in  all  that  it  loves,  hates,  suffers,  fears,  hopes. 
And  when  the  soul  of  a  musician  loves  a  beautiful  body,  it 
sees  music  in  that,  too.  The  beloved  eyes  are  not  blue,  or 
brown,  or  gray :  they  are  music :  their  tenderness  is  like  caressing 
notes,  like  a  delicious  chord.  That  inward  music  is  a  thou- 
sand times  more  rich  than  the  music  that  finds  expression,  and 
the  instrument  is  inferior  to  the  player.  Genius  is  measured 
by  the  power  of  life,  by  the  power  of  evoking  life  through  the 
imperfect  instrument  of  art.  But  to  how  many  men  in  France 
does  that  ever  occur?  To  these  chemists  music  seems  to  be  no 
more  than  the  art  of  resolving  sounds.  They  mistake  the 
alphabet  for  a  book.  Christophe  shrugged  his  shoulders  when 
he  heard  them  say  complacently  that  to  understand  art  it  must 
be  abstracted  from  the  man.  They  were  extraordinarily  pleased 
with  this  paradox:  for  by  it  they  fancied  they  were  proving  their 
own  musical  quality.  And  even  Goujart  subscribed  to  it — • 
Goujart,  the  idiot  who  had  never  been  able  to  understand  how 
people  managed  to  learn  by  heart  a  piece  of  music — (he  had 


64  JEAX-CHEISTOPHE  IN  PAEIS 

tried  to  get  Ohristophe  to  explain  the  mystery  to  him) — and 
had  tried  to  prove  to  him  that  Beethoven's  greatness  of  soul 
and  Wagner's  sensuality  had  no  more  to  do  with  their  music 
than  a  painter's  model  has  to  do  with  his  portraits. 

Christophe  lost  patience  with  him,  and  said : 

"  That  only  proves  that  a  beautiful  body  is  of  no  more  artistic 
value  to  you  than  a  great  passion.  Poor  fellow !  .  .  .  You 
have  no  notion  of  the  beauty  given  to  a  portrait  by  the 
beauty  of  a  perfect  face,  or  of  the  glow  of  beauty 
given  to  music  by  the  beauty  of  the  great  soul  which  is  mir- 
rored in  it?  .  .  .  Poor  fellow!  .  .  .  You  are  interested 
only  in  the  handiwork?  So  long  as  it  is  well  done  you  are  not 
concerned  with  the  meaning  of  a  piece  of  work.  .  .  .  Poor 
fellow !  .  .  .  You  are  like  those  people  who  do  not  listen  to 
what  an  orator  says,  but  only  to  the  sound  of  his  voice,  and 
watch  his  gestures  without  understanding  them,  and  then  say 
he  speaks  devilish  well.  .  .  .  Poor  fellow !  Poor  wretch ! 
.  .  .  Oh,  you  rotten  swine  !  " 

But  it  was  not  only  a  particular  theory  that  irritated  Chris- 
tophe; it  was  all  their  theories.  He  was  appalled  by  their 
unending  arguments,  their  Byzantine  discussions,  the  everlast- 
ing talk,  talk,  talk,  of  musicians  about  music,  and  nothing 
else.  It  was  enough  to  make  the  best  of  musicians  heartily 
sick  of  music.  Like  Moussorgski.  Christophe  thought  that  it 
would  be  as  well  for  musicians  every  now  and  then  to  leave 
their  counterpoint  and  harmony  in  favor  of  books  or  experi- 
ence of  life.  Music  is  not  enough  for  a  present-day  musician; 
not  thus  will  he  dominate  his  age  and  raise  his  head  above 
the  stream  of  time.  .  .  .  Life!  All  life!  To  see  every- 
thing, to  know  everything,  to  feel  everything.  To  love,  to 
seek,  to  grasp  Truth — the  lovely  Pcnlhesili>a.  Queen  of  the 
Amazons,  \vhose  teeth  bite  in  answer  to  a  kiss! 

Away  with  your  musical  discussion-societies,  away  with  your 
chord-factories!  Not  all  the  twaddle  of  the  harmonic  kitchens 
would  ever  help  him  to  find  a  new  harmony  that  was  alive, 
alive,  and  not  a  monstrous  birth. 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  65 

He  turned  his  back  on  these  Doctor  Wagners,  brooding  on 
their  alembics  to  hatch  out  some  homuncuhis  in  bottle:  and. 
running  away  from  French  music,  he  sought  to  enter  literary 
circles  and  Parisian  society.  Like  many  millions  of  people 
in  France,  Christophe  made  his  first  acquaintance  with  mod- 
ern French  literature  through  the  newspapers.  He  wanted 
to  get  the  measure  of  Parisian  thought  as  quickly  as  possible, 
and  at  the  same  time  to  perfect  his  knowledge  of  the  language. 
And  so  he  set  himself  conscientiously  to  read  the  papers  which 
he  was  told  were  most  Parisian.  On  the  lirst  day  alter  a  hor- 
rilic  chronicle  of  events,  which  filled  several  pages  with  para- 
graphs and  snapshots,  he  read  a  story  about  a  father  and  a 
daughter,  a  girl  of  fifteen:  it  was  narrated  as  though  it  were 
a  matter  of  course,  and  even  rather  moving.  Next  day.  in  the 
same  paper,  he  read  a  story  about  a  father  and  a  son.  a  boy  of 
twelve,  .and  the  girl  was  mixed  up  in  it  again.  On  the  fol- 
lowing day  he  read  a  story  about  a  brother  and  a  sister.  Next 
day,  the  story  was  about  two  sisters.  On  the  lil'th  day  .  .  . 
On  the  fifth  day  lie  hurled  the  paper  away  with  a  shudder,  and 
said  to  Sylvain  Kohn : 

"But  what's  the  matter  with  you  all?     Are  you  ill?" 

Sylvain  Kohn  began  to  laugh,  and  said: 

"That  is  art." 

Christophe  shrugged  his  shoulders: 

"  You're  pulling  my  leg." 

Kohn  laughed  once  more : 

"Not  at  all.     liVnd  a  little  more." 

Ami  he  pointed  to  the  report  of  a  recent  inquiry  into  Art 
and  Morality,  which  set  out  that  "  Love  sanctified  everything." 
that  "  Sensuality  was  the  leaven  of  Art."  that  "  Art  could  not 
be  immoral/'  that  "  Morality  was  a  convention  of  Jesuit  flu- 
cation,''  and  that  nothing  mattered  except  "the  greatness  of 
Desire."  A  number  of  letters  from  literary  men  witnes>ei|  the 
artistic  purity  of  a  novel  depicting  the  life  of  b;i\vds.  Some  of 
the  signatories  were  among  the  greatest  names  in  contem- 
porary literature,  or  the  most  austere  of  critics.  A  domestic 


66  JEAN-CHEISTOPHE  IN  PAEIS 

poet,  bourgeois  and  a  Catholic,  gave  his  blessing  as  an  artist 
to  a  detailed  description  of  the  decadence  of  the  Greeks.  There 
were  enthusiastic  praises  of  novels  in  which  the  course  of 
Lewdness  was  followed  through  the  ages :  Koine,  Alexandria, 
Byzantium,  the  Italian  and  French  Kenaissance,  the  Age  of 
Greatness  .  .  .  Nothing  was  omitted.  Another  cycle  of 
studies  was  devoted  to  the  various  countries  of  the  world: 
conscientious  writers  had  devoted  their  energies,  with  a  monkish 
patience,  to  the  study  of  the  low  quarters  of  the  five  continents. 
And  it  was  no  matter  for  surprise  to  discover  among  these 
geographers  and  historians  of  Pleasure  distinguished  poets  and 
very  excellent  writers.  They  were  only  marked  out  from  the 
rest  by  their  erudition.  In  their  most  impeccable  style  they 
told  archaic  stories,  highly  spiced. 

But  what  was  most  alarming  was  to  see  honest  men  and  real 
artists,  men  who  rightly  enjoyed  a  high  place  in  French  litera- 
ture, struggling  in  such  a  traffic,  for  which  they  were  not  at  all 
suited.  Some  of  them  with  great  travail  wrote,  like  the  rest, 
the  sort  of  trash  that  the  newspapers  serialize.  They  had  to 
produce  it  by  a  fixed  time,  once  or  twice  a  week :  and  it  had 
been  going  on  for  years.  They  went  on  producing  and  pro- 
ducing, long  after  they  had  ceased  to  have  anything  to  say, 
racking  their  brains  to  find  something  new,  something  more 
sensational,  more  bizarre :  for  the  public  was  surfeited  and  sick 
of  everything,  and  soon  wearied  of  even  the  most  wanton 
imaginary  pleasures:  they  had  always  to  go  one  better — better 
than  the  rest,  better  than  their  own  best — and  they  squeezed 
out  their  very  life-blood,  they  squeezed  out  their  guts:  it  was 
a  pitiable  sight,  a  grotesque  spectacle. 

Christophe,  who  did  not  know  the  ins  and  outs  of  that 
melancholy  trallic,  and  if  he  had  known  them  would  not  have 
been  more  indulgent;  for  in  his  eyes  nothing  in  the  world  could 
excuse  an  artist  for  selling  his  art  for  thirty  pieces  of  sil- 
ver. .  .  . 

(Xot  even  to  assure  the  well-being  of  those  whom  he  loves? 

Xot  even  then. 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  67 

That  is  not  human. 

It  is  not  a  question  of  being  human;  it  is  a  question  of  be- 
ing a  man.  .  .  .  Human !  .  .  .  May  God  have  mercy  on 
your  white-livered  humanitarianism,  it  is  so  bloodless!  .  .  . 
No  man  loves  twenty  things,  at  once,  no  man  can  serve  many 
gods!  .  .  .) 

.  .  .  Christophe,  who,  in  his  hard-working  life,  had  hardly 
yet  seen  beyond  the  limits  of  his  little  German  town,  could 
have  no  idea  that  this  artistic  degradation,  which  showed  so 
rawly  in  Paris,  was  common  to  nearly  all  the  great  towns :  and 
the  hereditary  prejudices  of  chaste  Germany  against  Latin  im- 
morality awoke  in  him  once  more.  And  yet  Sylvain  Kohn 
might  easily  have  pointed  to  what  was  going  on  by  the  banks 
of  the  Spree,  and  the  impurity  of  Imperial  Germany,  where 
brutality  made  shame  and  degradation  even  more  repulsive. 
But  Sylvain  Kohn  never  thought  of  it :  he  was  no  more  shocked 
by  that  than  by  the  life  of  Paris.  He  thought  ironically : 
"  Every  nation  has  its  little  ways,"  and  the  ways  of  the  world 
in  which  he  lived  seemed  so  natural  to  him  that  Christophe 
could  be  excused  for  thinking  it  was  in  the  nature  of  the  peo- 
ple. And  so,  like  so  many  of  his  compatriots,  he  saw  in  the 
secret  sore  which  is  eating  away  the  intellectual  aristocracies 
of  Europe  the  vice  proper  to  French  art,  and  the  bankruptcy 
of  the  Latin  races. 

Christophe  was  hurt  by  his  first  encounter  with  French  lit- 
erature, and  it  took  him  some  time  to  get  over  it.  And  yet 
there  were  plenty  of  books  which  were  not  solely  occupied 
with  what  one  of  these  writers  has  nobly  called  "  the  taste 
for  fundamental  entertainments/'  But  he  never  laid  hands 
on  the  best  and  finest  of  them.  Such  books  were  not  written 
for  the  like  of  Sylvain  Kohn  and  his  friends:  they  did  not 
bother  about  them,  and  certainly  Kohn  and  the  rest  never 
bothered  about  the  better  class  of  books:  they  ignored  each 
other.  Sylvain  Kohn  would  never  have  thought  of  mention- 
ing them  to  Christophe.  He  was  quite  sincerely  convinced 
that  his  friends  and  himself  we're  the  incarnation  of  French 


08  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  TX  PARTS 

Art,  and  thought  theiv  was  no  talent,  no  art,  no  France  outside 
the  men  who  had  been  consecrated  as  great  by  their  opinion 
and  the  press  of  the  boulevards.  Christophe  know  nothing 
about  the  poets  who  were  the  glory  of  French  literature,  the 
very  crown  of  France.  Very  few  of  the  novelists  reached  him, 
or  emerged  from  the  ocean  of  mediocre  writers:  a  few  books 
of  Barres  and  Anatole  France.  But  he  was  not  sufficiently 
familiar  with  the  language  to  be  able  to  enjoy  the  universal 
dilettantism,  and  erudition,  and  irony  of  the  one,  or  the  un- 
equal but  superior  art  of  the  other.  lie  spent  some  time  in 
watching  the  little  orange-trees  in  tubs  growing  in  the  hot- 
house of  Anatole  France,  and  the  delicate,  perfect  flowers 
clambering  over  the  gravelike  soul  of  Barres.  He  stayed  for 
a  moment  or  two  before  the  genius,  part  sublime,  part  silly, 
of  Maeterlinck:  from  that  there  issued  a  polite  mysticism, 
monotonous,  numbing  like  some  vague  sorrow.  He  shook  him- 
self, and  plunged  into  the  heavy,  sluggish  stream,  the  muddy 
romanticism  of  Zola,  with  whom  he  was  already  acquainted,  and 
when  he  emerged  from  that  it  was  to  sink  back  and  drown  in  a 
deluge  of  literature. 

The  submerged  lands  exhaled  an  odor  dl  fc.inina.  The  lit- 
erature of  the  day  teemed  with  effeminate  men  and  women. 
It  is  well  that  women  should  write  if  they  are  sincere  enough  to 
describe  what  no  man  has  yet  seen  :  the  depths  of  the  soul  of  a 
woman.  But  only  very  few  dared  do  that:  most  of  them  only 
wrote  to  attract  the  men:  they  were  as  untruthful  in  their 
books  as  in  their  drawing-rooms:  tliev  jockeyed  their  facts  and 
flirted  with  the  reader.  Since  thev  were  no  long 
and  had  no  confessor  to  whom  to  tell  their  little 
told  them  to  the  public.  There  was  a  perfect  shower  of  novels, 
almost  all  scabrous,  all  all'ected,  written  in  a  sort  of  lisping 
>4yle,  a  style;  scented  \\itli  flowers  and  line  perfumes — sometimes 
too  fine — sometimes  not  line  at  all — and  the  eternal  stale,  warm, 
sweetish  smell.  Their  books  reeked  of  it.  Christophe  thought, 
like  (Joethe:  "Let  women  do  what  they  like  with  poetry  and 
•writing:  but  men  must  not  write  like  women!  That  I  can- 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  69 

not  stand."  He  could  not  help  being  disgusted  by  their  tricks, 
their  sly  coquetry,  their  sentimentality,  which  seemed  to  ex- 
pend itself  by  preference  upon  creatures  hardly  worthy  of  in- 
terest, their  style  crammed  with  metaphor,  their  love-making 
and  sensuality,  their  hotch-potch  of  subtlety  and  brutality. 

But  Christophe  was  ready  to  admit  that  he  was  not  in  a 
position  to  judge.  He  was  deafened  by  the  row  of  this  babel 
of  words.  It  was  impossible  to  hear  the  little  fluting  sounds 
that  were  drowned  in  it  all.  For  even  among  such  books  as 
these  there  were  some,  from  the  pages  of  which,  behind  all  the 
nonsense,  there  shone  the  limpid  sky  and  the  harmonious  out- 
line of  the  hills  of  Attica — so  much  talent,  so  much  grace,  a 
sweet  breath  of  life,  and  charm  of  style,  a  thought  like  the 
voluptuous  women  or  the  languid  boys  of  Perugino  and  the 
young  ^Raphael,  smiling,  with  half-closed  eyes,  at  their  dream 
of  love.  But  Christophe  was  blind  to  that.  Nothing  could  re- 
veal to  him  the  dominant  tendencies,  the  currents  of  public 
opinion.  Even  a  Frenchman  would  have  been  hard  put  to  it 
to  see  them.  And  the  only  definite  impression  that  he  had  at 
this  time  was  that  of  a  flood  of  writing  which  looked  like  a 
national  disaster.  It  seemed  as  though  everybody  wrote:  men. 
women,  children,  officers,  actors,  society  people,  blackguards. 
It  was  an  epidemic. 

For  the  time  being  Christophe  gave  it  up.  He  felt  that 
such  a  guide  as  Sylvain  Kohn  must  lead  him  hopelessly  astray. 
His  experience  of  a  literary  coterie  in  Germany  gave  him 
very  properly  a  profound  distrust  of  the  people  whom  he  met: 
it  was  impossible  to  know  whether  or  no  they  only  represented 
the  opinion  of  a  few  hundred  idle  people,  or  even,  in  certain 
cases,  whether  or  no  the  author  was  his  own  public.  The 
theater  gave  a  more  exact  idea  of  the  society  of  Paris.  It 
played  an  enormous  part  in  the  daily  life  of  tin1  city.  It 
was  an  enormous  kitchen,  a  Pantagruelesque  restaurant,  which 
could  not  cope  with  the  appetite  of  the  two  million  inhabitants. 
There  were  thirty  leading  theaters,  without  counting  the  local 
houses,  cafe  concerts,  all  sorts  of  shows— a  hundred  halls,  all 


70  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

giving  performances  every  evening,  and,  every  evening,  almost 
all  full.  A  whole  nation  of  actors  and  officials.  Vast  sums 
were  swallowed  up  in  the  gulf.  The  four  State-aided  theaters 
gave  work  to  three  thousand  people,  and  cost  the  country  ten 
million  francs.  The  whole  of  Paris  re-echoed  with  the  glory 
of  the  play-actors.  It  was  impossible  to  go  anywhere  without 
seeing  innumerable  photographs,  drawings,  caricatures,  repro- 
ducing their  features  and  mannerisms,  gramophones  reproduc- 
ing their  voices,  and  the  newspapers  their  opinions  on  art  and 
politics.  They  had  special  newspapers  devoted  to  them.  They 
published  their  heroic  and  domestic  Memoirs.  These  big  self- 
conscious  children,  who  spent  their  time  in  aping  each  other, 
these  wonderful  apes  reigned  and  held  sway  over  the  Parisians: 
and  the  dramatic  authors  were  their  chief  ministers.  Chris- 
tophe  asked  Sylvain  Kohn  to  conduct  him  into  the  kingdom 
of  shadows  and  reflections. 

But  Sylvain  Kohn  was  no  safer  as  a  guide  in  that  world 
than  in  the  world  of  books,  and,  thanks  to  him,  Christophe's 
first  impression  was  almost  as  repulsive  as  that  of  his  first- 
essay  in  literature.  It  seemed  that  there  was  everywhere  the 
same  spirit  of  mental  prostitution. 

The  pleasure-mongers  were  divided  into  two  schools.  On 
the  one  hand  there  was  the  good  old  way,  the  national  way,  of 
providing  a  coarse  and  unclean  pleasure,  quite  frankly;  a  de- 
light in  ugliness,  strong  meat,  physical  deformities,  a  show  of 
drawers,  barrack-room  jests,  risky  stories,  red  pepper,  high 
game,  private  rooms — "  a  manly  frankness,"  as  those  people  say 
who  try  to  reconcile  looseness  and  morality  by  pointing  out  that, 
after  four  acts  of  dubious  fun,  order  is  restored  and  the  Code 
triumphs  by  the  fact  that  the  wife  is  really  with  the  husband 
whom  she  thinks  she  is  deceiving — (so  long  as  the  law  is  ob- 
served, then  virtue  is  all  right)  : — that  vicious  sort  of  virtue 
which  defends  marriage  by  endowing  it  with  all  the  charm  of 
lewdness  : — the  Gallic  way. 

The  other  school  was   in  the   modern  style.     It   was   much 


THE  MAEKET-PLACE  71 

more  subtle  and  much  more  disgusting.  The  Parisianized  Jews 
and  the  Judaicized  Christians  who  frequented  the  theater  had 
introduced  into  it  the  usual  hash  of  sentiment  which  is  the  dis- 
tinctive feature  of  a  degenerate  cosmopolitanism.  Those  sons 
who  blushed  for  their  fathers  set  themselves  to  abnegate  their 
racial  conscience:  and  they  succeeded  only  too  well.  Having 
plucked  out  the  soul  that  was  their  birthright,  all  that  was 
left  them  was  a  mixture  of  the  moral  and  intellectual  values 
of  other  races:  they  made  a  macedoine  of  them,  an  oil  a  podrida: 
it  was  their  way  of  taking  possession  of  them.  The  men  who 
who  were  at  that  time  in  control  of  the  theaters  in  Paris  were 
extraordinarily  skilful  at  beating  up  filth  and  sentiment,  and 
giving  virtue  a  flavoring  of  vice,  vice  a  flavoring  of  virtue, 
and  turning  upside  down  every  human  relation  of  age,  sex,  the 
family,  and  the  affections.  Their  art,  therefore,  had  an  odor 
sui  generis,  which  smelt  both  good  and  bad  at  once — that  is  to 
say,  it  smelled  very  bad  indeed :  they  called  it  "  amoralism." 

One  of  their  favorite  heroes  at  that  time  was  the  amorous 
old  man.  Their  theaters  presented  a  rich  gallery  of  portraits 
of  the  type:  and  in  painting  it  they  introduced  a  thousand 
pretty  touches.  Sometimes  the  sexagenarian  hero  would  take 
his  daughter  into  his  confidence,  and  talk  to  her  about  his 
mistress :  and  she  would  talk  about  her  lovers :  and  they  would 
give  each  other  friendly  advice :  the  kindly  father  would  aid  his 
daughter  in  her  indiscretions:  and  the  precious  daughter  would 
intervene  with  the  unfaithful  mistress,  beg  her  to  return,  and 
bring  her  back  to  the  fold.  Sometimes  the  good  old  man  would 
listen  to  the  confidences  of  his  mistress:  he  would  talk  to  her 
about  her  lovers,  or,  if  nothing  better  was  forthcoming,  he 
would  listen  to  the  tale  of  her  gallantries,  and  even  take  a 
delight  in  them.  And  there  were  portraits  of  lovers,  distin- 
guished gentlemen,  who  presided  in  the  houses  of  their  former 
mistresses,  and  helped  them  in  their  nefarious  business.  Society 
women  were  thieves.  The  men  were  bawds,  the  girls  were  Les- 
bian. And  all  these  things  happened  in  the  highest  society: 
the  society  of  rich  people — the  only  society  that  mattered.  For 


72  JEAN^CHRISTOPHE  U\T  PA1US 

that  made  it  possible  to  offer  the  patrons  of  the  theater  dam- 
aged goods  under  cover  of  the  delights  of  luxury.  So  tricked 
out,  it  was  displayed  in  the  market,  to  the  joy  of  old  gentle- 
men and  young  women.  And  it  all  reeked  of  death  and  the 
seraglio. 

Their  style  was  not  less  mixed  than  their  sentiments.  They 
had  invented  a  composite  jargon  of  expressions  from  all  classes 
of  society  and  every  country  under  the  sun— pedantic,  slangy, 
classical,  lyrical,  precious,  prurient,  and  low — a  mixture;  of 
bawdy  jests,  affectations,  coarseness,  and  wit,  all  of  which 
seemed  to  have  a  foreign  accent.  Ironical,  and  gifted  with  a 
certain  clownish  humor,  they  had  not  much  natural  wit:  but 
they  were  clever  enough,  and  they  manufactured  their  goods  in 
imitation  of  Paris.  If  the  stone  was  not  always  of  the  first 
water,  and  if  the  setting  was  always  strange  and  overdone, 
at  least  it  shone  in  artificial  light,  and  that  was  all  it  was 
meant  to  do.  They  were;  intelligent,  keen,  though  short- 
sighted observers — their  eyes  had  been  dulled  by  centuries  of 
the  life  of  the  counting-house; — turning  the  magnifying-glass  on 
human  sentiments,  enlarging  small  things,  not  seeing  big  tilings. 
With  a  marked  predilection  for  finery,  they  were  incapable  of 
depicting  anything  but  what  seemed  to  their  upstart  snobbish- 
ness the  ideal  of  polite  society:  a  little  group  of  worn-out  rakes 
and  adventurers,  who  quarreled  among  themselves  for  the  pos- 
session of  certain  stolen  moneys  and  a  few  virtueless  females. 

And  yet  upon  occasion  the  real  nature  of  these  Jewish  writers 
would  suddenly  awake,  come  to  the  surface  from  the  depths 
of  their  being,  in  response  to  some  mysterious  echo  called  forth 
by  some  vivid  word  or  sensation.  Then  there  appeared  a  strange 
hotch-potch  of  ages  and  races,  a  breath  of  wind  from  the  Desert. 
bringing  over  the  seas  to  their  Parisian  rooms  the  musty  smell 
of  a  Turkish  baxaar.  the  daxxling  shim  MUM-  of  the  sands,  the 
mirage,  blind  sensuality,  savage  invective,  nervous  disorder 
only  a  hair's-breadth  away  from  epilepsy,  a  destructive  frenzy 
— Samson,  suddenly  rising  like  a  lion — after  ages  of  squatting 
in  the  shade — and  savauvlv  tearing  down  the  columns  of  the 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  73 

Temple,  which  comes  crashing  down  on  himself  and  on  his 
enemies. 

Christophe  blew  his  nose  and  said  to  Sylvain  Kohn : 

"  There's  power  in  it :  but  it  stinks.  That's  enough !  Let's 
go  and  see  something  else." 

"What?"  asked  Sylvain  Kohn. 

"  France." 

"  That's  it !  "  said  Kohn. 

"  Can't  be,"  replied  Christophe.  "  France  isn't  like 
that." 

"  It's  France,  and  Germany,  too." 

"  I  don't  believe  it.  A  nation  that  was  anything  like  that 
wouldn't  last  for  twenty  years :  why,  it's  decomposing  already. 
There  must  be  something  else." 

"  There's  nothing  better." 

"  There  must  be  something  else,"  insisted  Christophe. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Sylvain  Kohn.  "  We  have  fine  people,  of 
course,  and  theaters  for  them,  too.  Is  that  what  you  want? 
We  can  give  you  that." 

He  took  Christophe  to  the  Theatre  Frangais. 

That  evening  they  happened  to  be  playing  a  modern  com- 
edy, in  prose,  dealing  with  some  legal  problem. 

From  the  very  beginning  Christophe  was  1  willed  to  make 
out  in  what  sort  of  world  the  action  was  taking  place.  The 
voices  of  the  actors  were  out  of  all  reason,  full,  solemn,  slow, 
formal:  they  rounded  every  syllable  as  though  they  were  giving 
a  lesson  in  elocution,  and  thev  seemed  always  to  be  scanning 
Alexandrines  with  tragic  pauses.  Their  gestures  were  solemn 
and  almost  hieratic.  The  heroine,  who  wore  her  go\vn  as 
though  it  were  a  Greek  peplus,  with  arm  uplifted,  and  head 
lowered,  was  nothing  else  but  Antigone,  and  she  smiled  with 
a  smile  of  eternal  sacrifice,  carefully  modulating  the  lower 
notes  of  her  beautiful  contralto  voice.  The  heavy  father  walked 
about  like  a  fencing-master,  with  automatic  gestures,  a  funereal 
dignity, — romanticism  in  a  frock-coat.  The  juvenile  lead 


74  JEAN-CHEISTOPHB  IN  PARIS 

gulped  and  gasped  and  squeezed  out  a  sob  or  two.  The  piece 
was  written  in  the  style  of  a  tragic  serial  story:  abstract 
phrases,  bureaucratic  epithets,  academic  periphrases.  No  move- 
ment, not  a  sound  unrehearsed.  From  beginning  to  end  it  was 
clockwork,  a  set  problem,  a  scenario,  the  skeleton  of  a  play, 
with  not  a  scrap  of  flesh,  only  literary  phrases.  Timid  ideas 
lay  behind  discussions  that  were  meant  to  be  bold:  the  whole 
spirit  of  the  thing  was  hopelessly  middle-class  and  respect- 
able. 

The  heroine  had  divorced  an  unworthy  husband,  by  whom 
she  had  had  a  child,  and  she  had  married  a  good  man  whom 
she  loved.  The  point  was,  that  even  in  such  a  case  as  this 
divorce  was  condemned  by  Nature,  as  it  is  by  prejudice. 
Nothing  could  be  easier  than  to  prove  it:  the  author  contrived 
that  the  woman  should  lie  surprised,  for  one  occasion  only,  into 
yielding  to  the  first  husband.  After  that,  instead  of  a  per- 
fectly natural  remorse,  perhaps  a  profound  sense  of  shame,  to- 
gether with  a  greater  desire  to  love  and  honor  the  second  and 
good  husband,  the  author  trotted  out  an  heroic  case  of  con- 
science, altogether  beyond  Nature.  French  writers  never  seem 
to  be  on  good  terms  with  virtue:  they  always  force  the  note 
when  they  talk  of  it:  they  make  it  quite  incredible.  They  always 
seem  to  be  dealing  with  the  heroes  of  Corncille.  and  tragedy- 
Kings.  And  are  they  not  Kings  and  Queens,  these  millionaire 
heroes,  and  these  heroines  who  would  not  be  interesting  unless 
they  had  at  least  a  mansion  in  Paris  and  two  or  three  country- 
houses?  For  such  writers  and  such  a  public  wealth  itself  is  a 
beauty,  and  almost  a  virtue. 

The  audience  was  even  more  amazing  than  the  play.  They 
were  never  bored  by  all  the  tiresomely  repeated  improbabilities. 
They  laughed  at  the  good  points,  when  the  actors  said  things 
that  were  meant  to  be  laughed  at:  it  was  made  obvious  that 
they  were  coining,  so  that  the  audience  could  be  ready  to  laugh. 
They  mopped  their  eyes  and  coughed,  and  were  deeply  moved 
when  the  puppets  gasped,  and  gulped,  and  roared,  and  fainted 
away  in  accordance  with  the  hallowed  tragic  ritual. 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  75 

"  And  people  say  the  French  are  gay ! "  exclaimed  Chris- 
tophe  as  they  left  the  theater. 

"  There's  a  time  for  everything,"  said  Sylvain  Kohn  chaffingly. 
"  You  wanted  virtue.  You  see,  there's  still  virtue  in  France." 

"  But  that's  not  virtue ! "  cried  Christophc.  "  That's 
rhetoric !  " 

"  In  France,"  said  Sylvain  Kohn.  "  Virtue  in  the  theater  is 
always  rhetorical." 

"  A  pretorium  virtue,"  said  Christophe,  "  and  the  prize  goes 
to  the  hest  talker.  I  hate  lawyers.  Have  you  no  poets  in 
France  ?  " 

Sylvain  Kohn  took  him  to  the  poetic  drama. 

There  were  poets  in  France.  There  were  even  great  poets. 
But  the  theater  was  not  for  them.  It  was  for  the  versifiers. 
The  theater  is  to  poetry  what  the  opera  is  to  music.  As  Berlioz 
said:  Sicut  amori  lupanar. 

Christophe  saw  Princesses  who  were  virtuously  promiscuous, 
who  prostituted  themselves  for  their  honor,  who  were  com- 
pared with  Christ  ascending  Calvary : — friends  who  deceived 
their  friends  out  of  devotion  to  them: — glorified  triangular  re- 
lations:— heroic  cuckoldry :  (the  cuckold,  like  the  blessed 
prostitute,  had  become  a  European  commodity :  the  example 
of  King  Mark  had  turned  the  heads  of  the  poets:  like  the  stag 
of  Saint  Hubert,  the  cuckold  never  appeared  without  a  halo.) 
And  Christophe  saw  also  lovely  damsels  torn  between  passion 
and  duty:  their  passion  bade  them  follow  a  new  lover:  duty 
bade  them  stay  with  the  old  one,  an  old  man  who  gave  them 
money  and  was  deceived  by  them.  And  in  the  end  they  plumped 
heroically  for  Duty.  Christophe  could  not  see  how  Duty  dif- 
fered from  sordid  interest:  but  the  public  was  satisfied.  The 
word  Duty  was  enough  for  them:  they  did  not  insist  on  having 
the  thing  itself;  they  took  the  author's  word  for  it. 

The  summit  of  art  was  reached  and  the  greatest  pleasure 
was  given  when,  most  paradoxically,  sexual  immorality  and 
Corneillian  heroics  could  be  combined.  In  that  way  every 


76  JEAN-CHBISTOPHE  TN  PARIS 

need  of  the  Parisian  public  was  satisfied  :  mind,  senses,  rhetoric. 
But  it  is  only  just  to  say  that  the  public  was  fonder  even  of 
words  than  of  lewdness.  Eloquence  could  send  it  into  ecstasies. 
It  would  have  suffered  anything  for  a  line  tirade.  Virtue  or 
vice,  heroics  hobnobbing  with  the  basest  prurience,  there  was 
no  pill  that  it  would  not  swallow  if  it  were  gilded  with  sonorous 
rhymes  and  redundant  words.  Anything  that  came  to  hand 
was  ground  into  couplets,  antitheses,  arguments:  love,  suffer- 
ing, death.  And  when  that  was  done,  they  thought  they  had 
felt  love,  suffering,  and  death.  Nothing  but  phrases.  It  was 
all  a  game.  When  Hugo  brought  thunder  on  to  the  stage,  at 
once  (as  one  of  his  disciples  said)  he  muted  it  so  as  not  to 
frighten  even  a  child.  (The  disciple  fancied  lie  was  paying 
him  a  compliment.)  It  was  never  possible  to  feel  anv  of  the 
forces  of  Xature  in  their  art.  They  made  everything  polite. 
Just  as  in  music — and  even  more  than  in  music,  which  was  a 
younger  art  in  France,  and  therefore  relatively  more  simple — 
they  were  terrified  of  anything  that  had  been  "already  said." 
The  most  gifted  of  them  coldly  devoted  themselves  to  working 
contrariwise.  The  process  was  childishly  simple:  they  pitched 
on  some  beautiful  legend  or  fairy-story,  and  turned  it  upside 
down.  Thus,  Bluebeard  Avas  beaten  by  his  wives,  or  Polyphe- 
mus was  kind  enough  to  pluck  out  his  eye  by  way  of  sacrificing 
himself  to  the  happiness  of  Acis  and  Galatea.  And  they 
thought  of  nothing  but  form.  And  once  more  it  seemed  to 
Christophe  (though  he  was  not  a  good  judge)  that  these  mas- 
ters of  form  were  rather  coxcombs  and  imitators  than  great 
writers  creating  their  own  slvle  and  giving  breadth  and  depth 
to  their  work. 

They  played  at  being  artists.  They  played  at  being  poets. 
Xowhere  was  the  poetic  lie  more  insolently  reared  than  in  the 
heroic  drama.  They  put  up  a  burlesque  conception  of  a  hero: 

"  The  great  tltinrj  in  to  liare  <i  xoul  ///<(f////\ti<'f/it, 
An  ea  gel's  eye,  ;  brodd  broir  like  portict,  ;  prevent 
An  n.ir  of  strength ,  (/rare  rnicn,  matt  tuiichingly  to  show 
A  heart  that  throbs,  eyes  full  of  dreams  of  worlds  they  know." 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  77 

Verses  like  that  were  taken  seriously.  Behind  the  hocus- 
pocus  of  such  fine-sounding  words,  the  bombast,  the  theatrical 
clash  and  clang  of  the  swords  and  pasteboard  helmets,  there 
was  always  the  incurable  futility  of  a  Sardou,  the  intrepid 
vaudevillist,  playing  Punch  and  Judy  with  history.  When  in 
the  world  was  the  like  of  the  heroism  of  Cyrano  ever  to  be 
found?  These  writers  moved  heaven  and  earth;  they  sum- 
moned from  their  tombs  the  Emperor  and  his  legions,  the 
bandits  of  the  Ligue,  the  condottieri  of  the  Renaissance,  called 
up  the  human  cyclones  that  once  devastated  the  universe: — just 
to  display  a  puppet,  standing  unmoved  through  frightful  mas- 
sacres, surrounded  by  armies,  soldiers,  and  whole  hosts  of  cap- 
tive women,  dying  of  a  silly  calfish  love  for  a  woman  whom  lie 
had  seen  ten  or  fifteen  years  before — or  King  Henri  IV  sub- 
mitting to  assassination  because  his  mistress  no  longer  loved 
him. 

So,  and  no  otherwise,  did  these  good  people  present  their 
parlor  Kings,  and  condottieri,  and  heroic  passion.  They  were 
worthy  scions  of  the  illustrious  nincompoops  of  the  days  of 
Grand  Cyrus,  those  Gascons  of  the  ideal — Scudery,  La  Tal- 
prenede — an  everlasting  brood,  the  songsters  of  sham  heroism, 
impossible  heroism,  which  is  the  enemy  of  truth.  Christophe 
observed  to  his  amazement  that  the  Erench,  who  are  said  to 
be  so  clever,  had  no  sense  of  the  ridiculous. 

He  was  lucky  when  religion  was  not  dragged  in  to  fit  the 
fashion!  Then,  during  Ix'nt.  certain  actors  read  the  sermons 
of  Bossuet  at  the  (Jaite  to  the  accompaniment  of  an  organ. 
Jewish  authors  wrote  tragedies  about  Saint  Theresa  for  Jewish 
actresses.  The  \\'<ii/  of  tin'  (Yoxx  was  acted  at  the  Bodinierc, 
the  Child  Jcfiiift  at  the  Ambigu.  the  /V/xx/'o;/  at  the  Porte-Saint- 
Martin,  Jcsux  at  the  Odeon,  orchestral  suites  on  the  subject  of 
r/mW  at  the  Botanical  ("Jardens.  And  a  certain  brilliant  talker 
— a  poet  who  wrote  passionate  love-songs — gave  a  led  lire  on  the 
Itedrmjilion  at  the  Chatelet.  And,  of  course,  the  passages  of 
the  flospel  that  were  most  carefullv  preserved  !>v  these  people 
were  those  relating  to  Pilate  and  Marv  Magdalene: — •"  What  is 


78  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

truth  ?  "  and  the  story  of  the  blessed  foolish  virgin. — And  their 
boulevard  Christs  were  horribly  loquacious  and  well  up  in  all 
the  latest  tricks  of  worldly  casuistry. 

Christophe  said : 

"  That  is  the  worst  yet.  It  is  untruth  incarnate.  I'm  stifling. 
Let's  get  out." 

And  yet  there  was  a  great  classic  art  that  held  its  ground 
among  all  these  modern  industries,  like  the  ruins  of  the  splendid 
ancient  temples  among  all  the  pretentious  buildings  of  modern 
Rome.  But,  outside  Moliere,  Christophe  was  not  yet  able  to 
appreciate  it.  He  was  not  yet  familiar  enough  with  the  lan- 
guage, and,  therefore,  could  not  grasp  the  genius  of  the  race. 
Nothing  baffled  him  so  much  as  the  tragedy  of  the  seventeenth 
century — one  of  the  least  accessible  provinces  of  French  art  to 
foreigners,  precisely  because  it  lies  at  the  very  heart  of  France. 
It  bored  him  horribly;  he  found  it  cold,  dry,  and  revolting  in 
its  tricks  and  pedantry.  The  action  was  thin  or  forced,  the 
characters  were  rhetorical  abstractions  or  as  insipid  as  the 
conversation  of  society  women.  They  were  caricatures  of 
the  ancient  legends  and  heroes :  a  display  of  reason,  argu- 
ments, quibbling,  and  antiquated  psychology  and  archeology. 
Speeches,  speeches,  speeches ;  the  eternal  loquacity  of  the  French. 
Christophe  ironically  refused  to  say  whether  it  was  beautiful 
or  not :  there  was  nothing  to  interest  him  in  it :  whatever  the 
arguments  put  forward  in  turn  by  the  orators  of  Cinna,  he  did 
not  care  a  rap  which  of  the  talking-machines  won  in  the  end. 

However,  he  had  to  admit  that  the  French  audience  was 
not  of  his  way  of  thinking,  and  that  they  did  applaud  these 
plays  that  bored  him.  But  that  did  not  help  to  dissipate  his 
confusion:  he  saw  the  plays  through  the  audience:  and  he 
recognized  in  the  modern  French  certain  of  the  features,  dis- 
torted, of  the  classics.  So  might  a  critical  eye  see  in  the  faded 
charms  of  an  old  coquette  the  clear,  pure  features  of  her 
daughter: — (such  a  discovery  is  not  calculated  to  foster  the  il- 
lusion of  love).  Like  the  members  of  a  family  who  are  used 
to  seeing  each  other,  the  French  could  not  see  the  resemblance. 


THE  MAEKET-PLACE  79 

But  Christophe  was  struck  by  it,  and  exaggerated  it:  he  could 
see  nothing  else.  Every  work  of  art  he  saw  seemed  to  him  to 
be  full  of  old-fashioned  caricatures  of  the  great  ancestors  of 
the  French :  and  he  saw  these  same  great  ancestors  also  in  cari- 
cature. He  could  not  see  any  difference  between  Corneille  and 
the  long  line  of  his  followers,  those  rhetorical  poets  whose 
mania  it  was  to  present  nothing  but  sublime  and  ridiculous 
cases  of  conscience.  And  Racine  he  confounded  with  his  off- 
spring of  pretentiously  introspective  Parisian  psychologists. 

None  of  these  people  had  really  broken  free  from  the  classics. 
The  critics  were  for  ever  discussing  Tartuffe  and  Plicdre.  They 
never  wearied  of  hearing  the  same  plays  over  and  over  again. 
They  delighted  in  the  same  old  words,  and  when  they  were 
old  men  they  laughed  at  the  same  jokes  which  had  been  their 
joy  when  they  were  children.  And  so  it  would  be  while  the 
French  nation  endured.  Xo  country  in  the  world  has  so  firmly 
rooted  a  cult  of  its  great-great-grandfathers.  The  rest  of  the 
universe  did  not  interest  them.  There  were  many,  many  men 
and  women,  even  intelligent  men  and  women,  who  had  never 
read  anything,  and  never  wanted  to  read  anything  outside  the 
works  that  had  been  written  in  France  under  the  Great  King! 
Their  theaters  presented  neither  Goethe,  nor  Schiller,  nor  Kloist, 
nor  Grillparzer,  nor  Hebbel,  nor  any  of  tbe  great  dramatists 
of  other  nations,  with  the  exception  of  the  ancient  Greeks,  whose 
heirs  they  declared  themselves  to  be — (like  every  other  nation 
in  Europe).  Every  now  and  then  they  felt  they  ought  to  in- 
clude Shakespeare.  That  was  the  touchstone.  There  were  two 
schools  of  Shakespearean  interpreters :  the  one  played  King 
Lear,  with  a  commonplace  realism,  like  a  comedy  of  Kmile 
Augier:  the  other  turned  Hamlet  into  an  opera,  with  bravura 
airs  and  vocal  exercises  a  la  Victor  Hugo.  It  never  occurred 
to  them  that  reality  could  be  poetic  or  that  poetry  was  the 
spontaneous  language  of  hearts  bursting  with  life.  Shakespeare 
seemed  false.  The}"  very  quickly  went  back  to  Rostand. 

And  yet,  during  the  last  twenty  years,  there  had  been  sturdy 


80  JEAN-CHRTSTOPHE  TN  PARTS 

efforts  made  to  vitalize  the  theater:  the  narrow  circle  of  sub- 
jects drawn  from  Parisian  literature  had  been  widened:  the 
theater  laid  hands  on  everything  with  a  show  of  audacity.  Two 
or  three  times  even  the  outer  world,  public  life,  had  torn  down 
the  curtain  of  convention.  But.  the  theatrists  made  haste  to 
piece  it  together  again.  They  lived  in  blinkers,  and  were 
afraid  of  seeing  things  as  they  are.  A  sort  of  clannishness,  a 
classical  tradition,  a  routine  of  form  and  spirit,  and  a  lack  of 
real  seriousness,  held  them  back  from  pushing  their  audacity 
to  its  logical  extremity.  They  turned  the  acutest  problems  into 
ingenious  games:  and  they  always  came  back  to  the  problem  of 
women — women  of  a  certain  class.  And  what  a  sorry  figure  did 
the  phantoms  of  great  men  cut  on  their  boards:  the  heroic 
Anarchy  of  Ibsen,  the  Gospel  of  Tolstoy,  the  Superman  of 
Nietzsche !  .  .  . 

The  literary  men  of  Paris  took  a  great  deal  of  trouble  to  seem 
to  be  advanced  thinkers.  But  at  heart  they  were  all  conserva- 
tive. There  was  no  literature  in  Europe  in  which  the  past, 
the  old,  the  "'  eternal  yesterday,"  held  a  completer  and  more 
unconscious  sway:  in  the  great  reviews,  in  the  great  newspapers, 
in  the  State-aided  theaters,  in  the  Academy,  Paris  was  in 
literature  what  London  was  in  Politics:  the  check  on  the  mind 
of  Europe.  The  French  Academy  was  a  House  of  Lords.  A 
certain  number  of  the  institutions  of  the  Ancicn  Hryhtic  forced 
the  spirit,  of  the  old  days  on  the  new  society.  Every  revolu- 
tionary element  was  rejected  or  promptly  assimilated.  They 
asked  nothing  better.  In  vain  did  the  (lovernment  pretend 
to  a  socialistic  polity.  In  art  it  truckled  under  to  the  Academies 
and  the  Academic  Schools.  Against  the  Academies  there  was 
no  opposition  save  from  a  few  coteries,  and  they  put  up  a  very 
poor  fight.  For  as  soon  as  a  member  of  a  coterie  could,  he  fell 
into  line  with  an  Academy,  and  became  more  academic  than 
the  rest.  And  even  if  a  writer  were  in  tin1  advance  guard  or 
in  the  van  of  the  army,  he  was  almost  always  trammeled  by 
hi-  LjToup  and  the  ideas  of  his  group.  Some  of  them  were 
hidebound  by  their  academic  Credo,  others  by  their  revolution- 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  81 

ary  Credo:  and,  when  all  was  done,  they  both  amounted  to  the 
same  thing. 

By  way  of  rousing  Christophc,  on  whom  academic  art  had 
acted  as  a  soporific,  Sylvain  Kohn  proposed  to  take  him  to  cer- 
tain eclectic  theaters,— the  very  latest  thing.  There  they  saw 
murder,  rape,  madness,  torture,  eyes  plucked  out,  hellies  gutted 
— anything  to  thrill  the  nerves,  and  satisfy  the  barbarism 
lurking  beneath  a  too  civilized  section  of  the  people.  It  had  a 
great  attraction  for  pretty  women  and  men  of  the  world — the 
people  who  would  go  and  spend  whole  afternoons  in  the  stuffy 
courts  of  the  Palais  de  Justice,  listening  to  scandalous  cases, 
laughing,  talking,  and  eating  chocolates.  But  Christophe  in- 
dignantly refused.  The  more  closely  he  examined  that  sort 
of  art,  the  more  acutely  he  became  aware  of  the  odor  that 
from  the  very  first  he  had  detected,  faintly  in  the  beginning, 
then  more  strongly,  and  finally  it  was  suffocating:  the  odor  of 
death. 

Death:  it  was  everywhere  beneath  all  the  luxury  and  uproar. 
Christophe  discovered  the  explanation  of  the  Feeling  of  repug- 
nance with  which  certain  French  plays  had  filled  him.  It  was 
not  their  immorality  that  shocked  him.  Morality,  immorality, 
amorality, — all  these  words  mean  nothing.  .  Christophe  had 
never  invented  any  moral  theory:  he  loved  the  great  poets  and 
great  musicians  of  the  past,  and  they  were  no  saints:  when  he 
came  across  a  great  artist  he  did  not  inquire  into  his  morality: 
he  asked  him  rather : 

"Are  you  healthy?" 

To  he  healthy  was  the  great  thing.  "  If  the  poet  is  ill.  let 
him  first  of  all  cure  himself,''  as  (Joethe  says.  '•  When  he  is 
cured,  he  will  write." 

The  writers  of  Paris  were  unhealthy:  or  if  one  of  them  hap- 
pened to  be  healthy,  the  chances  were  that  he  was  ashamed 
of  it:  he  disguised  it,  and  did  his  best  to  catvh  some  disease. 
Their  sickness  was  not  shown  in  anv  particular  feature  of 
their  art: — tLe  love  of  pleasure,  the  extreme  license  of  mind, 


8.2  JEAN-CHBISTOPHB  IN  PARIS 

or  the  universal  trick  of  criticism  which  examined  and  dis- 
sected every  idea  that  was  expressed.  All  these  things  could 
he — and  were,  as  the  case  might  he — healthy  or  unhealthy.  If 
death  was  there,  it  did  not  come  from  the  material,  hut  from 
the  use  that  these  people  made  of  it ;  it  was  in  the  people  them- 
selves. And  Christophe  himself  loved  pleasure.  He,  too,  loved 
liberty.  He  had  drawn  down  upon  himself  the  displeasure 
of  his  little  German  town  by  his  frankness  in  defending  many 
things,  which  lie  found  here,  promulgated  by  these  Parisians, 
in  such  a  way  as  to  disgust  him.  And  yet  they  were  the  same 
things.  But  nothing  sounded  the  same  to  the  Parisians  and  to 
himself.  When  Christophe  impatiently  shook  of!  the  yoke  of 
the  great  Masters  of  the  past,  when  he  waged  war  against  the 
esthetics  and  the  morality  of  the  Pharisees,  it  was  not  a  game 
to  him  as  it  was  to  these  men  of  intellect :  and  his  revolt  was 
directed  only  towards  life,  the  life  of  fruitfulness,  big  with 
the  centuries  to  come.  With  these  people  all  tended  to  sterile 
enjoyment.  Sterile,  Sterile,  Sterile.  That  was  the  key  to  the 
enigma.  Mind  and  senses  were  fruitlessly  debauched.  A 
brilliant  art,  full  of  wit  and  cleverness — a  lovely  form,  in  truth, 
a  tradition  of  beauty,  impregnably  seated,  in  spite  of  foreign 
alluvial  deposits — a  theater  which  was  a  theater,  a  style  which 
was  a  style,  authors  who  knew  their  business,  writers  who  could 
write,  the  fine  skeleton  of  an  art,  and  a  thought  that  had  been 
great.  But  a  skeleton.  Sonorous  words,  ringing  phrases,  the 
metallic  clang  of  ideas  hurtling  down  the  void,  witticisms, 
minds  haunted  by  sensuality,  and  senses  numbed  with  thought. 
It  was  all  useless,  save  for  the  sport  of  egoism.  It  led  to  death. 
It  was  a  phenomenon  analogous  to  the  frightful  decline  in  the 
birth-rate  of  France,  which  Europe  was  observing — and  reckon- 
ing— in  silence.  So  much  wit,  so  much  cleverness,  so  manv 
acute  senses,  all  wasted  and  wasting  in  a  sort  of  shameful 
onanism !  They  had  no  notion  of  it,  and  wished  to  have  none. 
They  laughed.  That  was  the  only  thing  that  comforted  Chris- 
tophe a  little:  these  people  could  still  laugh:  all  was  not  lost. 
He  liked  them  even  less  when  they  tried  to  take  themselves 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  83 

seriously:  and  nothing  hurt  him  more  than  to  sec  writers,  who 
regarded  art  as  no  more  than  an  instrument  of  pleasure,  giv- 
ing themselves  airs  as  priests  of  a  disinterested  religion : 

"  We  are  artists,"  said  Sylvain  Kolm  once  more  complacently. 
"  We  follow  art  for  art's  sake.  Art  is  always  pure :  every- 
thing in  art  is  chaste.  We  explore  life  as  tourists,  who  find 
everything  amusing.  We  are  amateurs  of  rare  sensations,  lovers 
of  beauty." 

"  You  are  hypocrites,"  replied  Christophe  bluntly.  "  Excuse 
my  saying  so.  I  used  to  think  my  own  country  had  a  monopoly. 
In  Germany  our  hypocrisy  consists  in  always  talking  about 
idealism  Avhile  we  think  of  nothing  but  our  interests,  and  we 
even  believe  that  we  are  idealists  while  we  think  of  nothing 
but  ourselves.  But  you  are  much  worse :  you  cover  your  na- 
tional lewdness  with  the  names  of  Art  and  Beauty  (with  cap- 
itals)— when  you  do  not  shield  your  Moral  Pilatism  behind 
the  names  of  Truth,  Science,  Intellectual  Duty,  and  you  wash 
your  hands  of  the  possible  consequences  of  your  haughty  in- 
quiry. Art  for  art's  sake !  .  .  .  That's  a  fine  faith !  But 
it  is  the  faith  of  the  strong.  Art!  To  grasp  life,  as  the  eagle 
claws  its  prey,  to  bear  it  up  into  the  air.  to  rise  with  it  into 
the  serenity  of  space !  .  .  .  For  that  you  need  talons,  great 
wings,  and  a  strong  heart.  But  you  are  nothing  but  sparrows 
who,  when  they  find  a  piece  of  carrion,  rend  it  here  and  there, 
squabbling  for  it,  and  twittering.  .  .  .  Art  for  art's  sake ! 
.  .  .  Oh !  wretched  men !  Art  is  no  common  ground  for 
the  feet  of  all  who  pass  it  by.  Why,  it  is  a  pleasure,  it  is  the 
most  intoxicating  of  all.  But  it  is  a  pleasure  which  is  only 
won  at  the  cost  of  a  strenuous  fight:  it  is  the  laurel-wreath  that 
crowns  the  victory  of  the  strong.  Art  is  life  tamed.  Art  is  the 
Emperor  of  life.  To  be  Caesar  a  man  must  have  the  soul  of 
Caesar.  But  you  are  only  limelight  Kings:  you  are  playing 
a  part,  arid  do  not  even  deceive  yourselves.  And.  like  those 
actors,  who  turn  to  profit  their  deformities,  you  manufacture 
literature  out  of  your  own  deformities  and  those  of  your  public. 
Lovingly  do  you  cultivate  the  diseases  of  your  people,  their 


84  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

fear  of  effort,  their  love  of  pleasure,  their  sensual  minds, 
their  chimerical  humanitariamsm,  everything  in  them  that 
drugs  the  will,  everything  in  them  that  saps  their  power  for 
action.  You  deaden  their  minds  with  the  fumes  of  opium. 
Behind  it  all  is  death:  you  know  it:  but  you  will  not  admit  it. 
Well,  I  tell  you:  Where  death  is,  there  art  is  not.  Art  is  the 
spring  of  life.  But  even  the  most  honest  of  your  writers  are  so 
cowardly  that  even  when  the  bandage  is  removed  from  their 
eyes  they  pretend  not  to  see :  they  have  the  effrontery  to 
say: 

"'It  is  dangerous,  I  admit:  it  is  poisonous:  but  it  is  full  of 
talent.' 

"  It  is  as  if  a  judge,  sentencing  a  hooligan,  were  to  say : 
"'He's    a    blackguard,    certainly:    but    he    has    so    much 
talent!    .    .    .'" 

Christophe  wondered  what  was  the  use  of  French  criticism. 
There  was  no  lack  of  critics:  they  swarmed  all  over  and  about 
French  art.  It  was  impossible  to  see  the  work  of  the  artists: 
they  were  swamped  by  the  critics. 

Christophe  was  not  indulgent  towards  criticism  in  general. 
He  found  it  difficult  to  admit  the  utility  of  these  thousands 
of  artists  who  formed  a  Fourth  or  Fifth  .Estate  in  the  modern 
community:  he  read  in  it  the  signs  of  a  worn-out  generation 
which  relegates  to  others  the  business  of  regarding  life — feeling 
vicariously.  And.  to  go  farther,  it  seemed  to  him  not  a.  little 
shameful  that  they  could  not  even  see  with  their  own  eyes  the 
reflection  of  life,  but  must  have  yet  more  intermediaries,  re- 
flections of  the  reflection — the1  critics.  At  least,  they  ought  to 
have  seen  to  it  that  the  reflections  wen;  true.  But  the  critics 
reflected  nothing  but  the  uncertainty  of  the  mob  that  moved 
round  them.  Thev  were  like  those  trick  mirrors  which  reflect 
again  and  again  the  faces  of  the  sightseers  who  gaze  into  them 
against  a  painted  background. 

Then;  had  been  a  time  when  the  critics  had  enjoyed  a  tre- 
mendous authority  in  France.  'The  public  bowed  down  to  theii 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  85 

decrees:  and  they  were  not  far  from  regarding  them  as  superior 
to  the  artists,  as  artists  with  intelligence: — (apparently  the  two 
words  do  not  go  together  naturally).  Then  they  had  multiplied 
too  rapidly:  there  were  too  many  oracles:  that  spoiled  the  trade. 
When  there  are  so  many  people,  each  of  whom  dec-lares  that  he 
is  the  sole  repository  of  truth,  it  is  impossible  to  believe  them : 
and  in  the  end  they  cease  to  believe  it  themselves.  They  were 
discouraged:  in  the  passage  from  night  to  day,  according  to 
the  French  custom,  they  passed  from  one  extreme  to  the  other. 
Where  they  had  before  professed  to  know  everything,  they  now 
professed  to  know  nothing.  It  was  a  point  of  honor  with  them, 
quite  fatuously.  Eenan  had  taught  those  milksop  generations 
that  it  is  not  correct  to  affirm  anything  without  denying  it  at 
once,  or  at  least  casting  a  doubt  on  it.  He  was  one  of  those 
men  of  whom  St.  Paul  speaks :  "  For  whom  there  is  always 
Yes,  Yes,  and  then  Xo,  Xo."  All  the  superior  persons  in  France 
had  wildly  embraced  this  amphibious  Credo.  It  exactly  suited 
their  indolence  of  mind  and  weakness  of  character.  They  no 
longer  said  of  a  work  of  art  that  it  was  good  or  bad,  true  or 
false,  intelligent  or  idiotic.  They  said: 

"  It  may  be  so.  ...  Xothing  is  impossible.  ...  I 
don't  know.  ...  I  wash  my  hands  of  it." 

If  some  objectionable  piece  were  put  up,  they  did  not 
say: 

"  That  is  nasty  rubbish  !  " 

They  said : 

"  Sir  Sganarelle,  please  do  not  talk  like  that.  Our  philoso- 
phy bids  us  talk  of  everything  open-mindedly :  and  therefore 
you  ought  not  to  say:  'That  is  nasty  rubbish!'  but:  'It 
seems  to  me  that  that  is  nasty  rubbish.  .  .  .  lUit  it  is  not 
certain  that  it  is  so.  It  may  be  a  masterpiece.  Who  can  say 
that  it  is  not?'" 

There  was  no  danger  of  their  being  accused  of  tyranny  over 
the  arts.  Schiller  once  taught  them  a  lesson  when  lie  reminded 
the  petty  tyrants  of  the  Press  of  his  time  of  what  he  called 
bluntly : 


86  JEAH-CHRISTOPHE  IX  PAEIS 

"The  Duty  of  Servants. 

"First,  the  house  must  be  chart  that  the  Queen  is  to  enter. 
Bustle  about,  then!  Sweep  Hie  rooms.  That  is  what  you  are 
there  for,  gentlemen! 

"But  as  soon  as  She  appears,  out  you  go!  Let  not  the 
serving-wench  sit  in  her  lady's  chair!" 

But,  to  be  just  to  the  critics  of  that  time,  it  must  be  said 
that  they  never  did  sit  in  their  lady's  chair.  It  was  ordered 
that  they  should  be  servants :  and  servants  they  were.  But  bad 
servants :  they  never  took  a  broom  in  their  hands :  the  room 
was  thick  with  dust.  Instead  of  cleaning  and  tidying,  they 
folded  their  arms,  and  left  the  work  to  be  done  by  the  master, 
the  divinity  of  the  day : — Universal  Suffrage. 

In  fact,  there  had  been  for  some  time  a  wave  of  reaction 
passing  through  the  popular  conscience.  A  few  people  had  set 
out — feebly  enough — on  a  campaign  of  public  health :  but 
Christophe  could  see  no  sign  of  it  among  the  people  with  whom 
he  lived.  They  gained  no  hearing,  and  were  laughed  at.  When 
every  now  and  then  some  honest  man  did  raise  a  protest  against 
unclean  art,  the  authors  replied  haughtily  that  they  were  in 
the  right,  since  the  public  was  satisfied.  That  was  enough  to 
silence  every  objection.  The  public  had  spoken :  that  was  the 
supreme  law  of  art !  It  never  occurred  to  anybody  to  impeach 
the  evidence  of  a  debauched  public  in  favor  of  those  who  had 
debauched  them,  or  that  it  was  the  artist's  business  to  lead 
the  public,  not  the  public  the  artist.  A  numerical  religion — • 
the  number  of  the  audience,  and  the  sum  total  of  the  receipts — 
dominated  the  artistic  thought  of  that  commercialized  democ- 
racy. Following  the  authors,  the  critics  docilely  declared  that 
the  essential  function  of  a  work  of  art  was  to  please.  Success 
is  law:  and  when  success  endures,  there  is  nothing  to  be  done 
but  to  bow  to  it.  And  so  they  devoted  their  energies  to  an- 
ticipating the  fluctuations  of  the  Exchange  of  pleasure,  in 
trying  to  find  out  what  the  public  thought  of  the  various  plays. 
The  joke  of  it  was  that  the  public  was  always  trying  frantically 
to  iind  out  what  the  critics  thought.  And  so  there  they  were, 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  8? 

looking  at  each  other :  and  in  each  other's  eyes  they  saw  nothing 
but  their  own  indecision. 

And  yet  never  had  there  hecn  such  crying  need  of  a  fearless 
critic.  In  an  anarchical  Republic,  fashion,  which  is  all-power- 
ful in  art,  very  rarely  looks  backward,  as  it  does  in  a  con- 
servative State :  it  goes  onwards  always :  and  there  is  a  perpetual 
competition  of  libertinism  which  hardly  anybody  dare  resist. 
The  mob  is  incapable  of  forming  an  opinion :  at  heart  it  is 
shocked :  but  nobody  dares  to  say  what  everybody  secretly  feels. 
If  the  critics  were  strong,  if  they  dared  to  be  strong,  what  a 
power  they  would  have!  A  vigorous  critic  would  in  a  few  years 
become  the  Xapoleon  of  public  taste,  and  sweep  away  all  the 
diseases  of  art.  But  there  is  no  Napoleon  in  France.  All 
the  critics  live  in  that  vitiated  atmosphere,  and  do  not  notice  it. 
And  they  dare  not  speak.  They  all  know  each  other.  They 
are  a  more  or  less  close  company,  and  they  have  to  consider  each 
other:  not  one  of  them  is  independent.  To  be  so,  they  would 
have  to  renounce  their  social  life,  and  even  their  friendships. 
Who  is  there  that  would  have  the  courage,  in  such  a  knock- 
kneed  time,  when  even  the  best  critics  doubt  whether  a  just 
notice  is  worth  the  annoyance  it  may  cause  to  the  writer  and 
the  object  of  it?  Who  is  there  so  devoted  to  duty  that  he  would 
condemn  himself  to  such  a  hell  on  earth :  daiv  to  stand  out 
against  opinion,  fight  the  imbecility  of  the  public,  expose  the 
mediocrity  of  the  successes  of  the  day,  defend  the  unknown  artist 
v.'ho  is  alone  and  at  the  mercy  of  the1  beasts  of  prey,  and  subject 
the  minds  of  those  who  were  born  to  obey  to  the  dominion  of 
the  master-mind?  Christophe  actually  heard  the  critics  at  a 
first  night  in  the  vestibule  of  the  theater  say:  "  H'm!  Pretty 
bad,  isn't  it?  Utter  rot!''  And  next  day  in  their  notices  they 
talked  of  masterpieces,  Shakespeare,  the  wings  of  genius  beat- 
ing above  their  heads. 

"  It  is  not  so  much  talent  that  your  art  lacks  as  char- 
acter," said  Christophe  to  Sylvain  Kolm.  "  You  need  a  great 
critic,  a  Lessing,  a  .  .  ." 

"A  Boileau?"  said  Sylvain  quizzically. 


88  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IX  PABIS 

"  A  Boileau,  perhaps,  more  than  these  artists  of  genius." 

"If  we  had  a  Boileau,"  said  Sylvain  Kohn,  "no  one  would 
listen  to  him." 

"If  they  did  not  listen  to  him/'  replied  Christophe,  "lie 
would  not  be  a  Boileau.  I  bet  you  that  if  I  set  out  and  told 
you  the  truth  about  yourselves,  quite  bluntly,  however  clumsy 
I  might  be,  you  would  have  to  gulp  it  down."-. 

"My  dear  good  fellow!"  laughed  Sylvain  Kohn. 

That  was  all  the  reply  he  made. 

He  was  so  cocksure  and  so  satisfied  with  the  general  flabbi- 
ness  of  the  French  that  suddenly  it  occurred  to  Christophe 
that  Kohn  was  a  thousand  times  more  of  a  foreigner  in  France 
than  himself:  and  there  was  a  catch  at  his  heart. 

"  It  is  impossible,"  he  said  once  more,  as  he  had  said  that 
evening  when  he  had  left  the  theater  on  the  boulevards  in  dis- 
gust. "  There  must  be  something  else." 

"What  more  do  you  want?"  asked  Sylvain  Kohn. 

"  France." 

"  We  are  France,"  said  Sylvain  Kohn,  gurgling  with  laughter. 

Christophe  stared  hard  at  him  for  a  moment,  then  shook 
his  head,  and  said  once  more: 

"  There  must  be  something  else." 

"  Well.,  old  man,  you'd  better  look  for  it,"  said  Sylvain  Kohn, 
laughing  louder  than  ever. 

Christophe  had  to  look  for  it.     It  was  well  hidden. 


II 

THE  more  clearly  Christophe  saw  into  the  vat  of  ideas  in 
which  Parisian  art  was  fermenting,  the  more  strongly  he  was 
impressed  by  the  supremacy  of  women  in  that  cosmopolitan 
community.  They  had  an  absurdly  disproportionate  im- 
portance. It  was  not  enough  for  woman  io  be  the  helpmeet  of 
man.  It  was  not  even  enough  for  her  to  be  his  equal.  Her 
pleasure  must  be  law  both  for  herself  and  for  man.  And  man 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  89 

truckled  to  it.  When  a  nation  is  growing  old,  it  renounces 
its  will,  its  faith,  the  whole  essence  of  its  being,  in  favor  of  the 
giver  of  pleasure.  Men  make  works  of  art :  hut  women  make 
men, — (except  when  they  tamper  with  the  work  of  the  men,  as 
happened  in  France  at  that  time)  : — and  it  would  he  more 
just  to  say  that  they  unmake  what  they  make.  Xo  douht  the 
Eternal  Feminine  has  been  an  uplifting  influence  on  the  best 
of  men:  but  for  the  ordinary  men,  in  ages  of  weariness  and 
fatigue,  there  is,  as  some  one  has  said,  another  Feminine,  just 
as  eternal,  who  drags  them  down.  This  other  Feminine  was 
the  mistress  of  Parisian  thought,  the  Queen  of  the  Republic. 

Christophe  closely  observed  the  Parisian  women  at  the  houses 
at  which  Sylvain  Kohn's  introduction  or  his  own  skill  at  the 
piano  had  made  him  welcome.  Like  most  foreigners,  he  gen- 
eralized freely  and  unsparingly  about  French  women  from  the 
two  or  three  types  he  had  met:  young  women,  not  very  tall, 
and  not  at  all  fresh,  witli  neat  figures,  dyed  hair,  large  hats 
on  their  pretty  heads  that  were  a  little  too  large  for  their  bodies : 
they  had  trim  features,  but  their  faces  were  just  a  little  too 
fleshy:  good  noses,  vulgar  sometimes,  characterless  always:  quick 
eyes  without  any  great  depth,  which  they  tried  to  make  as 
brilliant  and  large  as  possible:  well-cut  lips  that  were  perfectly 
under  control:  plump  little  chins:  and  the  lower  part  of  their 
faces  revealed  their  utter  materialism;  they  were  elegant  little 
creatures  who,  amid  all  their  preoccupations  with  love  and  in- 
trigue, never  lost  sight  of  public  opinion  and  their  domestic 
affairs.  They  were  pretty,  but  they  belonged  to  no  race. 
In  all  these  polite  ladies  there  was  the  savor  of  the  re- 
spectable woman  perverted,  or  wanting  to  be  so.  together 
with  all  the  traditions  of  her  class;  prudence,  economv.  cold- 
ness, practical  common  sense,  egoism.  A  poor  sort,  of  life. 
A  desire  for  pleasure  emanating  rather  from  a  cerebral 
curiosity  than  from  a  need  of  the  senses.  Their  will  was 
mediocre  in  quality,  hut  firm.  They  were  very  well  dressed, 
and  had  little  automatic  gestures.  They  were  always  patting 


90  JEAN-CHRTSTOPHE  IX  PARTS 

their  hair  or  their  gowns  with  the  hacks  or  the  palms  of  their 
hands,  with  little  delicate  movements.  And  they  always  man- 
aged to  sit  so  that  they  could  admire  themselves — and  watch 
other  women — in  a  mirror,  near  or  far,  not  to  mention,  at 
tea  or  dinner,  the  spoons,  knives,  silver  coffee-pots,  polished 
and  shining,  in  which  they  always  peeped  at  the  reflections  of 
their  faces,  which  were  more  interesting  to  them  than  anything 
or  anybody  else.  At  meals  they  dieted  sternly :  drinking  water 
and  depriving  themselves  altogether  of  any  food  that  might 
stand  in  the  way  of  their  ideal  of  a  complexion  of  a  floury 
whiteness. 

There  was  a  fairly  large  proportion  of  Jewesses  among 
Christophe's  acquaintance :  and  he  was  always  attracted  by 
them,  although,  since  his  encounter  with  Judith  Mannheim, 
he  had  hardly  any  illusions  about  them.  Sylvain  Kohn  had 
introduced  him  to  several  Jewish  houses  where  he  was  re- 
ceived with  the  usual  intelligence  of  the  race,  which  loves  in- 
telligence. Christophe  met  financiers  there,  engineers,  news- 
paper proprietors,  international  brokers,  slave-dealers  of  a  sort 
from  Algiers — the  men  of  affairs  of  the  Republic.  They  were 
clear-headed  and  energetic,  indifferent  to  other  people,  smiling. 
affable,  and  secretive.  Christophe  felt  sometimes  that  behind 
their  hard  faces  was  the  knowledge  of  crime  in  the  past,  and 
the  future,  of  these  men  gathered  round  the  sumptuous  table 
laden  with  food,  flowers,  and  wine.  They  were  almost  all  ugly. 
But  the  women,  taken  as  a  whole,  were  quite  brilliant,  though 
it  did  not  do  to  look  at  them  too  closely:  in  most  of  them  there 
was  a  want  of  subtlety  in  their  coloring.  P>ut  brilliance  there 
was,  and  a  fair  show  of  material  life,  beautiful  shoulders  gen- 
erously exposed  to  view,  and  a  genius  for  making  their  beautv 
and  even  their  ugliness  a  lure  for  the  men.  An  artist  would 
have  recognized  in  some  of  them  the  old  Roman  type,  the  women 
of  the  time  of  Xero,  down  to  the  time  of  Hadrian.  And  there 
were  Palmaesque  faces,  with  a  sensual  expression,  heavv  chins 
solidly  modeled  with  the  neck,  and  not  without  a  certain  bestial 
beauty.  Some  of  them  had  thick  curly  hair,  and  bold,  fiery 


THE  MAEKET-PLACE  91 

eyes:  they  seemed  to  be  subtle,  incisive,  ready  for  everything, 
more  virile  than  other  women.  And  also  more  feminine.  Here 
and  there  a  more  spiritual  profile  would  stand  out.  Those  pure 
features  came  from  beyond  Borne,  from  the  East,  the  country 
of  Laban :  there  was  expressed  in  them  the  poetry  of  silence, 
of  the  Desert.  But  when  Christophe  went  nearer,  and  listened 
to  the  conversations  between  Eebecca  and  Faustina  the  Roman, 
or  Saint  Barbe  the  Venetian,  he  found  her  to  be  just  a  Parisian 
Jewess,  just  like  the  others,  even  more  Parisian  than  the  Parisian 
women,  more  artificial  and  sophisticated,  talking  quietly,  and 
maliciously  stripping  the  assembled  company,  body  and  soul, 
with  her  Madonna's  eyes. 

Christophe  wandered  from  group  to  group,  but  could  identify 
himself  with  none  of  them.  The  men  talked  savagely  of  hunt- 
ing, brutally  of  love,  and  only  of  money  with  any  sort  of  real 
appreciation.  And  that  was  cold  and  cunning.  They  talked 
business  in  the  smoking-room.  Christophe  heard  some  one 
say  of  a  certain  fop  who  was  sauntering  from  one  lady  to  an- 
other, with  a  buttonhole  in  his  coat,  oozing  heavy  compliments : 

"So!     He  is  free  again?" 

In  a  corner  of  the  room  two  ladies  were  talking  of  the  love^ 
affairs  of  a  young  actress  and  a  society  woman.  There  was  oc- 
casional music.  Christophe  was  asked  to  play.  Large  women, 
breathless  and  heavily  perspiring,  declaimed  in  an  apocalyptic 
tone  verses  of  Sully-Prudhornme  or  Auguste  Dorchain.  A  fa- 
mous actor  solemnly  recited  a  Mystic  Ballad  to  the  accom- 
paniment of  an  American  organ.  Words  and  music  were  so 
stupid  that  they  turned  Christophe  sick.  But  the  Roman 
women  were  delighted,  and  laughed  heartily  to  show  their 
magnificent  teeth.  Scenes  from  Ibsen  were  performed.  It 
was  a  fine  epilogue  to  the  struggle  of  a  great  man  against  the 
Pillars  of  Society  that  it  should  be  used  for  their  diversion  ! 

And  then  they  all  began,  of  course,  to  prattle  about  art.  That 
was  horrible.  The  women  especially  began  to  talk  of  Ibsen, 
Wagner,  Tolstoy,  flirtatiously,  politely,  boredly,  or  idiotically. 
Once  the  conversation  had  started,  there  was  no  stopping  it. 


9$  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IX  PAKIS 

The  disease  was  contagious.  Christophc  had  to  listen  to  the 
ideas  of  bankers,  brokers,  and  slave-dealers  on  art.  In  vain  did 
he  refuse  to  speak  or  try  to  turn  the  conversation:  they  in- 
sisted on  talking  about  music  and  poetry.  As  Berlioz  said : 
''Such  people  use  the  words  quite  coolly:  just  as  though  they 
were  talking  of  wine,  women,  or  some  such  trash."  An  alienist 
physician  recognized  one  of  his  patients  in  an  Ibsen  heroine, 
though  to  his  way  of  thinking  she  was  infinitely  more  silly. 
An  engineer  quite  sincerely  declared  that  the  husband  was  the 
sympathetic  character  in  the  Doll'*  Honnc.  The  famous  actor 
—a  well-known  Comedian — brayed  his  profound  ideas  on 
Xietzsche  and  Carlyle:  lie  assured  Christophc  that  he  could  not 
see  a  picture  of  'Velasquez — (the  idol  of  the  hour) — "without 
the  tears  coursing  down  his  cheeks."'  And  he  confided — still 
to  Christophe's  private  ear- — that,  though  he  esteemed  art  very 
highly,  yet  lie  esteemed  still  more  highly  the  art  of  living, 
acting,  and  that  if  he  were  asked  to  choose  what  part  be 
would  play,  it  would  be  that  of  Bismarck.  .  .  .  Sometimes 
there  would  be  of  the  company  a  professed  wit,  but  the  level 
of  the  conversation  was  not  appreciably  higher  for  that.  Gen- 
erally they  said  nothing;  they  confined  themselves  to  a  jerky 
remark  or  an  enigmatic  smile:  they  lived  on  their  reputations, 
and  were  saved  further  trouble.  But  there  were  a  few  pro- 
fessional talkers,  generally  from  the  South.  They  talked  about 
anything  and  everything:  They  had  no  sense  of  proportion: 
everything  came  alike  (o  them.  One  was  a  Shakespeare.  An- 
other a,  Moliere.  Another  a  Pascal,  if  not  a  Jesus  Christ. 
They  compared  Ibsen  with  Dumas  /Us.  Tolstov  with  George 
Sand:  and  the  gist  of  it  all  was  that  everything  came  from 
France.  Generally  they  were  ignorant  of  foreign  languages. 
But  that  did  not  disturb  them.  It  mattered  so  little  to  their 
audience  whether  Ihev  told  the  truth  or  not!  What  did  matter 
was  that  they  should  say  amusing  things,  things  as  llattering 
us  possible  to  national  vanity.  Foreigners  had  to  put  up  with 
a  good  deal — -with  the  exception  of  the  idol  of  the  hour:  for 
there  was  always  a  fashionable  idol.:  Grieg,  or  Wagner,  or 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  93 

Nietzsche,  or  Gorki,  or  D'Annunzio.  It  never  lasted  long,  and 
the  idol  was  certain  one  fine  morning  to  lie  thrown  on  to  the 
rubbish-heap. 

For  the  moment  the  idol  was  Beethoven.  Beethoven — save 
the  mark! — was  in  the  fashion:  at  least,  among  literary  and 
polite  persons:  for  musicians  had  dropped  him  at  once,  in  ac- 
cordance with  the  see-saw  system  which  is  one  of  the  laws  of 
artistic  taste  in  France.  A  Frenchman  needs  to  know  what 
his  neighbor  thinks  before  he  knows  what  he  thinks  himself, 
so  that  he  can  think  the  same  tiling  or  the  opposite1.  Thus, 
when  they  saw  Beethoven  in  popular  favor,  the  most  distin- 
guished musicians  began  to  discover  that  lie  was  nott  distin- 
guished enough  for  them :  they  claimed  to  lead  opinion,  not  to 
follow  it:  and  rather  than  be  in  agreement  with  it  they,  turned 
their  backs  on  it.  They  began  to  regard  Beethoven  as  a  man 
afflicted  with  deafness,  crying  in  a  voice  of  bitterness:  and  some 
of  them  declared  that  he  might  be  an  excellent  moralist,  but 
that  he  was  certainly  overpraised  as  a  musician.  That  sort  of 
joke  was  not  at  all  to  Christophe's  taste.  Still  less  did  he  like 
the  enthusiasm  of  polite  society.  If  Beethoven  had  come  to 
Paris  just  then,  he  would  have  been  the  lion  of  the  hour:  it 
was  such  a  pity  that  lie  had  b^en  dead  for  more  than  a  century. 
His  vogue  grew  not  so  much  out  of  his  music  as  out  of  the  more 
or  less  romantic  circumstances  of  his  life  which  had  been 
popularized  by  sentimental  and  virtuous  biographies.  His 
rugged  face  and  lion's  mane  had  become  a  romantic  figure. 
Ladies  wept  for  him:  they  hinted  that  if  they  had  known  him 
lie  should  not  have  been  so  unhappv:  and  in  their  greatness 
of  heart  they  were  the  more  ready  to  sacrifice  all  for  him. 
in  that  there  was  no  danger  of  Beethoven  taking  them  at  their 
word:  the  old  fellow  was  beyond  all  need  of  anything.  That 
was  why  the  virtuosi,  the  conductors,  and  the  im /nv*arii  bowed 
down  in  pious  worship  before  him  :  and,  as  the  represent  at  i\es  of 
Beethoven,  they  gathered  the  homage  destined  for  him.  There 
were  sumptuous  festivals  at  exorbitant  p  fires,  which  aff'orded 
society  people  an  opportunity  of  showing  their  generosity — and 


94  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

incidentally  also  of  discovering  Beethoven's  symphonies.  There 
were  committees  of  actors,  men  of  the  world,  Bohemians,  and 
politicians,  appointed  by  the  Republic  to  preside  over  the 
destinies  of  art,  and  they  informed  the  world  of  their  intention 
to  erect  a  monument  to  Beethoven :  and  on  these  committees, 
together  with  a  few  honest  men  whose  names  guaranteed  the 
rest,  were  all  the  riffraff  who  would  have  stoned  Beethoven  if 
he  had  been  alive,  if  Beethoven  had  not  crushed  the  life  out 
of  them.  Christophc  watched  and  listened.  He  ground  his 
teeth  to  keep  himself  from  saying  anything  outrageous.  He 
was  on  tenterhooks  the  whole  evening.  He  could  not  talk, 
nor  could  he  keep  silent.  It  seemed  to  him  humiliating 
and '  shameful  to  talk  neither  for  pleasure  nor  from  neces- 
sity, but  out  of  politeness,  because  he  had  to  talk.  He  was 
not  allowed  to  say  what  he  thought,  and  it  was  impossible  for 
him  to  make  conversation.  And  he  did  not  even  know  how  to 
be  polite  without  talking.  If  he  looked  at  anybody,  he  glared 
too  fixedly  and  intently :  in  spite  of  himself  he  studied  that  per- 
son, and  that  person  was  offended.  If  he  spoke  at  all,  he  be- 
lieved too  much  in  what  he  was  saying ;  and  that  was  disturbing 
for  everybody,  and  even  for  himself.  He  quite  admitted  that 
he  was  out  of  his  element:  and,  as  he  was  clever  enough  to 
sound  the  general  note  of  the  company,  in  which  his  presence 
was  a  discord,  he  was  as  upset  by  his  manners  as  his  hosts. 
He  was  angry  with  himself  and  with  them. 

When  at  last  he  stood  in  the  street  once  more,  very  late  at 
night,  he  was  so  worn  out  with  the  boredom  of  it  all  that  he 
could  hardly  drag  himself  home:  he  wanted  to  lie  down  just 
where  he  was,  in  the  street,  as  he  had  done  many  times  when 
he  was  returning  as  a  boy  from  his  performances  at  the  Palace 
of  the  Grand  Duke.  Although  he  had  only  live  or  six  francs 
to  take  him  to  the  end  of  the  week,  he  spent  two  of  them  on  a 
cab.  He  flung  himself  into  it  the  more  quickly  to  escape:  and 
as  he  drove  along  he  groaned  aloud  from  sheer  exhaustion. 
'When  he  reached  home  and  got  to  bed,  he  groaned  in  his 
sleep.  .  .  .  And  then,  suddenly,  he  roared  with  laughter  as 


THE  MAKKET-PLACE  95 

lie  remembered  some  ridiculous  saying.  He  woke  up  repeating 
it,  and  imitating  the  features  of  the  speaker.  Xext  day,  and 
for  several  days  after,  as  he  walked  about,  he  would  suddenly 
bellow  like  a  bull.  .  .  .  Why  did  he  visit  these  people?  Why 
did  he  go  on  visiting  them?  Why  force  himself  to  gesticulate 
and  make  faces,  like  the  rest,  and  pretend  to  be  interested  in 
things  that  did  not  appeal  to  him  in  the  very  least?  Was  it  true 
that  he  was  not  in  the  least  interested?  A  year  ago  he  would 
not  have  been  able  to  put  up  with  them  for  a  moment.  Xo\v. 
at  heart,  he  was  amused  by  it  all;  while  at  the  same  time  it  ex- 
asperated him.  Was  a  little  of  the  indifference  of  the  Parisians 
creeping  over  him?  He  would  sometimes  wonder  fearfully 
whether  he  had  lost  strength.  But,  in  truth,  he  had  gained  in 
strength.  He  was  more  free  in  mind  in  strange  surroundings. 
In  spite  of  himself,  his  eyes  were  opened  to  the  great  Comedy 
of  the  world. 

Besides,  whether  he  liked  it  or  not,  he  had  to  go  on  with  it 
if  he  wanted  his  art  to  be  recognized  by  Parisian  society,  which 
is  only  interested  in  art  in  so  far  as  it  knows  the  artist.  And 
he  had  to  make  himself  known  if  lie  were  to  find  among  these 
Philistines  the  pupils  necessary  to  keep  him  alive. 

And,  then,  Christophe  had  a  heart:  his  heart  must  have 
affection:  wherever  he  might  be,  there  he  would  iind  food  for 
his  affections:  without  it  he  could  not  live. 

Among  the  few  girls  of  that  class  of  society — few  enough 
— whom  Christophe  taught,  was  the  daughter  of  a  rich  motor- 
car manufacturer,  Colette  Stevens.  Her  father  was  a  Belgian, 
a  naturalized  Frenchman,  the  son  of  an  Anglo-American  settled 
at  Antwerp,  and  a  Dutchwoman.  Her  mother  \vas  an  Italian. 
A  regular  Parisian  family.  To  Christophe — and  to  many  others 
— Colette  Stevens  was  the  type  of  French  girl. 

She  was  eighteen,  and  had  velvety,  soft  black  eyes,  which 
she  used  skilfully  upon  young  men — regular  Spanish  eyes,  with 
enormous  pupils;  a  rather  long  and  fantastic  nose,  which 
wrinkled  up  and  moved  at  the  tip  as  she  talked,  with  little 


9G  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IX  PAEIS 

fractious  pouts  and  shmgs;  rebellious  hair;  a  pretty  little  face; 
rather  sallow  complexion,  dabbed  with  powder;  heavy,  rather 
thick  features :  altogether  she  was  like  a  plump  kitten. 

She  was  slight,  very  well  dressed,  attractive,  provoking:  she 
had  sly,  affected,  rather  silly  manners:  her  pose  was  that  of  a 
little  girl,  and  she  would  sit  rocking  her  chair  for  hours  at  a 
time,  and  giving  little  exclamations  like:  "Xo?  Im- 
possible. ..." 

At  meals  she  would  clap  her  hands  when  there  was  a  dish 
she  loved:  in  the  drawing-room  she  would  smoke  cigarette 
after  cigarette,  and,  when  there  were  men  present,  display  an 
exuberant  affection  for  her  girl-friends,  flinging  her  arms  round 
their  necks,  kissing  their  hands,  whispering  in  their  ears,  mak- 
ing ingenuous  and  naughty  remarks,  doing  it  most  brilliantly, 
in  a  soft,  twittering  voice;  and  in  the  lightest  possible  way 
she  would  say  improper  tilings,  without  seeming  to  do  more 
than  hint  at  them,  and  was  even  more  skilful  in  provoking  them 
from  others;  she  had  the  ingenuous  air  of  a  little  girl,  who 
knows  perfectly  well  what  she  is  about,  with  her  large  brilliant 
eyes,  slyly  and  voluptuously  looking  sidelong,  maliciously  tak- 
ing in  all  the  gossip,  and  catching  at  all  the  dubious  remarks 
of  the  conversation,  and  all  the  time  angling  for  hearts. 

All  these  tricks  and  shows,  and  her  sophisticated  ingenuity, 
were  not  at  all  to  Christophers  liking.  He  had  better  things  to 
do  than  to  lend  himself  to  the  practices  of  an  artful  little  girl, 
and  did  not  even  care  to  look  on  at  them  for  his  amusement. 
He  had  to  earn  his  living,  to  keep  his  life  and  ideas  from 
death.  lie-  had  no  interest  in  these'  drawing-room  parakeets 
beyond  the  gaining  of  a  livelihood,  hi  return  for  their  money, 
he  gave  them  lessons,  conscientiously  concentrating  all  his 
energies  on  the  task,  to  keep  the  boredom  of  it  from  master- 
ing him,  and  his  attention  from  being  distracted  by  the  tricks  of 
his  pupils  when  they  were  coquettes,  like  Colette  Stevens.  He 
paid  no  more  attention  to  her  than  to  Colette's  little  cousin,  a 
child  of  twelve,  shy  and  silent,  whom  the  Stevens  had  adopted, 
to  whom  also  Christophe  gave  lessons  on  the  piano. 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  97 

But  Colette  was  too  clever  not  to  feel  that  all  her  charms  were 
lost  on  Christophe,  and  too  adroit  not  to  adapt  herself  at  once 
to  his  character.  She  did  not  even  need  to  do  so  deliberately. 
It  was  a  natural  instinct  with  her.  She  was  a  woman.  She 
was  like  water,  formless.  The  soul  of  every  man  she  met  was 
a  vessel,  whose  form  she  took  immediately  out  of  curiosity. 
It  was  a  law  of  her  existence  that  she  should  always  he  some 
one  else.  Her  whole  personality  was  for  ever  shifting.  She 
was  for  ever  changing  her  vessel. 

Christophe  attracted  her  for  many  reasons,  the  chief  of 
which  was  that  he  was  not  attracted  by  her.  He  attracted 
her  also  because  he  was  different  from  all  the  young  men  of 
her  acquaintance:  she  had  never  tried  to  pour  herself  into  a 
vessel  of  such  a  rugged  form.  And,  finally,  he  attracted  her, 
because,  being  naturally  and  by  inheritance  expert  in  the 
valuation  at  the  first  glance  of  men  and  vessels,  she  knew' 
perfectly  well  that  what  he  lacked  in  polish  Christophe  made 
up  in  a  solidity  of  character  which  none  of  her  smart  young 
Parisians  could  offer  her. 

She  played  as  well  and  as  badly  as  most  idle  young  women. 
She  played  a  great  deal  and  very  little — that  is  to  say,  that 
she  was  always  working  at  it.  but  knew  nothing  at  all  about  it. 
She  strummed  on  her  piano  all  day  long,  for  want  of  anything 
else  to  do,  or  from  affectation,  or  because  it  gave  her  pleasure. 
Sometimes  she  rattled  along  mechanically.  Sometimes  she 
would  play  well,  very  well,  with  taste  and  soul — (it  was  almost 
as  though  she  had  a  soul  :  but,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  she  only  bor- 
rowed one).  Before  she  knew  Christophe,  she  was  capable  of 
liking  Massenet,  Grieg,  Thome.  .Hut  after  she  met  Cliris- 
tophe  she  ceased  to  like  them.  Then  she  played  Hach  and 
Beethoven  very  correctly — (which  is  not  very  high  praise)  : 
but  the  great  thing  was  that  she  loved  them.  At  bottom  it 
was  not  Beethoven,  nor  Thome,  nor  Hach.  nor  drieg  that  she 
loved,  but  the  notes,  the  sounds,  the  lingers  running  over  the 
keys,  the  thrills  she  got  from  the  chords  \vhich  tickled  her 
nerves  and  made  her  wriggle  with  pleasure. 


98  JEAN-CHRI8TOPHE  IN  PAKIS 

In  the  drawing-room  of  the  great  house,  decorated  with 
faded  tapestry,  and  on  an  easel  in  the  middle  room,  a  portrait 
of  the  stout  Madame  Stevens  by  a  fashionable  painter  who 
had  represented  her  in  a  languishing  attitude,  like  a  flower  dy- 
ing for  want  of  water,  with  a  die-away  expression  in  her  eyes, 
and  her  body  draped  in  impossible  curves,  by  way  of  expressing 
the  rare  quality  ol'  her  millionaire  soul — in  the  great  drawing- 
room,  with  its  bow-windows  looking  on  to  a  clump  of  old  trees 
powdered  with  snow,  Christophe  would  find  Colette  sitting  at 
her  piano,  repeating  the  same  passage  oyer  and  over  again, 
delighting  her  ear  with  mellifluous  dissonance. 

"Ah!"  Christophe  would  say  as  lie  entered,  "the  cat  is  still 
purring !  " 

"How  wicked  of  you!"  she  would  laugh.  .  .  .  (And  she 
would  hold  out  her  soft  little  hand.) 

".    .    .    Listen.      Isn't   it   pretty?" 

"Very  pretty,5'  he  would  say  indifferently. 

"You  aren't  listening!    .    .    .      Will  you  please  listen?" 

"  1  am  listening.  .  .  .  It's  the  same  thing  over  and  over 
again." 

k'  Ah!  you  are  no  musician,"  she  would  say  pettishly. 

"As  if  that  were  music  or  anything  like  it!  " 

"What!  Not  music!  .  .  .  What  is  it,  then,  if  you 
please  ?  " 

"  You  know  quite  well:  I  won't  tell  you,  because  it  would  not 
be  polite." 

"All  the  more  reason  why  you  should  say  it." 

"You  want  me  to?  ...  So  much  the  worse  for  you! 
.  .  .  Well,  do  you  know  what  you  are  doing  with  your  piano? 
.  .  .  You  are  flirting  with  it." 

"Indeed!" 

"Certainly.  'You  say  to  it:  ' 
say  pretty  things  to  me:  ki-s  me 
kiss!;: 

"  You  need  not  >  i\    anv  more,"  said   Colelt".  h  ilf  ve.xcd 


TTTE  MATJKET-PLACE  90 

"  Not  the  least." 

"You  are  impertinent.  .  .  .  And  then,  even  if  it  were  so, 
isn't  that  the  right  way  to  love  music?" 

"  Oh.  come,  don't  mix  music  up  with  that." 

"But  that  is  music!     A  beautiful  chord  is  a  kiss." 

"  I  never  told  you  that." 

"But  isn't  it  true?  .  .  .  Why  do  you  shrug  your  shoul- 
ders and  make  faces  ?  " 

"  Because  it  annoys  me." 

"  So  much  the  better." 

"  It  annoys  me  to  hear  music  spoken  of  as  though  it  were  a 
sort  of  indulgence.  .  .  .  Oh,  it  isn't  your  fault.  It's  the 
fault  of  the  world  you  live  in.  The  stale  society  in  which  you 
live  regards  music  as  a  sort  of  legitimate  vice.  .  .  .  Come, 
sit  down!  Play  me  your  sonata." 

"No.     Let  us  talk  a  little  longer." 

"  I'm  not  here  to  talk.  I'm  here  to  teach  you  the  piano.  .  .  . 
Come,  play  away  !  " 

"  You're  so  rude !  "  said  Colette,  rather  vexed — but  at  heart 
delighted  to  be  handled  so  roughly. 

She  played  her  piece  carefully:  and.  as  she  was  clever,  she 
succeeded  fairly  well,  and  sometimes  even  very  well.  Chris- 
tophe.  who  was  not  deceived,  laughed  imvardly  at  the  skill  "  of 
the  little  beast,  who  played  as  though  she  felt  what  she  was 
playing,  while  really  she  felt  nothing  at  all."  And  yet  he  had 
a  sort  of  amused  sympathy  for  her.  Colette,  on  her  part,  seized 
every  excuse  for  going  on  with  the  conversation,  which  inter- 
ested her  much  more  than  her  lesson.  It  was  no  good  Chris- 
tophe  drawing  hack  on  the  excuse  that  be  could  not  say  wh;:t 
he  thought  without  hurting  her  feelings:  she  always  wheedled 
it  out  of  him:  and  the  more  insulting  it  was.  the  less  she  was 
hurt  by  it:  it  was  an  amusement  for  her.  But.  as  she  was 
quick  enough  to  see  that  Christophe  liked  nothing  so  much  at> 
sincerity,  she  would  contradict  him  llatly.  and  argue  tenaciously. 
They  would  part  very  good  friends. 


300  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IX  PARTS 

However,  Christophe  would  never  have  had  the  least  illusion 
about  their  friendship,  and  there  would  never  have  been  the 
smallest  intimacy  between  them,  had  not  Colette  one  day  taken 
it  into  her  head,  out  of  sheer  instinctive  coquetry,  to  confide  in 
him. 

The  evening  before  her  parents  had  given  an  At  Home.  She 
had  laughed,  chattered,  flirted  outrageously:  but  next  morning. 
when  Christoplie  came  for  her  lesson,  she  was  worn  out,  drawn- 
looking,  gray-faced,  and  haggard.  She  hardly  spoke:  she 
seemed  utterly  depressed.  She  sat  at  the  piano,  played  softly. 
made  mistakes,  tried  to  correct  them,  made  them  again,  stopped 
short,  and  said : 

"  I  can't.  .  .  .  Please  forgive  me.  .  .  .  Please  wait  a 
little.  ..." 

He  asked  if  she  were  unwell.  She  said:  "  Xo.  .  .  .  She 
was  out  of  sorts.  .  .  .  She  had  bouts  of  it.  ...  It  was 
absurd,  but  he  must  not  mind/' 

He  proposed  to  go  away  and  come  again  another  day :  but 
she  insisted  on  his  staying: 

"  Just  a  moment.  ...  I  shall  be  all  right  presently.  .  .  . 
It's  silly  of  me,  isn't  it  ?  " 

He  felt  that  she  was  not  her  usual  self:  but  he  did  not 
question  her:  and,  to  turn  the  conversation,  he  said  : 

"  That's  what  comes  of  having  been  so  brilliant  last  night. 
You  took  too  much  out  of  yourself." 

She  smiled  a  little  ironically. 

"  One  can't  say  the  same  of  you,"  she  replied. 

He  laughed. 

"I  don't  believe  you  said  a  word,"  she  went  on. 

"  Xot  a  word." 

"  But  there  were  interesting  people  there." 

"  Oh  yes.  All  sorts  of  lights  and  famous  people,  all  talking 
at  once.  But  I'm  lost  among  all  your  boneless  Frenchmen  who 
understand  everything,  and  explain  everything,  and  excuse 
everything — and  feel  nothing  at  all.  People  who  talk  for  hours 
together  about  art  and  love!  Isn't  it  revolting?" 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  101 

"But  you  ought  to  be  interested  in  art  if  not  in  love." 

"  One  doesn't  talk  about  these  things :  one  does  them." 

"  But  when  one  cannot  do   them  ? "   said   Colette,   pouting. 

Christophe  replied  with  a  laugh : 

"  Well,  leave  it  to  others.     Everybody  is  not  fit  for  art." 

"Nor  for  love?" 

"  Nor  for  love." 

"  How  awful !     What  is  left  for  us  ?  " 

"  Housekeeping." 

"  Thanks,"  said  Colette,  rather  annoyed.  She  turned  to  the 
piano  and  began  again,  made  mistakes,  thumped  the  keyboard, 
and  moaned : 

"  I  can't!  .  .  .  I'm  no  good  at  all.  I  believe  you  are  right. 
Women  aren't  any  good." 

"  It's  something  to  be  able  to  say  so,"  said  Christophe 
genially. 

She  looked  at  him  rather  sheepishly,  like  a  little  girl  who 
has  been  scolded,  and  said  : 

"  Don't  be  so  hard." 

"  I'm  not  saying  anything  hard  about  good  women,"  replied 
Christophe  gaily.  "  A  good  woman  is  Paradise  on  earth.  Only, 
Paradise  on  earth  ..." 

"  I  know.     Xo  one  has  ever  seen  it." 

"  I'm  not  so  pessimistic.  I  say  only  that  I  have  never  seen 
it:  but  that's  no  reason  why  it  should  not  exist.  I'm  deter- 
mined to  find  it,  if  it  does  exist.  Hut  it  is  not  easy.  A  good 
woman  and  a  man  of  genius  are  equally  rare." 

"And  all  the  other  men  and  women  don't  count?" 

"  On  the  contrary,  it  is  only  they  who  count — for  the 
world." 

"  But  for  you  ?  " 

"  For  me,  they  don't  exist." 

"  You  arc  hard."  repeated  Colette. 

"A  little.  Somebody  has  to  be  hard,  if  only  in  the  interest 
of  the  others!  ...  If  there  weren't  a  few  pebbles  here  and 
there  in  the  world,  the  whole  thing  would  go  to  pulp." 


102  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARTS 

"Yes.  Yon  arc  right.  It  is  a  good  tiling  for  you  that 
you  are  strong/''  said  Colette  sadly.  "  But  you  must  not  be 
too  hard  on  men, — and  especially  on  women  who  aren't  strong. 
.  .  .  You  don't  know  how  terrible  our  weakness  is  to  us. 
Because  you  see  us  flirting,  and  laughing,  and  doing  silly 
things,  you  think  \ve  never  dream  of  anything  else,  and  YOU 
despise  us.  Ah!  if.  you  could  see  all  that  goes  on  in  the.  minds 
of  the  girls  of  from  fifteen  to  eighteen  as  they  go  out  into 
society,  and  have  the  sort  of  success  that  comes  to  their  youth 
and  freshness — when  they  have  danced,  and  talked  smart  non- 
sense, and  said  bitter  things  at  which  people  laugh  because  they 
laugh,  when  they  have  given  themselves  to  imbeciles,  and  sought 
in  vain  in  their  eyes  the  light  that  is  nowhere  to  be  found, 
• — if  you  could  sec  them  in  their  rooms  at  night,  in  silence,  alone, 
kneeling  in  agony  to  pray  !  .  .  ." 

"  Is  it  possible?"  said  Christophe,  altogether  amazed. 
"What!  you,  too.  have  suffered  ?  " 

Colette  did  not  reply:  but  tears  came  to  her  eyes.  She  tried 
to  smile  and  held  out  her  hand  to  Christophc:  he  grasped  it 
warmly. 

"  \Yhat  would  you  have  us  do?  There  is  nothing  to  do. 
You  men  can  free  yourselves  and  do  what  you  like.  But  we 
are  bound  for  ever  and  ever  within  the  narrow  circle  of  the 
duties  and  pleasure's  of  society:  we  cannot  break  free." 

"There  is  nothing  to  prevent  your  freeing  yourselves,  finding 
some  work  you  like,  and  winning  your  independence  just  as 
we  do." 

"As  you  do?  Poor  Monsieur  Kratft!  Your  work  is  not  so 
very  certain!  .  .  .  But  at  least  you  like  your  \vork.  But 
what  sort  of  work  can  we  do?  There  isn't  aiiv  that  we  could 
find  interesting — lor.  I  know,  we  dabble  in  all  sorts  of  tilings, 
and  pretend  to  be  interested  in  a  heap  of  things  that  do  not 
concern  us:  we  do  so  want  to  be  interested  in  something!  I. 
do  what  the  others  do.  I  do  charitable  work  and  sit  on  social 
work  committees.  I  go  to  lectures  at  the  Sorbonne  bv  Bergson 
and  Jules  Lemaitre,  historical  concerts,  classical  matinees,  and  1 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  103 

take  notes  and  notes.  ...  I  never  know  what  1  am  writing! 
.  .  .  and  I  try  to  persuade  myself  that  I  am  absorbed  by  it, 
or  at  least  that  it  is  useful.  Ah  !  but  1  know  that  it  is  not  true. 
1  know  that  I  don't  (-are  a  bit.  and  that  I  am  bored  by  it  all! 
.  .  .  Don't  despise  me  because  I  tell  you  frankly  what  every- 
body thinks  in  set- ret.  I'm  no  sillier  than  the  rest.  But  what 
use  are  philosophy,  history,  and  science  to  me?  As  for  art. — 
you  see, — I  strum  and  daub  and  make  messy  little  water-color 
sketches; — but  is  that  enough  to  lill  a  woman's  lifer  There  is 
only  one  end  to  our  life:  marriage.  But  do  you  think  there  is 
much  fun  in  marrying  this  or  that  young  man  whom  1  know 
as  well  as  you  do?  I  see  them  as  they  are.  I  am  not  for- 
tunate enough  to  be  like  your  German  Gretchens,  who  can  al- 
ways create  an  illusion  for  themselves.  .  .  .  That  is  terrible, 
isn't  it?  To  look  around  and  see  girls  who  have  married  and 
their  husbands,  and  to  think  that  one  will  have  to  do  as  they 
have  done,  be  cramped  in  body  and  mind,  and  become  dull  like 
them!  .  .  .  One  needs  to  be  stoical,  1  tell  you.  to  accept  such 
a  life  with  such  obligations.  All  women  are  not  capable  of  it. 
.  .  .  And  time  passes,  the  years  go  by,  youth  fades:  and  yet 
there  were  lovely  things  and  good  things  in  us — all  useless,  for 
dav  bv  dav  they  die,  and  one  has  to  surrender  them  to  the  fools 
and  people  whom  one;  despises,  people  who  will  despise  oneself! 
.  .  .  And  nobody  understands!  One  would  think  that  we 
were  sphinxes.  One  can  forgive  the  men  who  iind  us  dull  and 
strange!  But  the  women  ought  to  understand  us!  They  have 
been  like  us:  they  have  only  to  look  back  and  remember.  .  .  . 
But  no.  There  is  no  help  from  them.  Even  our  mothers  ig- 
nore us,  and  actually  try  not  to  know  what  \ve  arc.  They  only 
try  to  get  us  married.  For  the  rest,  thev  sav,  live,  die,  do  as 
you  like!  Society  absolutely  abandons  us." 

"  Don't  lose  heart."  said  I'hristophe.  "  Every  one  has  to 
face  the  experience  v,f  life  all  over  again.  If  you  arc  brave, 
it  will  be  all  right.  Look  outside  your  own  circle.  There 
must  be  a  few  honest  men  in  France." 

"There  are.     1  know.     But  thev  are  so  tedious!    .  And 


104  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IX  PAEIS 

then,  I  tell  you,  I  detest  the  circle  in  which  I  live:  but  I  don't 
think  I  could  live  outside  it,  now.  It  has  become  a  habit.  1 
need  a  certain  degree  of  comfort,  certain  refinements  of  luxury 
and  comfort,  which,  no  doubt,  money  alone  cannot  provide, 
though  it  is  an  indispensable  factor.  That  sounds  pretty  poor, 
I  know.  But  I  know  myself  :  I  am  weak.  .  .  .  Please,  please, 
don't  draw  away  from  me  because  I  tell  you  of  my  cowardice. 
Be  kind  and  listen  to  me.  It  helps  me  so  to  talk  to  you  !  I 
feel  that  you  are  strong  and  sound :  I  have  such  confidence  in 
you.  Will  you  be  my  friend  ?  " 

"  Gladly,"  said  Christophe.     "  But  what  can  I  do?  " 

"  Listen  to  me,  advise  me,  give  me  courage.  I  am  often 
so  depressed !  And  then  I  don't  know  what  to  do.  I  say  to 
myself:  'What  is  the  good  of  fighting?  What's  the  good  of 
tormenting  myself?  One  way  or  the  other,  what  does  it  mat- 
ter? Nothing  and  nobody  matters!'  That  is  a  dreadful  con- 
dition to  be  in.  I  don't  want  to  get  like  that.  Help  me. 
Help  me." 

She  looked  utterly  downcast;  she  looked  older  by  ten  years: 
she  looked  at  Christophe  with  abject,  imploring  eyes.  He  prom- 
ised what  she  asked.  Then  she  revived,  smiled,  and  was  gay 
once  more. 

And  in  the  evening  she  was  laughing  and  flirting  as  usual. 

Thereafter  they  had  many  intimate  conversations.  They 
were  alone  together:  she  confided  in  him:  he  tried  hard  to 
understand  and  advise  her:  she  listened  to  his  advice,  or,  if 
necessary,  to  his  remonstrances,  gravely,  attentively,  like  a  good 
little  girl:  it  was  a  distraction,  an  interest,  even  a  support  for 
her:  she  thanked  him  coquettishly  with  a  depth  of  feeling  in  her 
eyes. — But  her  life  was  changed  in  nothing:  it  was  only  a  dis- 
traction the  more. 

Her  day  was  passed  in  a  succession  of  metamorphoses.  She 
got  up  very  late,  about  midday,  after  a  sleepless  night:  for  she 
rarely  went  to  sleep  before  dawn.  All  day  long  she  did  nothing. 
She  would  vaguely  call  to  mind  a  poem,  an  idea,  a  scrap  of  an 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  105 

idea,  or  a  face  that  had  pleased  her.  She  was  never  quite 
awake  until  about  four  or  five  in  the  afternoon.  Till  then  her 
eyelids  were  heavy,  her  face  was  pufi'y,  and  she  was  sulky  and 
sleepy.  She  would  revive  on  the  arrival  of  a  few  girl-friends  as 
talkative  as  herself,  and  all  sharing  the  same  interest  in  the 
gossip  of  Paris.  They  chattered  endlessly  about  love.  The 
psychology  of  love:  that  was  the  unfailing  topic,  mixed  up  with 
dress,  the  indiscretions  of  others,  and  scandal.  She  had  also 
a  circle  of  idle  young  men  to  whom  it  was  necessary  to  spend 
three  hours  a  day  among  skirts :  they  ought  to  have  worn  them 
really,  for  they  had  the  souls  and  the  conversation  of  girls. 
Christophe  had  his  hour  as  her  confessor.  At  once  Colette 
would  become  serious  and  intense.  She  was  like  the  young 
Frenchwoman,  of  whom  Bod  ley  speaks,  who.  at  the  confessional, 
"developed  a  calmly  prepared  essay,  a  model  of  clarity  and 
order,  in  which  everything  that  was  to  be  said  was  properly  ar- 
ranged in  distinct  categories." — And  after  that  she  flung  herself 
once  more  into  the  business  of  amusement.  As  the  day  went  on 
she  grew  younger.  In  the  evening  she  went  to  the  theater :  and 
there  was  the  eternal  pleasure  of  recognizing  the  same  eternal 
faces  in  the  audience: — her  pleasure  lay  not  in  the  play  that 
was  performed,  but  in  the  actors  whom  she  knew,  whose  familiar 
mannerisms  she  remarked  once  .more.  And  she  exchanged 
spiteful  remarks  with  the  people  who  came  to  see  her  in  her 
box  about  the  people  in  the  other  boxes  and  about  the  actresses. 
The  inr/ciiuc  was  said  to  have  a  thin  voice  "  like  sour  mayon- 
naise," or  the  great  comedienne  was  dressed  "  like  a  lamp- 
shade."— Or  else  she  went  out  to  a  partv:  and  there  the  pleas- 
ure, for  a  pretty  girl  like  Colette,  lay  in  being  seen: — (but 
there  were  bad  da\s:  nothing  is  more  capricious  than  good  looks 
in  Paris)  : — and  she  renewed  her  store  of  critic-isms  of  people. 
and  their  dresses,  and  their  physical  defects,  '['here  was  no 
conversation. — She  would  go  home  late,  and  take  her  time 
about  going  to  bed  (that  was  the  time  when  >he  was  most- 
awake).  She  would  dawdle  about  her  dressing-table:  skim 
through  a  book:  laugh  to  herself  at  the  memory  of  something 


106  JEAJST-CHRISTOPHE  IX  PARIS 

said  or  done.  She  was  bored  and  very  unhappy.  She  could  not 
go  to  sleep,  and  in  the  night  there  would  come  frightful  mo- 
ments of  despair. 

Christophe,  who  only  saw  Colette  for  a  few  hours  at  intervals, 
and  could  only  be  present  at  a  few  of  these  transformations, 
found  it  difficult  to  understand  her  at  all.  lie  wondered  when 
she  was  sincere, — or  if  she  were  always  sincere — -or  iC  she  were 
never  sincere.  Colette  herself  could  not  have  told  him.  Like 
most  girls  who  are  idle  and  circumscribed  in  their  desires,  she 
was  in  darkness.  She  did  not  know  what  she  was,  because 
she  did  not  know  what  she  wanted,  because  she  could  not  know 
what  she  wanted  without  having  tried  it.  She  would  try  it,  after 
her  fashion,  with  the  maximum  of  liberty  and  the  minimum  of 
risk,  trying  to  copy  the  people  about  her  and  to  take  their  moral 
measure.  She  was  in  no  hurry  to  choose.  She  would  have 
liked  to  try  everything,  and  turn  everything  to  account. 

But  that  did  not  work  with  a  friend  like  Christophe.  lie 
was  perfectly  willing  to  allow  her  to  prefer  people  whom  be  did 
not  admire,  even  people  whom  he  despised:  but  he  would  not 
sull'er  her  to  put  him  on  the  same  level  with  them.  Every- 
body to  his  own  taste:  but  at  least  let  everybodv  have  his  own 
taste. 

He  was  the  less  inclined  to  be  patient  with  Colette,  as  she 
seemed  to  take  a  delight  in  gathering  round  herself  all  the 
young  men  who  were  most  likely  to  exasperate  Christophe:  dis- 
gusting little  snobs,  most  of  them  wealthy,  all  of  them  idle,  or 
jobbed  into  a  sinecure  in  some  government  oilier — which 
amounts  to  the  same  thing.  They  all  wrote — or  pretended  to 
write.  That  was  an  itch  of  the  Third  Republic.  It  was  a 
of  indolent  vanity, — intellectual  work  being  the  hardest  of  ; 
control,  and  most  easily  lending  itself  to  the  game  of  1 
They  never  gave  more  than  a  discreet,  though  respectful 
of  their  great  labors.  They  seemed  to  be  convinced  of  tin 
portaiice  of  their  work,  staggering  under  the  weight  of  it. 
.first  Christophe  was  a  little  embarrassed  by  the  fact  that  he 
had  never  heard  of  them  or  their  works,  lie  tried  bashfully  to 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  10? 

ask  about  them:  he  was  especially  anxious  to  know  what  one 
of  them  had  written,  a  young  man  who  was  declared  by  the 
others  to  be  a  master  of  the  theater.  He  was  surprised  to  hear 
that  this  great  dramatist  had  written  a  one-act  play  taken  from 
a  novel,  which  had  been  pieced  together  from  a  number  of 
short  stories,  or,  rather,  sketches,  which  he  had  published  in 
one  of  the  Reviews  during  the  past  ten  years.  The  baggage  of 
the  others  was  not  more  considerable :  a  few  one-act  plays,  a 
few  short  stories,  a  few  verses.  Some  of  them  had  won  fame 
with  an  article,  others  with  a  book  u  which  they  were  going  to 
write."  They  professed  scorn  for  long-winded  books.  They 
seemed  to  attach  extreme  importance  to  the  handling  of  words. 
And  yet  the  word  "  thought "  frequently  occurred  in  their 
conversation:  but  it  did  not  seem  to  have  the  same  meaning 
as  is  usually  given  to  it:  they  applied  it  to  the  details  of  style. 
However,  there  were  among  tbern  great  thinkers,  and  great 
ironists,  who,  when  they  wrote,  printed  their  subtle  and  pro- 
found remarks  in  italics,  so  that  there  might  be  no  mistake. 

They  all  had  the  cult  of  the  letter  /:  it  was  the  only  cult 
they  had.  They  tried  to  proselytize.  But,  unfortunately, 
other  people  were  subscribers  to  the  cult.  They  were  always 
conscious  of  their  audience  in  their  way  of  speaking,  walking, 
smoking,  reading  a  paper,  carrying  their  heads,  looking,  bow- 
ing to  each  other. — Such  players'  tricks  are  natural  to  young 
people,  and  the  more  insignificant— that  is  to  say,  unoccupied 
— they  are,  the  stronger  bold  do  they  have  on  them.  They  are 
more  especially  paraded  before  women :  for  they  covet  women, 
and  long — even  more — to  be  coveted  by  them.  But  even  on  a 
chance  meeting  they  will  trot  out  their  bag  of  tricks:  even 
for  a  passer-by  from  whom  they  can  expert  onlv  a  glance  of 
amazement.  Christophe  often  came  across  these  young  strut- 
ting peacocks:  budding  painters,  and  musicians,  art-students 
who  modeled  their  appearance  on  some  famous  portrait:  Van 
Dyck.  Rembrandt,  Velasquez.  Beethoven;  or  fitted  it  to  the 
parts  they  wish  to  play:  painter,  musician,  workman,  the  pro- 
found thinker,  the  jolly  fellow,  the  Danuhian  peasant,  the 


108  JEAX-CHRISTOPHE  IX  PARIS 

natural  man.  .  .  .  They  were  always  on  the  lookout  to  see 
if  they  were  attracting  attention.  When  Christophe  met  them 
in  the  street  he  took  a  malicious  pleasure  in  looking  the  other 
way  and  ignoring  them.  But  their  discomfiture  never  lasted 
long:  a  yard  or  so  farther  on  they  would  start  strutting  for  the 
next  comer. — But  the  young  men  of  Colette's  little  circle  were 
rather  more  subtle :  their  coxcombry  was  mental :  they  had  two 
or  three  models,  who  were  not  themselves  original.  Or  else 
they  would  mimic  an  idea:  force,  Joy,  Pity,  Solidarity,  Social- 
ism, Anarchism,  Faith,  Liberty:  all  these  were  parts  for  their 
playing.  They  were  horribly  clever  in  making  the  dearest  and 
rarest  thoughts  mere  literary  stuff,  and  in  degrading  the  most 
heroic  impulses  of  the  human  soul  to  the  level  of  drawing-room 
commodities,  fashionable  neckties. 

But  in  love  they  were  altogether  in  their  element:  that  was 
their  special  province.  The  casuistry  of  pleasure  had  no  secrets 
for  them:  they  were  so  clever  that  they  could  invent  new  prob- 
lems so  as  to  have  the  honor  of  solving  them.  That  has  al- 
ways been  the  occupation  of  people  who  have  nothing  else  to 
do:  in  default  of  love,  they  ''make  love":  above  all,  they  ex- 
plain it.  Their  notes  took  up  far  more  room  than  their  text, 
which,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  was  very  short.  Sociology  gave  a 
relish  to  the  most  scabrous  thoughts:  everything  was  sheltered 
beneath  the  flag  of  sociology :  though  they  might  have  had 
pleasure  in  indulging  their  vices,  there  would  have  been  some- 
thing lacking  if  they  had  not  persuaded  themselves  that  the)7 
were  laboring  in  the  cause  of  the  new  world.  That  was  an 
eminently  Parisian  sort  of  socialism:  erotic  socialism. 

Among  the  problems  that  were  then  exercising  the  little 
Court  of  Love  was  the  equality  of  men  and  women  in  mar- 
riage, and  their  respective  rights  in  love.  There  had  been 
young  men,  honest,  protestant,  and  rather  ridiculous, — Scan- 
dinavians and  Swiss— who  had  based  equality  on  virtue:  say- 
ing that  men  should  come  to  marriage  as  chaste  as  women. 
The  Parisian  casuists  looked  for  another  sort  of  equality,  an 
equality  based  on  loss  of  virtue,  saying  that  women  should 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  109 

come  to  marriage  as  besmirched  as  men, — the  right  to  take 
lovers.  The  Parisians  had  carried  adultery,  in  imagination  and 
practice,  to  such  a  pitch  that  they  were  beginning  to  find  it 
rather  insipid :  and  in  the  world  of  letters  attempts  were  being 
made  to  support  it  by  a  new  invention :  the  prostitution  of  young 
girls, — I  mean  regularized,  universal,  virtuous,  decent,  domestic, 
and,  above  all,  social  prostitution. — There  had  just  appeared  a 
book  on  the  question,  full  of  talent,  which  apparently  said  all 
there  was  to  be  said:  through  four  hundred  pages  of  playful 
pedantry,  "  strictly  in  accordance  with  the  rules .  of  the  Ba- 
conian method,"  it  dealt  with  the  "  best  method  of  controlling 
the  relations  of  the  sexes."  It  was  a  lecture  on  free  love,  full  of 
talk  about  manners,  propriety,  good  taste,  nobility,  beauty, 
truth,  modesty,  morality, — a  regular  Berquin  for  young  girls 
who  wanted  to  go  wrong. — It  was,  for  the  moment,  the  Gospel 
in  which  Colette's  little  court  rejoiced,  while  they  paraphrased 
it.  It  goes  without  saying,  that,  like  all  disciples,  they  dis- 
carded all  the  justice,  observation,  and  even  humanity  that  lay 
behind  the  paradox,  and  only  retained  the  evil  in  it.  They 
plucked  all  the  most  poisonous  flowers  from  the  little  bed  of 
sweetened  blossoms, — aphorisms  of  this  sort:  "The  taste  for 
pleasure  can  only  sharpen  the  taste  for  work  " : — "  It  is  mon- 
strous that  a  girl  should  become  a  mother  before  she  lias  tasted 
the  sweets  of  life." — "  To  have  had  the  love  of  a  worthy  and 
pure-souled  man  as  a  girl  is  the  natural  preparation  of  a 
woman  for  a  wise  and  considered  motherhood  " : — "  Mothers," 
said  this  author,  "should  organize  the  lives  of  their  daughters 
with  the  same  delieacv  and  decency  with  which  they  control 
the  liberty  of  their  sons." — "The  time  would  come  when  girls 
would  return  as  naturally  from  their  lovers  as  now  they  re- 
turn from  a  walk  or  from  taking  tea  with  a  friend/' 

Colette  laughingly  declared  that  such  teaching  was  very  rea- 
sonable. 

Christophe  had  a  horror  of  it.  He  exaggerated  its  im- 
portance and  the  evil  that  it  might  do.  The  French  are 
too  clever  to  bring  their  literature  into  practice.  These  Diderots 


110  JEAN-CHKISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

in  miniature  are,  in  ordinary  life,  like  the  genial  Panurge  of 
tlie  encyclopedia,  honest  citizens,  not  really  a  whit  less  timorous 
than  the  rest.  It  is  precisely  because  they  are  so  timid  in  ac- 
tion that  they  amuse  themselves  with  carrying  action  (in 
thought)  to  the  limit  of  possibility.  It  is  a  game  without  any 
risk. 

But  Christophe  was  not  a  French  dilettante. 

Among  the  young  men  of  Colette's  circle,  there  was  one 
whom  she  seemed  to  prefer,  and,  of  course,  he  was  the  most  ob- 
jectionable of  all  to  Christophe. 

He  was  one  of  those  young  parvenus  CM'  the  second  generation 
who  form,  an  aristocracy  of  letters,  and  are  the  patricians  of 
the  Third  Republic.  His  name  was  Lucien  Levy-Cu'iir.  lie 
had  quick  eyes,  set  wide  apart,  an  aquiline  nose,  a  fair  Van  Dyek 
beard  clipped  to  a  point:  he  was  prematurely  bald,  which  did 
not  become  him:  and  he  had  a  silky  voice,  elegant  manners,  and 
fine  soft  hands,  which  he  was  always  rubbing  together.  He 
always  affected  an  excessive  politeness,  an  exaggerated  courtesy, 
even  with  people  he  did  not  like,  and  even  when  he  was  bent 
on  snubbing  them. 

Christophe  had  met  him  before  at  the  literary  dinner,  to 
which  he  was  taken  by  Sylvain  Kohn :  and  though  they  had 
not  spoken  to  each  other,  the  sound,  of  Levy-Cieur's  voice 
had  been  enough  to  rouse  a  dislike  which  he  could  not  explain, 
and  he  was  not  to  discover  the  reason  for  it  until  much  later. 
There  are  sudden  outbursts  of  love:  and  so  there  are  of  bate. — 
or — (to  avoid  hurting  those  tender  souls  who  are  afraid,  of  the 
word  as  of  every  passion) — let  us  call  it  the  instinct  of  health 
scenting  the  enemv,  and  mounting  guard  against  him. 

Levy-Couir  was  exactly  the  opposite  of  Chrisiophe,  and 
represented  the  spirit  of  irony  and  decay  which  fastened  gently, 
politelv.  inexorably,  on  all  the  great  things  that  were  left  ul' 
the  dying  society:  the  family,  marriage,  religion,  patriotism: 
in  art.  on  everything  that,  was  manly,  pure,  healthy,  of  the  peo- 
ple: faith  in  ideas,  feelings,  great  men.  in  Man.  Behind  that 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  111 

mode  of  thought  there  was  only  the  mechanical  pleasure  of 
analysis,  analysis  pushed  to  extremes,  a  sort  of  animal  desire  to 
nibble  at  thought,  the  instinct  of  a  worm.  And  side  by  side 
with  that  ideal  of  intellectual  nibbling  was  a  girlish  sensuality. 
the  sensuality  of  a  blue-stocking:  for  to  Lcvy-Cu-ur  everything 
became  literature.  Everything  was  literary  copy  to  him:  his 
own  adventures,  his  vices  and  the  vices  of  his  friends,  lie  had 
written  novels  and  plavs  in  \vhich.  with  much  talent,  he  de- 
scribed the  private  life  of  his  relations,  and  their  most  in- 
timate adventures,  and  those  of  his  friends,  his  own.  his  liaixnux, 
among  others  one  with  the  wife  of  his  best  friend:  the  portraits 
were  well-drawn:  everybody  praised  them,  the  public,  the  wife. 
and  his  friend.  It  was  impossible  for  him  to  gain  the 
confidence  or  the  favors  of  a  woman  without  putting  them  into 
a  book. — One  would  have  thought  that  his  indiscretions  -\vould 
have  produced  strained  relations  with  his  "  friends."  But  there 
was  nothing  of  the  kind:  they  were  hardly  more  than  a  little 
embarrassed:  they  protested  as  a  matter  of  form:  but  at  heart 
they  were  delighted  at  being  held  up  to  the  public  gaze,  en 
deshabille:  so  long  as  their  faces  were  masked,  their  modesty 
was  undisturbed.  Hut  there  was  never  any  spirit  of  vengeance, 
or  even  of  scandal,  in  his  tale-telling,  lie  was  no  worst1  a  man 
or  lover  than  the  majority.  In  the  very  chapters  in  which  he 
exposed  his  father  and  mother  and  his  mistress,  he  would 
write  of  them  with  a  poetic  tenderness  and  charm,  lie  was 
really  extremely  affectionate:  but  he  was  one  of  those  men 
who  have  no  need  to  respect,  when  thev  love:  quite  the  con- 
trary: they  rather  love  those  whom  thev  can  despise  a  little: 
that  makes  the  object  of  their  atTection  seem  nearer  to  them 
and  more  human.  Such  men  are  of  all  the  least  capable  of 
understanding  heroism  and  purity.  Thev  are  not  far  from  1-011- 
sidering  them  lies  or  weakness  of  mind.  It  goes  without  sav- 
ing that  such  men  are  convinced  that  they  understand  better 
than  anybody  else  the  heroes  of  art  whom  they  judge  with  a 
patronizing  familiarity. 

He  got  on  excellently   well   with   the   young   women   of   the 


112  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IX  PARIS 

rich,  idle  middle-class.  He  was  a  companion  for  them,  a  sort 
of  depraved  servant,  only  more  free  and  confidential,  who  gave 
them  instruction  and  roused  their  envy.  They  had  hardly  any 
constraint  with  him  :  and,  with  the  lamp  of  Psyche  in  their 
hands,  they  made  a  careful  study  of  the  hermaphrodite,  and  he 
suffered  them. 

Christophe  could  not  understand  how  a  girl  like  Colette, 
who  seemed  to  have  so  refined  a  nature  and  a  touching  eager- 
ness to  escape  from  the  degrading  round  of  her  life,  could  iind 
pleasure  in  such  company.  Christophe  was  no  psychologist. 
Lucien  Levy-Cceur  could  easily  heat  him  on  that  score.  Chris- 
tophe was  Colette's  confidant :  hut  Colette  was  the  confidante  of 
Lucien  Levy-Cceur.  That  gave  him  a  great  advantage.  It  is 
very  pleasant  to  a  woman  to  feel  that  she  has  to  deal  with  a 
man  weaker  than  herself.  She  finds  food  in  it  at  once  for  her 
lower  and  higher  instincts:  her  maternal  instinct  is  touched 
by  it.  Lucien  Levy-Cceur  knew  that  perfectly :  one  of  the 
surest  means  of  touching  a  woman's  heart  is  to  sound  that  mys- 
terious chord.  But  in  addition,  Colette  felt  that  she  was  weak, 
and  cowardly,  and  possessed  of  instincts  of  which  she  was  not 
proud,  though  she  was  not  inclined  to  deny  them.  It  pleased 
her  to  allow  herself  to  be  persuaded  by  the  audacious  and  nicelv 
calculated  confessions  of  her  friend  that  others  were  just  the 
same,  and  that  human  nature  must  be  taken  for  what  it  is. 
And  so  she  gave  herself  the  satisfaction  of  not  resisting  in- 
clinations that  she  found  very  agreeable,  and  the  luxury  of 
saying  that  it  must  be  so,  and  that  it  was  wise  not  to  rebel 
and  to  be  indulgent  with  what  one  could  not — "alas!" — pre- 
vent. There,  was  a  wisdom  in  that,  the  practice  of  which  con- 
tained no  element  of  pain. 

For  any  one  who  can  envisage  life  with  sercnitv,  there  is  a 
peculiar  relish  in  remarking  the  perpetual  contrast  which  ex- 
ists in  the  very  bosom  of  society  between  the  extreme  refine- 
ment of  apparent  civilization  and  its  fundamental  animalism. 
In  every  gathering  that  does  not  consist  only  of  fossils  and 
petrified  souls.,  there  are,  as  it  were,  two  conversational  strata, 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  113 

one  above  the  other :  one — which  everybody  can  hear — between 
mind  and  mind:  the  other — of  which  very  few  are  conscious, 
though  it  is  the  greater  of  the  two — between  instinct  and  in- 
stinct, the  beast  in  man  and  woman.  Often  these  two  strata 
of  conversation  are  contradictory.  While  mind  and  mind  are 
passing  the  small  change  of  convention,  body  and  body  say : 
Desire,  Aversion,  or,  more  often :  Curiosity,  Boredom,  Disgust. 
The  beast  in  man  and  woman,  though  tamed  by  centuries  of 
civilization,  and  as  cowed  as  the  wretched  lions  in  the  tamer's 
cage,  is  always  thinking  of  its  food. 

But  Christophe  had  not  yet  reached  that  disinterestedness 
which  comes  only  with  age  and  the  death  of  the  passions.  He 
had  taken  himself  very  seriously  as  adviser  to  Colette.  She 
had  asked  for  his  help :  and  he  saw  her  in  the  lightness  of  her 
heart  exposed  to  danger.  So  he  made  no  effort  to  conceal  his 
dislike  of  Lucien  Levy-Cceur.  At  first  that  gentleman  main- 
tained towards  Christophe  an  irreproachable  and  ironical  polite- 
ness. He,  too,  scented  the  enemy :  but  he  thought  he  had 
nothing  to  fear  from  him:  he  made  fun  of  him  without  seeming 
to  do  so.  If  only  he  could  have  had  Christophers  admiration 
he  would  have  been  on  quite  good  terms  with  him.  but  that  he 
never  could  obtain:  he  saw  that  clearly,  for  Christophe  had 
not  the  art  of  disguising  his  feelings.  And  so  Lucien  Levy- 
Cceur  passed  insensibly  from  an  abstract  intellectual  antago- 
nism to  a  little,  carefully  veiled,  war,  of  which  Colette  was  to 
be  the  prize. 

She  held  the  balance  evenly  between  her  two  friends.  Slid 
appreciated  Christophc's  talent  and  moral  superiority:  but  she 
also  appreciated  Lucien  Levy-Cceur's  amusing  immorality  and 
wit:  and,  at  bottom,  she  found  more  pleasure'  in  it.  Christophe 
did  not  mince  his  protestations:  she  listened  to  him  with  a 
touching  humility  which  disarmed  him.  She  was  quite  a  good 
creature,  but  she  lacked  frankness,  partly  from  weakness,  partly 
from  her  very  kindness.  She  was  half  play-acting:  she  pre- 
tended to  think  with  Christophe.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  she 
knew  the  worth  of  such  a  friend  :  but  she  was  not  readv  to 


114  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PAEIS 

make  airy  sacrifice  for  a  friendship:  she  was  not  ready  to 
sacrifice  anything  for  anybody:  she  just  wanted  everything  to 
go  smoothly  and  pleasantly.  And  so  she  concealed  from  Chris- 
tophe  the  fact  that  she  went  on  receiving  Lucien  Levy-Cceur: 
she  lied  with  the  easy  charm  of  the  young  women  of  her 
class  who,  from  their  childhood,  are  expert  in  the  practice 
which  is  so  necessary  for  those  who  wish  to  keep  their  friends 
and  please  everybody.  She  excused  herself  by  pretending  that 
she  wished  to  avoid  hurting  Christopher  but  in  reality  it  was 
because  she  knew  that  he  was  right  and  wanted  to  go  on  doing 
as  she  liked  without  quarreling  with  him.  Sometimes  Chris- 
tophe  suspected  her  tricks :  then  he  woidd  scold  her,  and  wax 
indignant.  She  would  go  on  playing  the  contrite  little  girl,  and 
be  affectionate  and  sorry:  and  she  would  look  tenderly  at  him 
— ferni'uce  'ultima  ratio. — And  really  it  did  distress  her  to  think 
of  losing  Christophers  friendship:  she  would  be  charmingly 
serious  and  in  that  way  succeed  in  disarming  Christophe  for 
a  little  while  longer.  But  sooner  or  later  there  had  to  be  an  ex- 
plosion. Christophe's  irritation  was  fed  unconsciously  by  a 
little  jealousy.  And  into  Colette's  coaxing  tricks  there  crept 
a  little,  a  very  little,  love,  all  of  which  made  the  rupture  only 
the  more  violent. 

One  day  when  Christophe  had  caught  Colette  out  in  a  flagrant 
lie  he  gave  her  a  definite  alternative:  she  must  choose  between 
Lucien  Levy-Cecur  and  himself.  She  tried  to  dodge  the  ques- 
tion: and,  finally,  she  vindicated  her  right  to  have  whatever 
friends  she  liked.  She  was  perfectly  right:  and  Christophe 
admitted  that  he  had  been  absurd  :  but  he  knew  also  that  he 
had  not  been  exacting  from  egoism  :  he  had  a  sincere  aiVeetion 
for  Colette:  he  wanted  to  save  her  even  against  her  will.  Jlu 
insisted  awkwardlv.  She  refused  to  answer.  He  said: 

"Colette,  do  you  want  us  not   to  be  friends  any  more?" 

She  replied  : 

"  Xo.  no.      I  should  be  sorry  if  you  ceased  to  be  my  friend." 

"But  you  will  not  sacrifice  the  smallest  thing  for  our 
friendship." 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  115 

"Sacrifice!  What  a  silly  word!''  she  said.  "Why  should 
one  always  be  sacrificing  one  thing  for  another?  It's  just  a 
stupid  Christian  idea.  You're  nothing  but  an  old  parson  at 
heart." 

"Maybe,"  he  said.  "1  want  one  thing  or  another.  I  allow 
nothing  between  good  and  evil,  not  so  much  as  the  breadth  of 
a  hair." 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  she  said.  '"'  That  is  why  I  love  you.  For  I 
do  love  you :  but  .  .  ." 

"But  you  love  the  other  fellow  too?" 

She  laughed,  and  said,  with  a  soft  look  in  her  eyes  and  a 
tender  note  in  her  voice: 

"  Stay !  " 

He  was  just  about  to  give  in  once  more  when  Lucien  Levy- 
Ceeur  came  in:  and  he  was  welcomed  with  the  same  soft  look 
in  her  eyes  and  the  same  tender  note  in  her  voice.  Chris- 
tophe  sat  for  some  time  in  silence  watching  Colette  at  her 
tricks:  then  he  went  away,  having  made  up  his  mind  to  break 
with  her.  He  was  sick  and  sorry  at  heart.  It  was  so  stupid 
to  grow  so  fond,  always  to  be  falling  into  the  trap! 

When  he  reached  home  he  toyed  with  his  books,  and  idly 
opened  his  Bible  and  read: 

".  .  .  The  Lord  saith,  Heca-nne  the  daughters  of  Zion  arc 
haughty  and  walk  with  stretched  forth  necks  and  wanton  cues, 
•walking  and  mincing  ax  they  </<>,  and  making  a  (inkling  with 
iJieir  feet, 

There  fort',  ihe  Lord  will  smile  with  a  scab  Hie  crown  of  the 
lie  ad  of  the  daughters  of  Zion,  and  the  Lord  will  discurcr  their 
secret  jmrls  .  .  . " 

He  burst  out  laughing  as  he  thought  of  Colette's  little 
tricks:  and  he  went  to  bed  well  pleased  with  himself.  Then 
he  thought  that  he  too  mu^t  have  beeome  tainted  with  the 
corrupiion  of  Paris  for  the  Hible  to  have  become  a  humorous 
work  to  him.  P.tit  lie  did  not  stop  saying  over  and  over  again 
the  judgment  of  the  great  judiciarv  humorist:  and  he  tried  to 
imagine  its  effect  on  the  head  of  his  voting  friend.  He  went 


116  JEAN-CHEISTOPHE  IK 

to  sleep  laughing  like  a  child.  He  had  lost  all  thought  of  his 
new  sorrow.  One  more  or  less.  .  .  .  He .  was  getting  used 
to  it. 

He  did  not  give  up  Colette's  music-lessons :  but  he  refused 
to  take  the  opportunities  she  gave  him  of  continuing  their  in- 
timate conversations.  It  was  no  use  her  being  sorry  about  it 
or  offended,  and  trying  all  sorts  of  tricks :  he  stuck  to  his 
guns :  they  were  rude  to  each  other :  of  her  own  accord  she 
took  to  finding  excuses  for  missing  the  lessons :  and  he  also 
made  excuses  for  declining  the  Stevens'  invitations. 

He  had  had  enough  of  Parisian  society:  he  could  not  bear 
the  emptiness  of  it,  the  idleness,  the  moral  impotence,  the 
neurasthenia,  its  aimless,  pointless,  self-devouring  hypercriticism. 
He  wondered  how  people  could  live  in  such  a  stagnant  atmos- 
phere of  art  for  art's  sake  and  pleasure  for  pleasure's  sake. 
And  yet  the  French  did  live  in  it :  they  had  been  a  great  na- 
tion, and  they  still  cut  something  of  a  figure  in  the  world : 
at  least,  they  seemed  to  do  so  to  the  outside  spectator.  But 
where  were  the  springs  of  their  life?  They  believed  in  nothing, 
nothing  but  pleasure.  .  .  . 

Just  as  Christophe  reached  this  point  in  his  reflections,  he 
ran  into  a  crowd  of  young  men  and  women,  all  shouting  at  the 
tops  of  their  voices,  dragging  a  carriage  in  which  was  sitting  an 
old  priest  casting  blessings  right  and  left.  A  little  farther  on 
he  found  some  French  soldiers  battering  down  the  doors  of  a 
church  with  axes,  and  there  were  men  attacking  them  with 
chairs.  He  saw  that  the  French  did  still  believe  in  something 
— though  he  could  not  understand  in  what.  He  was  told  that 
the  State  and  the  Church  were  separated  after  a  century  of  liv- 
ing together,  and  that  as  the  Church  had  refused  to  go  with 
a  good  grace,  standing  on  its  rights  and  its  power,  it  was  being 
evicted.  To  Christophe  the  proceeding  seemed  ungallant:  but 
he  was  so  sick  of  the  anarchical  dilettantism  of  the  Parisian 
artists  that  he  was  delighted  to  find  men  ready  to  have  their 
heads  broken  for  a  cause,  however  foolish  it  might  be. 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  117 

It  was  not  long  before  he  discovered  that  there  were  many 
such  people  in  France.  The  political  journals  plunged  into 
the  fight  like  the  Homeric  heroes:  they  published  daily  calls 
to  civil  war.  It  is  true  that  it  got  no  farther  than  words,  and 
that  they  very  rarely  came  to  blows.  But  there  was  no  lack  of 
simple  souls  to  put  into  action  what  the  others  declared  in  words. 
Strange  things  happened :  departments  threatened  to  break 
away  from  France,  regiments  deserted,  prefectures  were  burned, 
tax-collectors  were  on  horseback  at  the  head  of  a  company  of 
gendarmes,  peasants  were  armed  with  scythes,  and  put  their 
kettles  on  to  boil  to  defend  the  churches,  which  the  Free 
Thinkers  were  demolishing  in  the  name  of  liberty:  there  were 
popular  redeemers  who  climbed  trees  to  address  the  provinces 
of  Wine,  that  had  risen  against  the  provinces  of  Alcohol. 
Everywhere  there  were  millions  of  men  shaking  hands,  all  red 
in  the  face  from  shouting,  and  in  the  end  all  going  for  each 
other.  The  Republic  flattered  the  people :  and  then  turned 
arms  against  them.  The  people  on  their  side  broke  the  heads 
of  a  few  of  their  own  young  men — officers  and  soldiers. — And 
so  every  one  proved  to  everybody  else  the  excellence  of  his 
cause  and  his  lists.  Looked  at  from  a  distance,  through  the 
newspapers,  it  was  as  though  the  country  had  gone  back  a 
few  centuries,  Christophe  discovered  that  France — skeptical 
France — was  a  nation  of  fanatics.  But  it  was  impossible  for 
him  to  find  out  the  meaning  of  their  fanaticism.  For  or 
against  religion?  For  or  against  Reason?  For  or  against  the 
country? — They  were  for  and  against  everything.  They  were 
fanatics  for  the  pleasure  of  it. 

He  spoke  about  it  one  evening  to  a  Socialist  deputy  whom 
he  met  sometimes  at  the  Stevens'.  Although  he  had  spoken 
to  him  before,  he  had  no  idea  what  sort  of  man  he  was:  till 
then  they  had  only  talked  about  music.  Christophe  was  very 
surprised  to  learn  that  this  man  of  the  world  was  the  leader 
of  a  violent  party. 

Achille  Roussin  was  a  handsome  man.  with  a  fair  beard,  a 


118  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

burj'ing  way  of  talking,  a  florid  complexion,  affable  manners. 
a  certain  polish  on  his  fundamental  vulgarity,  certain  peasant 
tricks  which  from  time  to  time  he  used  in  spite  of  himself:- — 
a  way  of  paring  his  nails  in  public,  a  vulgar  habit  of  catching 
hold  of  tin;  coat  of  the  man  lie  was  talking  to,  or  gripping  bim 
by  the  arm: — he  was  a  great  eater,  a  heavy  drinker,  a  high 
liver  with  a  gift  of  laughter,  and  the  appetite  of  a  man  of  Un- 
people pushing  his  way  into  power:  he  was  adaptable,  quick 
to  alter  his  manners  to  sort  with  his  surroundings  and  the  per- 
son he  was  talking  to,  full  of  ideas,  and  reasonable  ill  expound- 
ing them,  able  to  listen,  and  to  assimilate  at  once  everything  he 
heard:  for  the  rest  he  was  sympathetic,  intelligent,  interested 
in  .everything,  naturally,  or  as  a  matter  of  acquired  habit,  or 
merely  out  of  vanity:  he  was  honest  so  far  as  was  compatible 
with  his  interests,  or  when  it  was  dangerous  not  to  be  so. 

He  had  quite  a  pretty  wife,  tall,  well  made,  and  well  set 
up,  with  a  charming  figure  which  was  a  little  too  much  shown 
otl'  by  her  tight  dresses,  which  accentuated  and  exaggerated 
the  rounded  curves  of  her  anatomy:  her  face  was  framed  in 
curly  black  hair:  she  had  big  black  eyes,  a  long,  pointed  chin: 
her  face  was  big.  but  quite  charming  in  its  general  effect,  though 
it  was  spoiled  by  the  twitch  of  her  short-sighted  eyes,  and  her 
silly  little  purscd-up  mouth.  She  had  an  all'ected  precise  man- 
ner, like  a  bird,  and  a  simpering  way  of  talking:  but  she  was 
kindly  and  amiable.  She  came  of  a  rich  shopkceping  family, 
broad-minded  and  virtuous,  and  she  was  devoted  to  the  count- 
less duties  of  society,  as  to  a  religion,  not  to  mention  the 
duties,  social  and  artistic,  which  she  imposed  on  herself:  she 
had  her  salon,  dabbled  in  I  niver^itv  Ivxtension  movements,  and 
was  busy  with  philanthropic  undertakings  and  researches  into 
the  psychology  of  childhood, — all  without  any  enthusiasm  or 
profound  interest. — from  a  mixture  of  natural  kindness,  snob- 
bishness, and  the  harmless  pedantry  of  a  young  woman  of  edu- 
cation, who  always  seems  to  be  repeating  a  lesson,  and  taking 
a  pride  in  showing  that  she  has  learned  it  well.  She  needed  to 
be  busy,  but  she  did  not  need  to  be  interested  in  what  she  was 


THE  M Aft KET- PLACE  110 

doing.  It  was  like  the  feverish  industry  of  those  women  who 
always  have  a  piece  of  knitting  in  their  hands,  and  never  stop 
clicking  their  needles,  as  though  the  salvation  of  ;he  world 
depended  on  their  work,  which  they  themselves  do  not  know 
what  to  do  with.  And  then  there  was  in  her — as  in  women 
who  knit — the  vanity  of  the  good  woman  who  sets  an  example 
to  other  women. 

The  Deputy  had  an  affectionate  contempt  for  her.  He  had 
chosen  well  both  as  regards  his  pleasure  and  his  peace  of  mind. 
He  enjoyed  her  beauty  and  asked  no 'more  of  her:  and  she, 
asked  no  more  of  him.  He  loved  her  and  deceived  her.  She 
put  up  with  that,  provided  she  had  her  share  of  his  attention. 
Perhaps  also  it  gave  her  a  sort  of  pleasure.  She  was  placid 
and  sensual.  She  had  the  attitude  of  mind  of  a  woman  of  the 
harem. 

They  had  two  fine  children  of  four  and  five  years  old,  whom 
she  looked  after,  like  a  good  mother,  with  the  same  amiable, 
cold  attentiveness  with  which  she  followed  her  husband's 
political  career,  and  the  latest  fashions  in  dress  and  art.  And 
it  produced  in  her  the  most  odd  mixture  of  advanced  ideas. 
ultra-decadent  art,  polite  restlessness,  and  bourgeois  sentiment. 

They  invited  Christophe  to  go  and  see  them.  Madame  Kous- 
sin  was  a  good  musician,  and  played  the  piano  charmingly: 
she  had  a  delicate,  linn  touch:  with  her  little  head  bowed 
over  the  keyboard,  and  her  hands  poised  above  it  and  darting 
down,  she  was  like  a  pecking  hen.  She  was  talented  and  knew 
more  about  music  than  most  Frenchwomen,  but  she  was  as 
insensible  as  a  lish  to  the  deeper  meaning  of  music:  to  her  it 
was  only  a  succession  of  notes,  rhythms,  and  degrees  of  sound,  to 
which  she  listened  or  reproduced  carefully:  she  never  looked 
for  the  soul  in  it,  having  no  use  for  it  herself.  This  amiable, 
intelligent,  simple  woman,  who  was  always  ready  lo  do  any 
one  a  kindness,  gave  (,'hrisiophe  the  graceful  welcome  which 
she  extended  to  everybody.  ('hristi>phe  was  not  particularly 
grateful  to  her  for  it:  he  was  not  much  in  svmpathy  with  her: 
she  hardly  existed  for  him.  Perhaps  it,  was  that  unconsciously 


120  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  TN  PARIS 

he  could  not  forgive  her  acquiescence  in  her  husband's  infidel- 
ities, of  which  she  was  by  no  means  ignorant.  Passive  accept- 
ance was  of  all  the  vices  that  which  he  could  least  excuse. 

He  was  more  intimate  Avith  Achille  Roussin.  Roussin  loved 
music,  as  he  loved  the  other  arts,  crudely  but  sincerely.  When 
he  liked  a  symphony,  it  became  a  thing  that  lie  could  take 
into  his  arms.  He  had  a  superficial  culture  and  turned  it  to 
good  account:  his  wife  had  been  useful  to  him  there,  lie  was 
interested  in  Christophe  because  he  saw  in  him  a  vigorous 
vulgarian  such  as  he  was  himself.  And  he  found  it  absorbing 
to  study  an  original  of  his  stamp — (he  was  unwearying  in  his 
observation  of  humanity) — and  to  discover  his  impressions  of 
Paris.  The  frankness  and  rudeness  of  Christophe's  remarks 
amused  him.  He  was  skeptic  enough  to  admit  their  truth. 
He  was  not  put  out  by  the  fact  that  Christophe  was  a  German. 
On  the  contrary:  he  prided  himself  on  being  above  national 
prejudice.  And,  when  all  was  said  and  done,  he  was  sincerely 
"  human  "-  —  (that  was  his  chief  quality); — he  sympathized 
with  everything  human.  But  that  did  not  prevent  his  being 
quite  convinced  of  the  superiority  of  the  French — an  old  race, 
and  an  old  civilization — over  the  Germans,  and  making  fun  of 
the  Germans. 

At  Achille  Roussin's  Christophe  met  other  politicians,  the 
Ministers  of  yesterday,  and  the  Ministers  of  to-morrow.  He 
would  bave  been  only  too  glad  to  talk  to  each  of  them  individu- 
ally, if  these  illustrious  persons  had  thought  him  worthy.  In 
spite  of  the  generally  accepted  opinion  he  found  them  much 
more  interesting  than  the  other  Frenchmen  of  his  acquaintance. 
They  were  more  alive  mentally,  more  open  to  the  passions  and 
the  great  interests  of  humanity.  They  were  brilliant  talkers, 
mostly  men  from  the  South,  and  they  were  ama/ingly  dilettante: 
individually  they  were  almost  as  much  so  as  the  men  of  letters. 
Of  course,  they  were  very  ignorant  about  art.  and  especially 
about  foreign  art:  but  they  all  pretended  more  or  less  to  some 
knowledge  of  it:  and  often  they  really  loved  it.  There  were 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  121 

Councils  which  were  very  like  the  coterie  of  some  little  Review. 
One  of  them  would  be  a  playwright:  another  would  scrape  on 
the  violin;  another  would  be  a  besotted  Wagnerian.  And  they 
all  collected  Impressionist  pictures,  read  decadent  books,  and 
prided  themselves  on  a  taste  for  some  ultra-aristocratic  art, 
which  was  almost  always  in  direct  opposition  to  their  ideas. 
It  puzzled  Christophe  to  find  these  Socialist  or  Radical-Socialist 
Ministers,  these  apostles  of  the  poor  and  down-trodden,  posing 
as  connoisseurs  of  eclectic  art.  No  doubt  they  had  a  perfect 
right  to  do  so :  but  it  seemed  to  him  rather  disloyal. 

But  the  odd  thing  was  when  these  men  who  in  private  con- 
versation were  skeptics,  sensualists,  Nihilists,  and  anarchists, 
came  to  action :  at  once  they  became  fanatics.  Even  the  most 
dilettante  of  them  when  they  came  into  power  became  like 
Oriental  despots:  they  had  a  mania  for  ordering  everything,  and 
let  nothing  alone:  they  were  skeptical  in  mind  and  tyrannical  in 
temper.  The  temptation  to  use  the  machinery  of  administra- 
tive centralization  created  by  the  greatest  of  despots  was  too 
great,  and  it  was  difficult  not  to  abuse  it.  The  result  was  a  sort 
of  republican  imperialism  on  to  which  there  had  latterly  been 
grafted  an  atheistic  Catholicism. 

For  some  time  past  the  politicians  had  made  no  claim  to  do 
anything  but  control  the  body — that  is  to  say,  money: — they 
hardly  troubled  the  soul  at  all,  since  the  soul  could  not  be 
converted  into  money.  Their  own  souls  were  not  concenu-d 
with  politics:  they  passed  above  or  below  politics,  which  in 
France  are  thought  of  as  a  branch — a  lucrative,  though  not  very 
exalted  branch — of  commerce  and  industry:  the  intellectuals 
despised  the  politicians,  the  politicians  despised  the  intellectuals. 
— But  lately  there  had  been  a  closer  understanding,  then  an 
alliance,  between  the  politicians  and  the  lowest  class  of  intel- 
lectuals. A  new  power  had  appeared  upon  the  scene,  which  had 
arrogated  to  itself  the  absolute  government  of  ideas:  the  Free 
Thinkers.  They  had  thrown  in  their  lot  with  the  other  power, 
which  had  seen  in  them  the  perfect  machinery  of  political 
despotism.  They  were  trying  not  so  miieh  to  destroy  the 


122  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  TX  PARTS 

Church  as  to  supplant  it:  and,  in  fact,  they  created  a  Church 
of  Free  Thought  which  had  its  catechisms,  and  ceremonies, 
its  baptisms,  its  confirmations,  its  marriages,  its  regional  coun- 
cils, if  not  its  ecumenicals  at  Rome.  It  was  most  pitifully 
comic  to  see  these  thousands  of  poor  \vretchcs  having  to  band 
themselves  together  in  order  to  be  able  to  "think  freely.'' 
True,  their  freedom  of  thought  consisted  in  setting  a  ban  on 
the  thought  of  others  in  the  name  of  Reason:  for  they  be- 
lieved in  Reason  as  the  Catholics  believed  in  the  Blessed 
Virgin  without  ever  dreaming  for  a  moment  that  Reason,  like 
the  Virgin,  was  in  itself  nothing,  or  that  the  real  thing  lay 
behind  it.  And,  just  as  the  Catholic  Cliurch  had  its  armies  of 
monks  and  its  congregations  stealthily  creeping  through  the 
veins  of  the  nation,  propagating  its  views  and  destroying  every 
other  sort  of  vitality,  so  the  Anti-Catholic  Church  had  its  Free 
Masons,  whose  chief  Lodge,  the  Grand-Orient,  kept  a  faithful 
record  of  all  the  secret  reports  with  which  their  pious  informers 
in  all  quarters  of  France  supplied  them.  The  Republican  State 
secretly  encouraged  the  sacred  espionage  of  these  mendicant 
friars  and  Jesuits  of  Reason,  who  terrorized  the  army,  the  Uni- 
versity, and  every  branch  of  the  State:  and  it  was  never  noticed 
that  while  they  pretended  to  serve  the  State,  they  were  all  the 
time  aiming  at  supplanting  it,  and  that  the  eountrv  was  slowly 
moving  towards  an  atheistic  theocracy:  very  little,  if  anything, 
diiferent  from  that  of  the  Jesuits  of  Paraguay. 

Christophe  met  some  of  these  gentry  at  Houssin's.  They 
were  all  blind  fetish-worshippers.  At  that  time  they  were  re- 
joicing at  having  removed  Christ  from  the  Courts  of  Law.  They 
thought  they  had  destroyed  religion  because  they  had  destroyed 
a  few  pieces  of  wood  and  ivory  Others  were  concentrating  on 
Joan  of  Arc  and  her  banner  of  the  Virgin,  which  they  bad  just 
wrested  from  the  Catholics.  One  of  the  Fathers  of  the  new 
Church,  a  general  who  was  waging  war  on  the  French  of  the 
old  Church,  had  just  given  utterance  to  an  anti-clerical  speech 
in  honor  of  Vercingetorix:  he  proclaimed  the  ancient  Gaul, 
to  whom  Free  Thought  had  erected  a  statue,  to  be  a  son  of  the 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  123 

people,  and  the  first  champion  against  (the  Church  of)  Rome. 
The  Ministers  of  the  Marine,  by  way  of  purifying  the  fleet 
and  showing  their  horror  of  war,  called  their  cruisers  Descartes 
and  Ernest  Eenan.  Other  Free  Thinkers  had  set  themselves 
to  purify  art.  They  expurgated  the  classics  of  the  seventeenth 
century,  and  did  not  allow  the  name  of  God  to  sully  the  Fables 
of  La  Fontaine.  They  did  not  allow  it  in  music  either :  and 
Christophe  heard  one  of  them,  an  old  radical. —  ("  To  be  a 
radical  in  old  age,"  says  Goethe,  "-is  the  height  of  folly")  — 
wax  indignant  at  the  religious  Lieder  of  Beethoven  having  been 
given  at  a  popular  concert.  He  demanded  that  other  words 
should  be  used  instead  of  "  God." 

"  What  ? "  asked  Christophe  in  exasperation.  "  The  Re- 
public? •" 

Others  who  were  even  more  radical  would  accept  no  com- 
promise and  wanted  purely  and  simply  to  suppress  all  religious 
music  and  all  schools  in  which  it  was  taught.  In  vain  did  a 
director  of  the  University  of  Fine  Arts,  who  was  considered 
an  Athenian  in  that  Bceotia,  try  to  explain  that  musicians  must 
be  taught  music:  for,  as  he  said,  with  great  loftiness  of  thought, 
"when  you  send  a  soldier,  to  the  barracks,  you  teach  him  how 
to  use  a  gun  and  then  how  to  shoot.  And  so  it  is  with  a  young 
composer:  his  head  is  buzzing  with  ideas:  but  lie  lias  not  yet 
learned  to  put  them  in  order."  And,  being  a  little  scared  by 
his  own  courage,  he  protested  with  every  sentence:  "  I  am  an 
old  Free  Thinker.  ...  I  am  an  old  Republican  .  .  ." 
and  he  declared  audaciously  that  "  he  did  not  care  much  whether 
the  compositions  of  Pergolese  were  operas  or  Masses:  all  that  ho 
wanted  to  know  was.  were  they  human  works  of  art?"— But 
his  adversary  with  implacable  logic  answered  "  the  old  Free 
Thinker  and  Republican"  that  ''there  were  two  sorts  of  music: 
that  which  was  sung  in  churches  and  that  which  was  sunuf  in 
other  places."  The-  first  sort  was  the  enemy  of  Reason  and  the 
State:  and  the  Reason  of  the  State  ought  to  suppress  it. 

All  these  silly  people  would  have  been  more  ridiculous  than 
dangerous  if  behind  them  there  had  not  been  men  of  real  worth, 


JEAN-CHKISTOPHE  IN  PAEIS 

supporting  them,  who  were,  like  them — and  perhaps  even  more 
— fanatics  of  Reason.  Tolstoy  speaks  somewhere  of  those 
"  epidemic  influences "  which  prevail  in  religion,  philosophy, 
politics,  art,  and  science,  "  insensate  influences,  the  folly  of 
which  only  becomes  apparent  to  men  when  they  are  clear  of 
them,  while  as  long  as  they  are  under  their  dominion  they  seem 
so  true  to  them  that  they  think  them  beyond  all  argument." 
Instances  are  the  craze  for  tulips,  belief  in  sorcery,  and  the 
aberrations  of  literary  fashions. — The  religion  of  Reason  was 
such  a  craze.  It  was  common  to  the  most  ignorant  and  the 
most  cultured,  to  the  "  sub-veterinaries  "  of  the  Chamber,  and. 
certain  of  the  keenest  intellects  of  the  University.  It  was  even 
more  dangerous  in  the  latter  than  in  the  former :  for  with  the 
latter  it  was  mixed  up  with  a  credulous  and  stupid  optimism, 
which  sapped  its  energy:  while  with  the  others  it  was  fortified 
and  given  a  keener  edge  by  a  fanatical  pessimism  which  was 
under  no  illusion  as  to  the  fundamental  antagonism  of  Nature 
and  Reason,  and  they  were  only  the  more  desperately  resolved 
to  wage  the  war  of  abstract  Liberty,  abstract  Justice,  abstract 
Truth,  against  the  malevolence  of  Nature.  There  was  behind 
it  all  the  idealism  of  the  Calvinists,  the  Jansenists,  and  the 
Jacobins,  the  old  belief  in  the  fundamental  perversity  of  man- 
kind, which  can  and  must  be  broken  by  the  implacable  pride 
of  the  Elect  inspired  by  the  breath  of  Reason, — the  Spirit  of 
God.  It  was  a  very  French  type,  the  type  of  intelligent  French- 
man, who  is  not  at  all  "  human."  A  pebble  as  hard  as 
iron:  nothing  can  penetrate  it:  it  breaks  everything  that  it 
touches. 

Christophe  was  appalled  by  the  conversations  that  he  had  at 
Achille  Roussin's  with  some  of  these  fanatics.  It  upset  all 
his  ideas  about  France.  He  had  thought,  like  so  many  people, 
that  the  French  were  a  well-balanced,  sociable,  tolerant,  liberty- 
loving  people.  And  he  found  them  lunatics  with  their  abstract 
ideas,  their  diseased  logic,  ready  to  sacrifice  themselves  and 
everybody  else  for  one  of  their  syllogisms.  They  were  always 
talking  of  liberty,  but  there  never  were  men  less  able  to  un- 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  125 

derstand  it  or  to  stand  it.  Xowhere  in  the  world  were  there 
characters  more  coldly  and  atrociously  despotic  in  their 
passion  for  intellect  or  their  passion  for  always  being  in  the 
right. 

And  it  was  not  only  true  of  one  party.  Every  party  was  the 
same.  They  could  not — they  would  not — see  anything  above 
or  beyond  their  political  or  religious  formula,  or  their  country, 
their  province,  their  group,  or  their  own  narrow  minds.  There 
were  anti-Semites  who  expended  all  the  forces  of  their  being  in 
a  blind,  impotent  hatred  of  all  the  privileges  of  wealth  :  for  they 
hated  all  Jews,  and  called  those  whom  they  hated  "Jews." 
There  were  nationalists  who  hated — (when  they  were  kinder  they 
stopped  short  at  despising) — every  other  nation,  and  even 
among  their  own  people,  they  called  everybody  who  did  not 
agree  with  them  foreigners,  or  renegades,  or  traitors.  There 
were  anti-protestants  who  persuaded  themselves  that  all 
Protestants  were  English  or  liennans,  and  would  have  them 
all  expelled  from  France.  There  were  men  of  the  West  who 
denied  the  existence  of  anything  east  of  the  Rhine :  men  of  the 
North  who  denied  the  existence  of  everything  south  of  the 
Loire:  men  of  the  South  who  called  all  those  who  lived  north 
of  the  Loire  Barbarians :  and  there  were  men  who  boasted  of 
being  of  Gallic  descent:  and,  craziest  of  all,  there  were  "Ro- 
mans" who  prided  themselves  on  the  defeat  of  their  ancestors: 
and  Bretons,  and  Lorrainians,  and  Felibres,  and  Albigeois ;  and 
men  from  Carpentras,  and  Pontoise,  and  Quimper-Corentin : 
they  all  thought  only  of  themselves,  the  fact  of  being  them- 
selves \vas  sufficient  patent  of  nobility,  and  they  vould  not  put 
up  with  the  idea  of  people  being  anything  else.  There  is 
nothing  to  be  done  with  such  people:  they  will  not  listen  to 
argument  from  any  other  point  of  view:  they  must  burn  every- 
body else  at  the  stake,  or  be  burned  themselves. 

Christophe  thought  that  it  was  lucky  that  such  people  should 
live  under  a  Republic:  for  all  these  little  despots  did  at  least 
annihilate  each  other.  But  if  any  one  of  them  hail  become  Em- 
peror or  King,  it  would  have  been  the  end  of  him. 


126  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IX  PARIS 

.  He  did  not  know  that  there  is  one  virtue  left  to  work  the 
salvation  of  people  of  that  temper  of  mind  :— ineonsequenee. 

The  French  politicians  were  no  exception.  Their  despotism 
was  tempered  witli  anarchy:  they  were  for  ever  swinging  be- 
tween two  poles.  On  one  hand  they  relied  on  the  fanatics  of 
thought,  on  the  other  they  relied  on  the  anarchists  of  thought. 
Mixed  up  with  them  was  a  whole  rabble  of  dilettante  Socialists, 
mere  opportunists,  who  held  back  from  taking  any  part  in  the 
fight  until  it  was  won,  though  they  followed  in  the  wake  of  the 
army  of  Free  Thought,  and,  after  every  battle  won,  they  swooped 
down  on  the  spoils.  These  champions  of  Reason  did  not  labor 
in  the  cause  of  Reason.  .  .  .  Sic  vos  non  vol)is  .  .  .  but  in 
the  cause  of  the  Citizens  of  the  World,  who  with  glad  shouts 
trampled  under  foot  the  traditions  of  the  country,  and  had  no 
intention  of  destroying  one  Faith  in  order  to  set  up  another,  but 
in  order  to  set  themselves  up  and  break  away  from  all  restraint. 

There  Christophe  marked  the  likeness  of  Lucien  Levy-Cceur. 
He  was  not  surprised  to  learn  that  Lucien  Levy-Cceur  was  a 
Socialist.  He  only  thought  that  Socialists  must  be  fairly  on 
the  road  to  success  to  have  enrolled  Lucien  Levy-Cceur.  But 
he  did  not  know  that  Lucien  Levy-Cteur  had  also  contrived  to 
figure  in  the  opposite  camp,  where  he  had  succeeded  in  allying 
himself  with  men  of  the  most  anti-Liberal  opinions,  if  not  anti- 
Semite,  in  politics  and  art.  He  asked  Achille  Roussin: 

"  How  can  you  put  up  with  such  men?" 

Roussin  replied : 

"He  is  so  clever!  And  he  is  working  for  us;  he  is  destroy- 
ing the  old  world." 

"lie  is  doing  that  all  right."  said  Christophe.  "'.He  is  de- 
stroying it  so  thoroughly  that  1  don't  see  what  is  going  to  be 
left  for  you  to  build  up  again.  Do  you  think  there'll  be  timber 
enough  left  for  your  new  house?  And  are  you  even  sure  that 
the  worms  have  not  crept  into  your  building-yard?  "' 

Lucien  Levy-Ceciir  was  not  the  onlv  nibbler  at  Socialism. 
The  Socialist  papers  were  stalTed  by  these  petty  men  of  letters, 
•with  their  art  for  art's  sake,  these  licentious  anarchists  who 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  127 

had  fastened  on  all  the  roads  that  might  lead  to  success.  They 
barred  the  way  to  others,  and  filled  the  papers,  which  styled 
themselves  the  organs  of  the  people,  with  their  dilettante  deca- 
dence and  their  struggle  for  life.  They  were  not  content  with 
being  jobbed  into  positions :  they  wanted  fame.  Xever  had 
there  been  a  time  when  there  were  so  many  premature  statues, 
or  so  many  speeches  delivered  at  the  unveiling  of  them.  But 
queerest  of  all  were  the  banquets  that  were  periodically  offered  to 
one  or  other  of  the  great  men  of  the  fraternity  by  the  sycophants 
of  fame,  not  in  celebration  of  any  of  their  deeds,  but  in  cele- 
bration of  some  honor  given  to  them :  for  those  were  the  things 
that  most  appealed  to  them.  Esthetes,  supermen,  Socialist  Min- 
isters, they  were  all  agreed  when  it  was  a  question  of  feasting 
to  celebrate  some  promotion  in  the  Legion  of  Honor  founded 
by  the  Corsican  officer. 

Roussin  laughed  at  Christophers  amazement.  He  did  not 
think  the  German  far  out  in  his  estimation  of  the  supporters  of 
his  party.  When  they  were  alone  together  he  would  handle 
them  severely  himself.  He  knew  their  stupidity  and  their 
knavery  better  than  any  one :  but  that  did  not  keep  him  from 
supporting  them  in  order  to  retain  their  support.  And  if  in 
private  he  never  hesitated  to  speak  of  the  people  in  terms  of 
contempt,  on  the  platform  he  was  a  different  man.  Then  he 
would  assume  a  high-pitched  voice,  shrill,  nasal,  labored,  solemn 
tones,  a  tremolo,  a  bleat,  wide,  sweeping,  fluttering  gestures  like 
the  beating  of  wings :  exactly  like  Mounet-Sully. 

Christophe  tried  hard  to  discover  exactly  how  far  Roussin 
believed  in  his  Socialism.  It  was  obvious  that  at  heart  he  did 
not  believe  in  it  at  all :  he  was  too  skeptical.  And  yet  lie  did 
believe  in  it,  to  a  certain  extent :  and  though  he  knew  perfectly 
well  that  it  was  only  a  part  of  his  mind  that  believed  in  it— 
(perhaps  the  most  important  part) — he  had  arranged  his  life 
and  conduct  in  accordance  with  it,  because  it  suited  him  best. 
It  was  not  only  his  practical  interest  that  was  served  by  it. 
but  also  his  vital  interests,  the  foundations  of  his  being  and 
all  his  actions.  His  Socialistic  Faith  was  to  him  a  sort  of 


128  JEAX-CIIRiSTOl'HE  IN  PARTS 

State  religion. — Most  people  live  like  that.  Their  lives  are 
based  on  religious,  moral,  social,  or  purely  practical  beliefs, — 
(belief  in  their  profession,  in  their  work,  in  the  utility  of  the 
part  they  play  in  life) — in  which  they  do  not,  at  heart,  believe. 
But  they  do  not  wish  to  know  it:  for  they  must  have  this  ap- 
parent faith,  this  "  State  religion,''  of  which  every  man  is  priest, 
to  live. 

Eoussin  was  not  one  of  the  worst.  There  were  many,  many 
others  who  called  themselves  Socialists  and  Radicals,  from — it 
can  hardly  be  called  ambition,  for  their  ambition  was  so  short- 
sighted, and  did  not  go  beyond  immediate  plunder  and  their  re- 
election !  They  pretended  to  believe  in  a  new  order  of  society. 
Perhaps  there  was  a  time  when  they  believed  in  it:  and  they 
went  on  pretending  to  do  so:  but,  in  fact,  they  had  no  idea 
beyond  living  on  the  spoils  of  the  dying  order  of  society.  This 
predatory  Xihilism  was  saved  by  a  short-sighted  opportunism. 
The  great  interests  of  the  future  were  sacrificed  to  the  egoism 
of  the  present.  Thev  cut  down  the  army:  they  would  have 
dislocated  the  country  to  please  the  dec-tors.  They  were  not 
lacking  in  cleverness:  they  knew  perfectly  well  what  they  ought 
to  have  done:  but  they  did  not  do  it,  because  it  would  have 
cost  them  too  miieh  effort,  and  they  were  incapable  of  elTort. 
They  wanted  to  arrange  their  own  lives  and  the  life  of  the 
nation  with  the  least  possible  amount  of  trouble  and  saerilice. 
All  down  the  scale  the  point  was  to  get  the  maximum  of 
pleasure  with  the  minimum  of  effort.  That  was  their  morality, 
immoral  enough,  but  it  was  the  only  guide  in  the,  political 
muddle,  in  which  the  leaders  set  the  example  of  anaivhv,  and 
the  disordered  pack  of  politicians  were  chasing  ten  hares  at 
once,  and  Idling  them  all  escape  one  after  the  other,  and 
an  aggressive  Foreign  Ollice  was  yoked  with  a  pacific  War 
(Mice,  and  Minister?  of  War  were  cutting  down  the  annv  in 
order  to  purify  it.  Xaval  Mini-t^rs  were  inciting  the  work- 
men in  the  arsenals,  military  instructors  wen.'  preaching  the 
horrors  of  war,  and  all  the  officials,  judges,  revolutionaries.,  and 


THE  MAKKET-PLACE  129 

patriots  were  dilettante.  The  political  demoralixation  was  uni- 
versal. Eveiy  man  was  expecting  the  State-  to  provide  him 
with  office,  honors,  pensions,  indemnities:  and  the  Government 
did,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  feed  the  appetite  of  its  supporters: 
honors  and  pensions  were  made  the  quarry  of  the  sons,  nephews, 
grand-nephews,  and  valets  of  those  in  power:  tlu  deputies  were 
always  voting  an  increase  in  their  own  salaries:  revenues,  posts, 
titles,  all  the  possessions  of  the  State,  were  being  blindly  squan- 
dered.— And,  like  a  sinister  echo  of  the  example  of  the  upper 
classes,  the  lower  classes  were  always  on  the  verge  of  a  strike: 
they  had  men  teaching  contempt  of  authority  and  revolt  against 
the  established  order;  post-oifice  employes  burned  letters  and 
despatches,  workers  in  factories  threw  sand  or  emery-powder 
into  the  gears  of  the  maehines,  men  working  in  the  arsenals 
sacked  them,  ships  were  burned,  and  artisans  deliberately  made 
a  horrible  mess  of  their  work, — the  destruction  not  of  riches,  but 
of  the  wealth  of  the  world. 

And  to  crown  it  all  the  intellectuals  amused  themselves  by 
discovering  that  this  national  suicide  was  based  on  reason  and 
right,  in  the  sacred  right  of  every  human  being  to  be  happy. 
There  was  a  morbid  humanitarianism  which  broke  down  the 
distinction  between  (Jood  and  Evil,  and  developed  a  sentimental 
pity  for  the  "sacred  and  irresponsible  human"  in  the  crim- 
inal, the  doting  sentimentality  of  an  old  man: — it  was  a  capit- 
ulation to  crime,  the  surrender  of  society  to  its  mercies. 

Christophe  thought : 

''France  is  drunk  with  liberty.  When  she  has  raved  and 
screamed,  she;  will  fall  down  dead-drunk.  And  when  she  wakes 
up  she  will  lind  herself  in  prison." 

What  hurt  Christophe  most  in  this  demagogy  was  to  see  the 
most  violent  political  measures  coldlv  carried  through  by  thrse 
men  whose  fundamental  instability  he  knew  perftvtly  well. 
The  disproportion  between  the  shiftiness  of  these  mm  and 
the  rigorous  Acts  that  they  passed  or  authorized  was  too  scan- 
dalous. It  was  as  though  there  were  in  them  two  contradictory 


130  JEAN-CHKISTOPHE  IN  PAEIS 

things:  an  inconsistent  character,  believing  in  nothing,  and  dis- 
cursive Reason,  intent  on  truncating,  mowing  down,  and  crushing 
life,  without  regard  for  anything.  Christophe  wondered  why 
the  peaceful  middle-class,  the  Catholics,  the  officials  who  were 
harassed  in  every  conceivable  way,  did  not  throw  them  all  out 
by  the  window,  lie  dared  not  tell  Roussin  what  he  thought : 
hut,  as  he  was  incapable  of  concealing  anything,  Roussin  had  no 
difficulty  in  guessing  it.  He  laughed  and  said : 

"  Xo  doubt  that  is  what  you  or  I  would  do.  But  there  is 
no  danger  of  them  doing  it.  They  are  just  a  set  of  poor  devils 
who  haven't  the  energy :  they  can't  do  much  more  than  grumble. 
They're  just  the  fag  end  of  an  aristocracy,  idiotic,  stultified  by 
their  clubs  and  their  sport,  prostituted  by  the  Americans  and 
the  Jews,  and,  by  way  of  showing  how  up  to  date  they  are,  they 
play  the  degraded  parts  allotted  to  them  in  fashionable  plays, 
and  support  those  who  have  degraded  them.  They're  an  apa- 
thetic and  surly  middle-class:  they  read  nothing,  understand 
nothing,  don't  want  to  understand  anything;  they  only  know 
how  to  vilify,  vilify,  vaguely,  bitterly,  futilely — and  they  have 
only  one  passion:  sleep,  to  lie  huddled  in  sleep  on  their  money- 
bags, hating  anybody  who  disturbs  them,  and  even  anybody  whose 
tastes  differ  from  theirs,  for  it  does  upset  them  to  think  of 
other  people  working  while  they  are  snoozing!  If  you  knew 
them  you  would  sympathize  with  us." 

But  Christophe  could  find  nothing  but  disgust  with  both: 
for  he  did  not  hold  that  the  baseness  of  the  oppressed  was  any 
excuse  for  that  of  the  oppressor.  Only  too  frequently  had  he. 
'met  at  the  Stevens'  types  of  the  rich  dull  middle-class  that 
Roussin  described, 

"...  L'anime  triste  di  coloro, 

Che  visser  senza  i»f<tmi<i  csenza  lodo,  .   .   ." 

He  saw  only  too  clearly  the  reason  why  Roussin  and  his 
friends  were  sure  not  only  of  their  power  over  these  people, 
but  of  their  right  to  abuse  it.  They  had  to  hand  all  the  in- 
struments of  tyranny.  Thousands  of  officials,  who  had  re- 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  131 

nounced  their  will  and  every  vestige  of  personality,  and  obeyed 
blindly.  A  loose,  vulgar  way  of  living,  a  Republic  without 
Republicans:  Socialist  papers  and  Socialist  leaders  groveling 
before  Royalties  when  they  visited  Paris:  the  souls  of  servants 
gaping  at  titles,  and  gold  lace,  and  orders :  they  could  be  kept 
quiet  by  just  having  a  bone  to  gnaw,  or  the  Legion  of  Honor 
flung  at  them.  If  the  Kings  had  ennobled  all  the  citizens  of 
France,  all  the  citizens  of  France  would  have  been  Royalist. 

The  politicians  were  having  a  fine  time.  Of  the  Three 
Estates  of  '89  the  first  was  extinct:  the  second  was  proscribed, 
suspect,  or  had  emigrated:  the  third  was  gorged  by  its  vic- 
tory and  slept.  And,  as  for  the  Fourth  Estate,  which  had  come 
into  existence  at  a  later  date,  and  had  become  a  public  menace 
in  its  jealousy,  there  was  no  difficulty  about  squaring  that.  The 
decadent  Republic  treated  it  as  decadent  Rome  treated  the  bar- 
barian hordes,  that  she  no  longer  had  the  power  to  drive  from 
her  frontiers;  she  assimilated  them,  and  they  quickly  became 
her  best  watch-clogs.  The  Ministers  of  the  middle-class  called 
themselves  Socialists,  lured  away  and  annexed  to  their  own 
party  the  most  intelligent  and  vigorous  of  the  working-class : 
they  robbed  the  proletariat  of  their  leaders,  infused  their  new 
blood  into  their  own  system,  and,  in  return,  gorged  them  with 
indigestible  science  and  middle-class  culture. 

One  of  the  most  curious  features  of  these  attempts  at  distraint 
by  the  middle-class  on  the  people  were  the  Popular  rniversities. 
They  were  little  jumble-sales  of  scraps  of  knowledge  of  every 
period  and  every  country.  As  one  syllabus  declared,  they  set 
out  to  teach  "every  branch  of  physical,  biological,  and  so- 
ciological science:  astronomy,  cosmology,  anthropology,  eth- 
nology, physiology,  psychology,  psychiatry,  geography,  languages, 
esthetics,  logic,  etc."  Enough  to  split  the  skull  of  Pico  della 
Mirandola. 

In  truth  there  had  been  originally,  and  still  was  in  some  of 
them,  a  certain  grand  idealism,  a  keen  desire  to  bring  truth, 
beauty,  and  morality  within  the  reach  of  all.  \vhu-h  was  a  very 


132  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARTS 

fine  thing.  Tt  was  wonderful  and  touching  to  sec  workmen, 
after  a  hard  day's  toil,  crowding  into  narrow,  stuffy  lecture- 
rooms,  impelled  by  a  thirst  for  knowledge  that  was  stronger 
than  fatigue  and  hunger.  But  how  the  poor  fellows  had  been 
tricked !  There  were  a  few  real  apostles,  intelligent  human 
beings,  a  few  upright  warm-hearted  men,  with  more  good  inten- 
tions than  skill  to  accomplish  ihem :  but.  as  against  them,  there 
were  hundreds  of  fools,  idiots,  schemers,  unsuccessful  authors,, 
orators,  professors,  parsons,  speakers,  pianists,  critics,  anarchists, 
who  deluged  the  people  with  their  productions.  Every  man 
jack  of  them  was  trying  to  unload  his  stock-in-trade.  The 
most  thriving  of  them  were  naturally  the  nostrum-mongers,  the 
philosophical  lecturers  who  ladled  out  general  ideas,  leavened 
with  a  few  facts,  a  scientific  smattering,  and  cosmological  con- 
clusions. 

The  Popular  Universities  were  also  an  outlet  for  the  ultra- 
aristocratic  works  of  art:  decadent  etchings,  poetry,  and  music. 
The  aim  was  the  elevation  of  the  people  for  the  rejuvenation  of 
thought  and  the  regeneration  of  the  race.  They  began  bv  in- 
oculating them  with  all  the  fads  and  cranks  of  the  middle- 
class.  They  gulped  them  down  greedily,  not  because  they  liked 
them,  but  because  they  were  middle-class.  C'hristophe.  who  was 
taken  to  one  of  these  Popular  Universities  bv  Madame  Kous- 
sin,  heard  her  plav  Debussv  to  the  people  betwvn  ///  I'xninc 
(,'/ianxi)H  of  Gabriel  Faurc  and  one  of  the  later  quartets  of 
Beethoven.  lie  who  had  only  begun  to  grasp  the  meaning  of 
the  later  works  of  Beethoven  after  many  years,  and  long- 
weary  labor,  asked  some  one  who  sat  near  him  pityingly: 

'•  I  )o  you  understand  it  ?  " 

The  man  drew  himself  up  like  an  angry  cock,  and  said: 

"  Certainly.  Whv  shouldn't  I  understand  it  as  well  as 
you  ?  " 

And  bv  wav  of  Allowing  that  lie  understood  it  he  encored  a 
fugue,  glaring  defiantly  at  Ohristophe. 

Christophe  went  awav.  TTo  was  amaxcd.  lie  said  to  him- 
self that  the  swine  had  succeeded  in  poisoning  even  the  living 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  13:? 

wells  of  the  nation:  the  People  had  ceased  to  ho — "People 
yourselves!"  as  a  working-man  said  to  one  of  the  would-be 
founders  of  the  Theaters  of  the  People.  "  1  am  as  much  of  the 
middle-class  as  you." 

One  fine  evening  when  above  the  darkening  town  the  soft 
sky  was  like  an  Oriental  carpet,  rich  in  warm  faded  colors, 
Christophe  walked  along  by  the  river  from  Xotre  Dame  to  the 
Jnvalides.  Tn  the  dim  fading  light  the  tower  of  the  cathedral 
rose  like  the  arms  of  Moses  held  up  during  the  battle.  The 
carved  golden  spire  of  the  Sainte-Chapellc,  the  flowering  Holy 
Thorn,  flashed  out  of  the  labyrinth  of  houses.  On  the  other 
side  of  the  water  stretched  the  royal  front  of  the  Louvre,  and  its 
windows  were  like  weary  eyes  lit  up  with  the  last  living  rays 
of  the  setting  sun.  At  the  back  of  the  great  square  of  the 
Invalides  behind  its  trenches  and  proud  walls,  majestic,  solitary, 
floated  the  dull  gold  dome,  like  a  symphony  of  bygone  victories. 
And  at  the  top  of  the  hill  there  stood  the  Arc  do  Triomphe.  be- 
striding the  hill  with  the  giant  stride  of  the  Imperial  legions. 

And  suddenly  Christophe  thought  of  it  all  as  of  a  dead  giant 
lying  prone  upon  the  plain.  The  terror  of  it  clutched  at  his 
heart;  he  stopped  to  gaxe  at  the  gigantic  fossils  of  a  fabulous 
race,  long  since  extinct,  that  in  its  life  had  made  the  whole 
earth  ring  with  the  tramp  of  its  armies. — the  race  whose  helmet 
was  the  dome  of  the  Invalides,  whose  girdle  was  the  Louvre,  the 
thousand  arms  of  whose  cathedrals  had  clutched  at  the  heavens, 
who  traversed  the  whole  world  with  the  triumphant  stride  of  the 
Arch  of  Napoleon,  under  whose  heel  there  now  swarmed  Lilliput. 


ITI 

TTiTTTorr  any  deliberate  effort  on  his  part,  Christnphe  had 
gained  a  certain  celebrity  in  the  Parisian  circles  to  which  he 
had  been  introduced  by  Svlvain  Kohn  and  (loujart.  He  was 
seen  evervwherc  with  one  or  other  of  his  friends  at  iirst  nights. 


134  JEAN-CHKISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

and  at  concerts,  and  his  extraordinary  face,  his  ugliness,  the 
absurdity  of  his  figure  and  costume,  his  brusque,  awkward  man- 
ners, the  paradoxical  opinions  to  which  he  gave  vent  from  time 
to  time,  his  undeveloped,  but  large  and  healthy  intellect,  and 
the  romantic  stories  spread  by  Sylvain  Kolm  about  his  escapades 
in  Germany,  and  his  complications  with  the  police  and  flight 
to  France,  had  marked  him  out  for  the  idle,  restless  curiosity 
of  the  great  cosmopolitan  hotel  drawing-room  that  Paris  has 
become.  As  long  as  he  held  himself  in  check,  observing,  listen- 
ing, and  trying  to  understand  before  expressing  any  opinion, 
as  long  as  nothing  was  known  of  his  work  or  what  he  really 
thought,  he  was  tolerated.  The  French  were  pleased  with  him 
for  having  been  unable  to  stay  in  Germany.  And  the  French 
musicians  especially  were  delighted  with  Christophers  unjust 
pronouncements  on  German  music,  and  took  them  all  as 
homage  to  themselves: — (as  a  matter  of  fact,  they  heard  only 
his  old  youthful  opinions,  to  many  of  which  he  would  no  longer 
have  subscribed:  a  few  articles  published  in  a  German  Review 
which  had  been  amplified  and  circulated  by  Sylvain  Kohn), — 
Christophe  was  interesting  and  did  not  interfere  with  any- 
body: there  was  no  danger  of  his  supplanting  anybody,  lie 
needed  only  to  become  the  great  man  of  a  coterie,  lie  needed 
only  not  to  write  anything,  or  as  little  as  possible,  and  not  to 
have  anything  performed,  and  to  supply  Goujart  and  his  like 
with  ideas,  Goujart  and  the  whole  set  of  men  whose  motto  is  the 
famous  quip — adapted  a  little: 

"My  glass  is  small:  but  I  drink  .  .  .  the  wine  of  others." 
A  strong  personality  sheds  its  rays  especially  on  young  peo- 
ple who  are  more  concerned  with  feeling  than  with  action. 
There  were  plenty  of  young  people  about  Christophe.  They 
were  for  the  most  part  idle,  will-less,  aimless,  purposeless. 
Young  men,  living  in  dread  of  work,  fearful  of  being  left 
alone  with  themselves,  who  sought  an  armchair  immortality, 
wandering  from  cafe  to  theater,  from  theater  to  cafe,  finding 
all  sorts  of  excuses  for  not  going  home,  to  avoid  coining  face 
to  face  with  themselves.  They  came  and  stayed  for  hours, 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  135 

dawdling,  talking,  making  aimless  conversation,  and  going 
away  empty,  aching,  disgusted,  satiated,  and  yet  famishing, 
forced  to  go  on  with  it  in  spite  of  loathing.  They  surrounded 
Christophe,  like  Goethe's  water-spaniel,  the  "  lurking  specters," 
that  lie  in  wait  and  seize  upon  a  soul  and  fasten  upon  its  vitality. 
A  vain  fool  would  have  found  pleasure  in  such  a  circle  of 
parasites.  But  Christophe  had  no  taste  for  pedestals.  He 
was  revolted  by  the  idiotic  subtlety  of  his  admirers,  who  read 
into  anything  he  did  all  sorts  of  absurd  meanings,  Renanian, 
Nietzschean,  hermaphroditic.  He  kicked  them  out.  He  was 
not  made  for  passivity.  Everything  in  him  cried  aloud  for 
action.  He  observed  so  as  to  understand :  he  wished  to  un- 
derstand so  as  to  act.  He  was  free  of  the  constraint  of  any 
school,  and  of  any  prejudice,  and  he  inquired  into  everything, 
read  everything,  and  studied  all  the  forms  of  thought  and  the 
resources  of  the  expression  of  other  countries  and  other  ages  in 
his  art.  He  seized  on  all  those  which  seemed  to  him  effective 
and  true.  Unlike  the  French  artists  whom  he  studied,  who 
were  ingenious  inventors  of  new  forms,  and  wore  themselves 
out  in  the  unceasing  effort  of  invention,  and  gave  up  the 
struggle  half-way,  he  endeavored  not  so  much  to  invent  a  new 
musical  language  as  to  speak  the  authentic  language  of  music 
with  more  energy:  his  aim  was  not  to  be  particular,  but  to  be 
strong.  His  passion  for  strength  was  the  very  opposite  of  the 
French  genius  of  subtlety  and  moderation.  He  scorned  style 
for  the  sake  of  style  and  art  for  art's  sake.  The  best  French 
artists  seemed  to  him  to  be  no  more  than  pleasure-mongers.  One 
of  the  most  perfect  poets  in  Paris  had  amused  himself  with 
drawing  up  a  "  list  of  the  workers  in  contemporary  French 
poetry,  with  their  talents,  their  productions,  and  their  earn- 
ings ":  and  he  enumerated  "  the  crystals,  the  Oriental  fabrics,  the 
gold  and  bronze  medals,  the  lace  for  dowagers,  the  polychromatic 
sculpture,  the  painted  porcelain."  which  had  been  produced  in 
the  workshops  of  his  various  colleagues,  lie  pictured  him- 
self "  in  the  corner  of  a  vast  factory  of  letters,  mending  old 
tapestry,  or  polishing  up  rusty  halberds.'' — Such  a  conception  of 


136  JEAN-CHKISTOPHE  IN  PA1US 

the  artist  as  a  good  workman,  thinking  only  of  the  perfection  of 
his  craft.,  was  not  without  an  clement  of  greatness.  But  it  did 
not  satisfy  Christoplie:  and  while  he  admitted  in  it  a  certain 
professional  dignity,  he  had  a  contempt  for  the  poor  quality  of 
life  which  most  often  it  disguised,  lie  could  not  understand 
writing  for  the  sake  of  writing,  or  talking  for  the  sake  of 
talking.  He  never  said  words;  he  said — or  wanted  to  say— 
the  things  themselves. 

"El  dice  COM,  c  voi  elite  parole   ..." 

After  a  long  period  of  rest,  during  which  he  had  been  en- 
tirely occupied  with  taking  in  a  new  world,  Christoplie  sud- 
denly became  conscious  of  an  imperious  need  for  creation. 
The  antagonism  which  he  felt  between  himself  and  Paris 
called  up  all  his  reserve  of  force  by  its  challenge  of  his  per- 
sonality. All  his  passions  were  brimming  in  him,  and  imperi- 
ously demanding  expression.  They  were  of  every  kind :  and 
they  were  all  equally  insistent.  He  tried  to  create,  to  fashion 
music,  into  which  to  turn  the  love  and  hatred  that  were 
swelling  in  his  heart,  and  the  will  and  the  renunciation,  and 
all  the  daimons  struggling  within  him.  all  of  whom  had  an 
equal  right  to  live.  Hardly  had  he  assuaged  one  passion  in 
music, —  (sometimes  he  hardly  had  the  patience  to  finish  it)  — 
than  he  hurled  himself  at  the  opposite  passion.  But  the  con- 
tradiction was  only  apparent:  if  they  were  always  changing, 
they  were  in  truth  always  the  same.  He  beat  out  roads  in 
music,  roads  that  led  to  the  same  goal  :  his  soul  was  a  mountain: 
he  tried  every  pathway  up  it;  on  some  he  wound  easily,  dally- 
ing in  the  shade:  on  others  he  mounted  toilsomely  with  the  hot 
sun  beating  up  from  the  dry.  sandy  track:  they  all  led  to  (.iod 
enthroned  on  the  summit.  Love,  hatred,  evil,  renunciation,  all 
the  forces  of  humanity  at  their  highest  pitch,  touched  eternity, 
and  were  a  part  of  it.  For  every  man  the  gateway  to  eternity 
is  in  himself:  for  the  believer  as  for  the  atheist,  for  him  who 
sees  life  everywhere  as  for  him  who  everywhere1  denies  it.  and 
for  him  who  doubts  both  life  and  tin-  denial  of  it. — and  for 
Christoplie  in  whose  soul  there  met  ail  these  opposing  views  of 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  1ST 

life.  All  the  opposite*  become  one  in  eternal  Force.  For 
Christophe  the  chief  thing  was  to  wake  that  Force  within  him- 
self and  in  others,  to  fling  armfuls  of  wood  upon  the  tire,  to 
feed  the  flames  of  Eternity,  and  make  them  roar  and  flicker. 
Through  the  voluptuous  night  of  Paris  a  great  flame  darted 
in  his  heart.  He  thought  himself  free  of  Faith,  and  he  was 
a  living  torch  of  Faith. 

Nothing  was  more  calculated  to  outrage  the  French  spirit 
of  irony.  Faith  is  one  of  the  feelings  which  a  too  civilized 
society  can  least  forgive :  for  it  has  lost  it  and  hates  others 
to  possess  it.  In  the  blind  or  mocking  hostility  of  the  majority 
of  men  towards  the  dreams  of  youth  there  is  for  many  the 
bitter  thought  that  they  themselves  were  once  even  as  they,  and 
had  ambitions  and  never  realized  them.  All  those  who  have 
denied  their  souls,  all  those  who  had  the  seed  of  work  within 
them,  and  have  not  brought  it  forth  rather  to  accept  the  security 
of  an  easy,  honorable  life,  think : 

"  Since  I  could  not  do  the  thing  I  dreamed,  why  should  they 
do  the  things  they  dream?  1  will  not  have  them  do  it." 

How  many  Hedda  Gablers  are  there  among  men  !  What  a 
relentless  struggle  is  there  to  crush  out  strength  in  its  new 
freedom,  with  what  skill  is  it  killed  by  silence1,  irony,  wear  and 
tear,  discouragement.— and,  at  the  crucial  moment,  betrayed  by 
some  treacherous  seductive  art !  .  .  . 

The  type  is  of  all  nations,  Christophe  knew  it.  for  he  had 
met  it  in  Germany.  Against  such  people  he  was  armed.  If  is 
method  of  defense  was  simple:  lie  was  the  first  to  attack: 
pounced  on  the  first  move,  and  declared  war  on  them  :  he  forced 
these  dangerous  friends  to  become  his  enemies.  But  if 
policy  of  frankness  was  an  excellent  safeguard  for  h 
sonality,  it  was  not  calculated  to  advance  his  career  as  an  ariist. 
Once  more  Christophe  began  his  German  tactics.  It  was  too 
strong  for  him.  Only  one  thing  was  altered:  his  temper:  he  was 
in  line  fettle. 

Lightheartedly,  for  the  benefit  of  anybody  who  cared  to 
listen,  he  expressed  his  unmeasured  criticism  of  French  artists: 


138  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  Itf  PARIS 

and  so  he  made  many  enemies.  He  did  not  take  the  precau* 
tion,  as  a  wise  man  would  have  done,  of  surrounding  himself 
with  a  little  coterie.  He  would  have  found  no  difficulty  in 
gathering  about  him  a  number  of  artists  who  would  gladly 
have  admired  him  if  he  had  admired  them.  There  were  some 
who  admired  him  in  advance,  investing  admiration  as  it  were. 
They  considered  any  man  they  praised  as  a  debtor,  of  whom, 
at  a  given  moment,  they  could  demand  repayment.  But  it  was 
a  good  investment. — But  Christophe  was  a  very  bad  investment. 
He  never  paid  back.  "Worse  than  that,  he  was  barefaced 
enough  to  consider  poor  the  works  of  men  who  thought  his 
good.  Unavowedly  they  were  rancorous,  and  engaged  them- 
selves on  the  next  opportunity  to  pay  him  back  in  kind. 

Among  his  other  indiscretions  Christophe  was  foolish  enough 
to  declare  war  on  Lucien  Levy-Cceur.  He  found  him  in  the 
way,  everywhere,  and  he  could  not  conceal  an  extraordinary 
antipathy  for  the  gentle,  polite  creature  who  was  doing  no 
apparent  harm,  and  even  seemed  to  be  kinder  than  himself,  and 
was,  at  any  rate,  far  more  moderate.  He  provoked  him  into 
argument :  and,  however  insignificant  the  subject  of  it  might  be, 
Christophe  always  brought  into  it  a  sudden  heat  and  bitterness 
which  surprised  their  hearers.  It  was  as  though  Christophe 
were  seizing  every  opportunity  of  battering  at  Lucien  Levy- 
Cceur,  head  down:  but  he  could  never  reach  him.  His  enemy 
had  an  extraordinary  skill,  even  when  he  was  most  obviously  in 
the  wrong,  in  carrying  it  oft'  well :  he  would  defend  himself 
with  a  courtesy  which  showed  up  Christoplie's  had  manners. 
Christophe  still  spoke  French  very  badly,  interlarding  it  with 
slang,  and  often  with  very  coarse  expressions  which  he  had 
picked  up,  and.  like  many  foreigners,  used  wrongly,  and  he 
was  incapable  of  outwitting  the  tactics  of  Lucien  Levy-Cam r: 
and  he  raged  furiously  against  his  gentle  irony.  Everybody 
thought  him  in  the  wrong,  for  they  could  not  see  what  Chris- 
tophe vaguely  felt :  the  hypocrisy  of  that  gentleness,  which, 
when  it  was  brought  up  against  a  force  which  it  could  not 
hold  in  check,  tried  quietly  to  stifle  it  by  silence.  He  was  in 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  139 

no  hurry,  for,  like  Christophe,  he  counted  on  time,  not,  as 
Christophe  did,  to  build,  but  to  destroy,  lie  had  no  diiliculty 
in  detaching  Sylvain  Kohn  and  Goujart  from  Christophe,  just 
as  he  had  gradually  forced  him  out  of  the  Stevens'  circle. 
He  was  isolating  Christophe. 

Christophe  himself  helped  him.  He  pleased  nobody,  for  he 
would  not  join  any  party,  but  was  rather  against  all  parties. 
He  did  not  like  the  Jews:  but  he  liked  the  anti-Semites  even 
less.  He  was  revolted  by  the  cowardice  of  the  masses  stirred 
up  against  a  powerful  minority,  not  because  it  was  bad,  but  be- 
cause it  was  powerful,  and  by  the  appeal  to  the  basest  instincts 
of  jealousy  and  hatred.  The  Jews  came  to  regard  him  as 
an  anti-Semite,  and  the  anti-Semites  looked  011  him  as  a  Jew. 
As  for  the  artists,  they  felt  his  hostility.  Instinctively  Chris- 
tophe made  himself  more  German  than  he  was,  in  art.  Re- 
volting against  the  voluptuous  ataraxia  of  a  certain  class  of 
Parisian  music,  he  set  up,  with  violence,  a  manly,  healthy  pes- 
simism. When  joy  appeared  in  his  music,  it  was  with  a  want  of 
taste,  a  vulgar  ardor,  which  were  well  calculated  to  disgust  even 
the  aristocratic  patrons  of  popular  art.  An  erudite,  crude 
form.  In  his  reaction  he  was  not  far  from  ail'ecting  an  ap- 
parent carelessness  in  style  and  a  disregard  of  external  origi- 
nality, which  were  bound  to  be  offensive  to  the  French  musicians. 
And  so  those  of  them,  to  whom  he  sent  some  of  his  work,  with- 
out any  careful  consideration,  visited  on  it  the  contempt  they 
had  for  the  belated  Wagnerism  of  the  contemporary  German 
school.  Christophe  did  not  care:  he  laughed  inwardly,  and  re- 
peated the  lines  of  a  charming  musician  of  the  French  Renais- 
sance— adapted  to  his  own  case: 


"  Come,  come,  don't  worry  about  those  irlto  irill  say: 
'  Christophe  has  not  the  counterpoint  of  A, 
And  he  has  not  such  harmony  as  Monsieur  />. ' 
I  have  something  else  which  they  ncrer  irill  w." 

But  when  he  tried  to  have  some  of  his  music  performed,  he 
found   the   doors   shut   against   him.     They   had    quite   enough 


140  JEAX-CIIRTSTOPHE  IX  PARTS 

to  do  to  play — or  not  to  play — the  works  of  young  French 
musicians,  and  could  not  bother  about  those  of  an  unknown 
German. 

Christophe  did  no!  go  on  trying,  lie  shut  hi  nisei  f  up  in 
liis  room  and  went  on  writing,  lie  did  not  much  care  whether 
the  people  of  Paris  heard  him  or  not.  Ho  wrote  for  his  own 
pleasure  and  not  for  success.  The  true  artist  is  not  concerned 
with  the  future  of  his  work.  He  is  like  those  painters  of  the 
Renaissance  who  joyously  painted  mural  decorations,  knowing 
full  well  that  in  ten  years  nothing  would  he  left  of  thenr.  So 
Christophc-  worked  on  in  peace,  quite  good-humored!}7  resigned  to 
waiting  for  better  times,  when  help  would  come  to  him  from 
some  unexpected  source. 

Christophe  was  then  attracted  by  the  dramatic  form.  He 
dared  not  yet  surrender  freely  to  the  flood  of  his  own  lyrical 
impulse,  lie  had  to  run  it  into  definite  channels.  And,  no 
doubt,  it  is  a  good  thing  for  a  young  man  of  genius,  who 
is  not  yet  master  of  himself,  and  does  not  even  know  ex- 
actly what  he  is,  to  set  voluntary  bounds  upon  himself,  and  to 
confine  therein  the  soul  of  which  he  has  so  little  hold.  They 
are  the  dikes  and  sluices  which  allow  the  course  of  thought  to 
be  directed. — Unfortunately  Christophe  had  not  a  poet:  he  had 
himself  to  fashion  his  subjects  out  of  legend  and  history. 

Among  the  visions  which  had  been  floating  before  his  mind 
for  some  months  past  were  certain  ligures  from  the  Bible. — 
That  Bible,  which  his  mother  had  given  him  as  a  companion 
in  his  exile,  had  been  a  source  of  dreams  to  him.  Although 
he  did  not  read  it  in  any  religious  spirit,  the  moral,  or,  rather, 
vital  energy  of  that  Hebraic  Iliad  had  been  to  him  a  spring 
in  which,  in  the  evenings,  he  washed  his  naked  soul  of  the 
smoke  and  mud  of  Paris.  He  was  concerned  with  the  sacred 
meaning  of  the  book:  but  it  was  not  the  less  a  sacred  book 
to  him.  for  the  breath  of  savage  nature  and  primitive  in- 
dividualities that  he  found  in  its  pages,  lie  drew  in  its 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  141 

hymns   of   the    earth,    consumed    with    faith,    quivering    moun- 
tains, exultant  skies,  and  human  lions. 

One  of  the  characters  in  the  book  for  whom  lie  had  an 
especial  tenderness  was  the  young  David.  He  did  not  give 
him  the  ironic  smile  of  the  Florentine  boy,  or  the  tragic  in- 
tensity of  the  sublime  works  of  ^lichael  Angelo  and  Verrochio; 
he  knew  them  not.  His  David  was  a  young  shepherd-poet,  with 
a  virgin  soul,  in  which  heroism  slumbered,  a  Siegfried  of  the 
South,  of  a  finer  race,  and  more  beautiful,  and  of  greater  har- 
mony in  mind  and  body. — For  his  revolt  against  the  Latin 
spirit  was  in  vain:  unconsciously  he  had  been  permeated  by 
that  spirit.  Not  only  art  influences  art,  not  only  mind  and 
thought,  but  everything  about  the  artist :— people,  things, 
gestures,  movements,  lines,  the  light  of  each  town.  The  at- 
mosphere of  Paris  is  very  powerful :  it  molds  even  the  most 
rebellious  souls.  And  the  soul  of  a  (ierman  is  less  capable  than 
any  other  of  resisting  it:  in  vain  does  he  gird  himself  in  his 
national  pride:  of  all  Europeans  the  (ierman  is  the  most  easily 
denationalized.  Unwittingly  the  soul  of  ("hristophe  had  al- 
ready begun  to  assimilate  from  Latin  art  a  clarity,  a  sobriety,  an 
understanding  of  the  emotions,  and  even,  up  to  a  point,  a 
plastic  beauty,  which  otherwise  it  never  would  have  had.  His 
David  was  the  proof  of  it. 

He  had  endeavored  to  recreate  certain  episodes  of  the 
youth  of  David:  the  meeting  with  Saul,  the  fight  with  (ioliath: 
and  he  had  written  the  first  scene.  He  had  conceived  it  as  a 
symphonic  picture  with  two  characters. 

On  a  deserted  plateau,  on  a  moor  covered  with  heather  in 
bloom,  the  young  shepherd  lav  dreaming  in  the  sun.  The  serene, 
light,  the  hum  and  bu/x  of  tinv  creatures,  the  sweet  whispering 
of  the  waving  grass,  the  silverv  tinkling  of  the  graxing' sheep, 
the  mighty  beat  and  rhythm  of  the  earth  sang  through  the 
dreaming  boy  unconscious  of  his  divine  desiinv. 
voice  and  the  notes  of  his  flute  joined  the  harm 
and  his  song  was  so  calmly,  so  limpidlv  jovous. 
it.  there  could  be  no  thought  of  joy  or  sorrow,  only  the  feeling 


142  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IX  PARIS 

that  it  must  be  so  and  could  not  be  otherwise. — Suddenly  over 
the  moor  reached  great  shadows:  the  air  was  still:  life  seemed 
to  withdraw  into  the  veins  of  the  earth.  Only  the  music  of 
the  flute  went  on  calmly.  Saul,  with  his  crazy  thoughts,  passed. 
The  mad  King,  racked  by  his  fancy,  burned  like  a  flame,  devour- 
ing itself,  fluug  this  way  and  that  by  the  wind.  He  breathed 
prayers  and  violent  abuse,  hurling  defiance  at  the  void  about 
him,  the  void  within  himself.  And  when  he  could  speak  no 
more  and  fell  breathless  to  the  ground,  there  rang  through  the 
silence  the  smiling  peace  of  the  song  of  the  young  shepherd, 
who  had  never  ceased.  Then,  with  a  furious  beating  in  his 
heart,  came  Saul  in  silence  up  to  where  the  boy  lay  in  the 
heather :  in  silence  he  gazed  at  him :  he  sat  down  by  his  side 
and  placed  his  fevered  hand  on  the  cool  brows  of  the  shepherd. 
Untroubled,  David  turned,  and  smiled,  and  looked  at  the  King. 
He  laid  his  hand  on  Saul's  knees,  and  went  on  singing  and 
playing  his  flute.  Evening  came :  David  went  to  sleep  in  the 
middle  of  his  song,  and  Saul  wept.  And  through  the  starry 
night  there  rose  once  more  the  serene  joyous  hymn  of  nature 
refreshed,  the  song  of  thanksgiving  of  the  soul  relieved  of  its 
burden. 

When  he  wrote  the  scene,  Christophe  had  thought  of  nothing 
but  his  own  joy :  he  had  never  given  a  thought  to  the  manner 
of  its  performance:  and  it  had  certainly  never  occurred  to  him 
that  it  might  be  produced  on  the  stage.  He  meant  it  to  be  sung 
at  a  concert  at  such  time  as  the  concert-halls  should  be  open 
to  him. 

One  evening  he  spoke  of  it  to  Achille  Roussin,  and  when, 
by  request,  he  bad  tried  to  give  him  an  idea  of  it  on  the  piano, 
he  was  amazed  to  see  Roussin  burst  into  enthusiasm,  and  declare 
that  it'  must  at  all  costs  be  produced  at  one  of  the  theaters, 
and  that  he  would  see  to  it.  He  was  even  more  amazed  when, 
a  few  days  later,  he  saw  that  Roussin  was  perfectly  serious: 
and  his  amazement  grew  to  stupefaction  when  he  heard  that 
Sylvain  Kohn,  Goujart,  and  Lucien  Levy-Ca-ur  were  taking  it 
up.  He  had  to  admit  that  their  personal  animosity  had 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  143 

yielded  to  their  love  of  art:  and  he  was  much  surprised.  The 
only  man  who  was  not  eager  to  see  his  work  produced  was 
himself.  It  was  not  suited  to  the  theater:  it  was  nonsense, 
and  almost  hurtful  to  stage  it.  But  Koussin  was  so  insistent, 
Sylvain  Kohn  so  persuasive,  and  Goujart  so  positive,  that  Chris- 
tophe  yielded  to  the  temptation.  He  was  weak.  He  was  so 
longing  to  hear  his  music ! 

It  was  quite  easy  for  Eoussin.  Manager  and  artist  rushed  to 
please  him.  It  happened  that  a  newspaper  was  organizing  a 
benefit  matinee  for  some  charity.  It  was  arranged  that  the 
David  should  be  produced.  A  good  orchestra  was  got  together. 
As  for  the  singers,  Eoussin  claimed  that  he  had  found  the 
ideal  representative  of  David. 

The  rehearsals  were  begun.  The  orchestra  came  through 
the  first  reading  fairly  well,  although,  as  usual  in  France,  there 
was  not  much  discipline  about  it.  Saul  had  a  good,  though 
rather  tired,  voice :  and  he  knew  his  business.  The  David  was 
a  handsome,  tall,  plump,  solid  lady  with  a  sentimental  vulgar 
voice  which  she  used  heavily,  with  a  melodramatic  tremolo  and 
all  the  cafe-concert  tricks.  Christophe  scowled.  As  soon  as 
she  began  to  sing  it  was  obvious  that  she  could  not  be  allowed 
to  play  the  part.  After  the  first  pause  in  the  rehearsal  he 
went  to  the  impresario,  who  had  charge  of  the  business  side  of 
the  undertaking,  and  was  present,  with  Sylvain  Kohn,  at  the 
rehearsal.  The  impresario  beamed  and  said : 

"  Well,  are  you  satisfied  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Christophe.  "  I  think  it  can  be  made  all  right. 
There's  only  one  thing  that  won't  do:  the  singer.  She 
must  be  changed.  Tell  her  as  gently  as  you  can :  you're 
used  to  it.  ...  It  will  be  quite  easy  for  you  to  lind  me 
another." 

The  impresario  looked  disgruntled:  he  looked  at  Christophe 
as  though  he  could  not  believe  that  he  was  serious;  and  he 
said: 

"  But  that's  impossible !  " 

"  "\Yliy  is  it  impossible?"  asked  Christophe. 


144  JEAX-CHRTSTOPHE   INT  PARTS 

The  impresario  looked  cunningly  at  Sylvaiu  Kohn,  and 
replied : 

"  But  she  has  so  much  talent !  " 

"  Xot  a  spark,''  said  Christophe. 

"What!    .    .    .      She  has  a  line  voice!" 

"  Xot  a  bit  of  it." 

"And  she  is  beautiful." 

"  I  don't  care  a  damn." 

"  That  won't  hurt  the  part,''  said  Sylvain  Kohn,  laughing. 

"I  want  a  David,  a  David  who  can  sing:  1  don't  want  Helen 
of  Troy,"  said  Christophe. 

The  impresario  rubbed  his  nose  uneasily. 

"It's  a  pity,  a  great  pity  ..."  he  said.  "She  is  an  ex- 
cellent artist.  ...  I  give  you  my  word  for  it!  Perhaps  she 
is  not  at  her  best  to-day.  You  must  give  her  another  trial." 

"All  right."  said  Christophe.     "But  it  is  a  waste  of  time." 

He  went,  on  with  the  rehearsal.  It  was  worse  than  ever. 
He  found  it  hard  to  go  on  to  the  end:  it  got  on  his  nerves: 
his  remarks  to  the  singer,  from  cold  and  polite,  became  dry 
and  cutting,  in  spite  of  the  obvious  pains  she  was  taking  to 
satisfy  him,  ami  the  way  she  ogled  him  by  way  of  winning  his 
favor.  The  impresario  prudently  stopped  the  rehearsal  just 
when  it  seemed  to  be  hopeless.  By  way  of  softening  the  bad 
effect  of  Christophe's  remarks,  lie  bustled  up  to  the  singer  and 
paid  her  heavy  compliments.  Christophe,  who  was  standing  by, 
made  no  attempt  to  conceal  his  impatience,  called  the  impresario, 
and  said  : 

"  There's  no  room  for  argument.  1  won't  have  the  woman. 
It's  unpleasant,  I  know:  but  I  did  not  choose  her.  Do  what 
you  can  to  arrange  the  matter." 

The  impresario  bowed  frigidly,  and  said  coldly: 

"I  can't  do  anything.     You  must  see  M.   IJoussin." 

"What,  has  it  got  to  do  with  M.  Ronssin?  1  don't  want 
to  bother  him  with  this  business."  said  Christophe. 

"'That   won't   bother  him,"  said    Svlvain    Kohn   ironically. 

And  he  pointed  to  Roussin,  who  had  just  come  in. 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  145 

Christophe  went  up  to  him.  Itoussin  was  in  high  good 
humor,  and  cried: 

"  What!  Finished  already?  I  was  hoping  to  hear  a  bit  of  it. 
Well,  maestro,  what  do  you  say?  Are  you  satisfied? " 

"•'It's  going  quite  well/'  said  Christophe.  "1  don't  know 
how  to  thank  you  .  .  ." 

"Not  at  all!     Not  at  all!" 

"  There  is  only  one  thing  wrong." 

"  What  is  it?  We'll  put  it  right,  i  am  determined  to  satisfy 
you." 

"  Well  .  .  .  the  singer.  Between  ourselves  she  is  de- 
testable." 

The  beaming  smile  on  Roussin's  face  froze  suddenly.  lie 
said,  with  some  asperity : 

"  You  surprise  me,  my  dear  fellow." 

"  She  is  useless,  absolutely  useless."  Christophe  went  on.  "  She 
has  no  voice,  no  taste,  no  knowledge  of  her  work,  no  talent. 
You're  lucky  not  to  have  heard  her!  .  .  ." 

Houssin  grew  more  and  more  acid.  He  cut  Christopho 
short,  and  said  cuttingly: 

"  I  know  Mile,  de  Sainte-Ygraine.  She  is  a  very  talented 
artiste.  1  have  the  greatest  admiration  for  her.  Every  man  of 
taste  in  Paris  shares  my  opinion." 

And  he  turned  his  back  on  Christophe.  who  saw  him  olTer 
his  arm  to  the  actress  and  go  out  with  her.  He  was  dum- 
founded,  and  Sylvain  Kolm,  who  had  watched  the  scene  de- 
lightedly, took  his  arm  and  laughed,  and  said  as  they  went  down 
the  stairs  of  the  theater: — • 

"Didn't  you  know  that  she  was  his  mistress?" 

Christophe  understood.  So  it  was  for  her  sake  and  not  for 
his  own  that  his  piece  was  to  be  produced!  That  explained 
Koussin's  enthusiasm,  the  money  he  had  laid  out.  and  the 
eagerness  of  his  sycophants.  He  listened  while  Sylvain  Kuiin 
told  him  the  story  of  the  Sainte-Ygraine :  a  musii-hall  singer, 
who,  after  various  successes  in  the  little  vaudeville  theaters. 
had,  like  so  many  of  her  kind,  been  tired  with  the  ambition  to 


146  JEAX-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PAEIS 

bo  heard  on  a  stage  more  worthy  of  her  talent.  She  counted  on 
Roussin  to  procure  her  an  engagement  at  the  Opera  or  the 
Opera-Comique :  and  Roussin,  who  asked  nothing  better,  had 
seen  in  the  performance  of  David  an  opportunity  of  revealing 
to  the  Parisian  public  at  no  very  great  risk  the  lyrical  gifts 
of  the  new  tragedienne,  in  a  part  which  called  for  no  particular 
dramatic  acting,  and  gave  her  an  excellent  opportunity  of 
displaying  the  elegance  of  her  figure. 

Christophe  heard  the  story  through  to  the  end :  then  he 
shook  off  Sylvain  Ivolm  and  burst  out  laughing.  He  laughed 
and  laughed.  When  he  had  done,  he  said  : 

"  You  disgust  me.  You  all  disgust  me.  Art  is  nothing  to 
you.  It's  always  women,  nothing  but  women.  An  opera  is 
put  on  for  a  dancer,  or  a  singer,  for  the  mistress  of  M.  So- 
and-So,  or  Madame  Thingummy.  You  think  of  nothing  but 
your  dirty  little  intrigues.  Bless  you,  I'm  not  angry  with 
you :  you  are  like  that :  very  well  then,  be  so  and  wallow  in 
your  mire.  But  we  must  part  company :  we  weren't  made  to 
live  together.  Good-night." 

He  left  him,  and  when  he  reached  home,  wrote  to  Roussin, 
saying  that  he  withdrew  the  piece,  and  did  not  disguise  his  rea- 
sons for  doing  so. 

It  meant  a  breach  with  Roussin  and  all  his  gang.  The  con- 
sequences were  felt  at  once.  The  newspapers  had  made  a 
certain  amount  of  talk  about  the  forthcoming  piece,  and  the 
story  of  the  quarrel  between  the  composer  and  the  singer  ap- 
peared in  due  course.  A  certain  conductor  was  adventurous 
enough  to  plav  the  piece  at  a  Sunday  afternoon  concert.  His 
good  fortune  was  disastrous  for  Christophe.  The  Din-id  was 
played — and  hissed.  All  the  singer's  friends  had  passed  the 
word  to  teach  the  insolent  musician  a  lesson:  and  the  outside 
public,  who  had  been  bored  by  the  symphonic  poem,  added  their 
voices  to  the  verdict  of  the  critics.  To  crown  his  misfortunes, 
Christophe  was  ill-advised  enough  to  accept  the  invitation  to 
display  his  talents  as  a  pianist  at  the  same  concert  by  giving  a 
Fantasia  for  piano  and  orchestra.  The  unkindly  disposition 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  147 

of  the  audience,  which  had  been  to  a  certain  extent  restrained 
during  the  performance  of  the  David,  out  of  consideration  for 
the  interpreters,  broke  loose,  when  they  found  themselves  face 
to  face  with  the  composer, — whose  playing  was  not  all  that  it 
might  have  been.  Christophe  was  unnerved  by  the  noise  in 
the  hall,  and  stopped  suddenly  half-way  through  a  movement : 
and  he  looked  jceringly  at  the  audience,  who  were  startled 
into  silence,  and  played  Malbrouck  s'en  va-t-cn  guerre! — and 
said  insolently : 

"  That  is  all  you  are  fit  for." 

Then  he  got  up  and  went  away. 

There  was  a  terrific  row.  The  audience  shouted  that  he  had 
insulted  them,  and  that  he  must  come  and  apologize.  Next 
day  the  papers  unanimously  slaughtered  the  grotesque  German 
to  whom  justice  had  been  meted  out  by  the  good  taste  of 
Paris. 

And  then  once  more  he  was  left  in  absolute  isolation.  Once 
more  Christophe  found  himself  alone,  more  solitary  than  ever, 
in  that  great,  hostile,  stranger  city.  lie  did  not  worry  about 
it.  He  began  to  think  that  he  was  fated  to  be  so,  and  would 
be  so  all  his  life. 

He  did  not  know  that  a  great  soul  is  never  alone,  that, 
however  Fortune  may  cheat  him  of  friendship,  in  the  end  a 
great  soul  creates  friends  by  the  radiance  of  the  love  with 
which  it  is  filled,  and  that  even  in  that  hour,  when  lie  thought 
himself  for  ever  isolated,  he  was  more  rich  in  love  than  the 
happiest  men  and  women  in  the  world. 

Living  with  the  Stevens  was  a  little  girl  of  thirteen  or 
fourteen,  to  whom  Christophe  had  given  lessons  at  the  same 
time  as  Colette.  She  was  a  distant  cousin  of  Colette's,  and  her 
name  was  Graxia  Buontempi.  She  was  a  little  girl  with  a 
golden-brown  complexion,  with  cheeks  delicately  tinged  with 
red:  healthy-looking:  she  had  a  little  aquiline  nose,  a  large 
well-shaped  mouth,  always  half-open,  a  round  chin,  very  white, 
calm  clear  eyes,  softly  smiling,  a  round  forehead  framed  in 


MS  JEAN-CHKISTOPHE  IN  PARTS 

masses  of  long,  silky  hair,  which  fell  in  long,  waving  locks 
loosely  down  to  her  shoulders.  She  was  like  a  little  Virgin  of 
Andrea  del  Sarto,  with  her  wide  face  and  serenely  gazing  eyes. 

She  was  Italian.  Her  parents  lived  almost  all  the  year 
round  in  the  country  on  an  estate  in  the  North  of  Italy:  plains, 
fields,  little  canals.  From  the  loggia  on  the  housetop  they 
looked  down  on  golden  vines,  from  which  here  and  there  the 
black  spikes  of  the  cypress-trees  emerged.  Beyond  them  were 
fields,  and  again  fields.  Silence.  The  lowing  of  the  oxen  re- 
turning from  the  fields,  and  the  shrill  cries  of  the  peasants  at 
the  plow  were  to  he  heard  : 

"  Ilii!   .    .    .     Fat  innanz' !   ..." 

Grasshoppers  chirruped  in  the  trees,  frogs  croaked  by  the 
waterside.  And  at  night  there  was  infinite  silence  under  the 
silver  beams  of  the  moon.  In  the  distance,  from  time  to  time, 
the  watchers  by  the  crops,  sleeping  in  huts  of  branches,  fired 
their  guns  by  way  of  warning  thieves  that  they  were  awake. 
To  those  who  heard  them  drowsily,  these  noises  meant  no 
more  than  the  chiming  of  a  dull  clock  in  the  distance,  marking 
the  hours  of  the  night.  And  silence  closed  again,  like  a  soft 
cloak,  about  the  soul. 

Round  little  Grazia  life  seemed  asleep.  Her  people  did  not 
give  her  much  attention.  In  the  calmness  and  beauty  that  was 
all  about  her  she  grew  up  peacefully  without  haste,  without 
fever.  She  was  lazy,  and  loved  to  dawdle  and  to  sleep.  For 
hours  together  <he  would  lie  in  the  garden.  She  would  let 
herself  lie  borne  onward  by  the  silence  like  a  fly  on  a  summer 
stream.  And  sometimes,  suddenly,  for  no  reason,  she  would 
begin  to  run.  She  would  run  like  a  little  animal,  head  and 
shoulders  a  little  leaning  to  the  right,  moving  easily  and  supply. 
She  was  like  a  kid  climbing  and  slithering  among  the  stones 
for  the  sheer  jov  of  leaping  about.  She  would  talk  to  the 
dogs,  the  frogs,  the  grass,  the. trees,  the  peasants,  and  the  beasts 
in  the  farmyard,  She  adored  all  the  creatures  about  her.  great 
and  small :  but  she  was  less  at  her  ease  with  the  great.  She 
saw  very  few  people.  The  estate  was  isolated  and  far  from 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  149 

any  town.  Very  rarely  there  came  along  the  dusty  road  some 
trudging,  solemn  peasant,  or  lovely  country  woman,  with  bright 
eyes  and  sunhurnt  face,  walking  with  a  slow  rhythm,  head 
high  and  chest  well  out.  For  days  together  Gra/ia  lived  alone 
in  the  silence  of  the  garden :  she  saw  no  one :  she  was  never 
hored :  she  was  afraid  of  nothing. 

One  day  a  tram])  came,  stealing  fowls.  He  stopped  dead 
when  he  saw  the  little  girl  lying  on  the  grass,  eating  a  piece 
of  bread  and  butter  and  humming  to  herself.  She  looked  up 
at  him  calmly,  and  asked  him  what  he  wanted.  He  said: 

"  Give  me  something,  or  I'll  hurt  you." 

She  held  out  her  piece  of  bread  and  butter  and  smiled,  and 
said: 

"  You  must  not  do  harm." 

Then  he  went  away. 

Her  mother  died.  Her  father,  a  kind,  weak  man,  was  an 
old  Italian  of  a  good  family,  robust,  jovial,  affectionate,  but 
rather  childish,  and  he  was  quite  incapable  of  bringing  up  his 
child.  Old  Buontempi's  sister,  Madame  Stevens,  came  to  the 
funeral,  and  was  struck  by  the  loneliness  of  the  child,  and 
decided  to  take  her  back  to  Paris  for  a  while,  to  distract,  her 
from  her  grief.  Gra/Ja  and  her  father  wept:  but  when  -Madame 
Stevens  had  made  up  her  mind  to  anything,  there  was  nothing 
for  it  but  to  give  in:  nobody  could  stand  out  against  her.  She 
had  the  brains  of  the  family:  and.  in  her  house  in  Paris,  she 
directed  everything,  dominated  everybody:  her  husband,  her 
daughter,  her  lovers: — for  she  had  not  denied  herself  in  the 
matter  of  love:  she  went  straight  at  her  duties,  and  her  pleas- 
ures: she  was  a  practical  woman  and  a  passionate — -very  worldly 
and  very  restless. 

Transplanted  to  Paris,  Grazia  adored  her  pretty  cousin 
Colette,  whom  she  amused.  The  pretty  little  savage  was  taken 
out  into  society  and  to  the  theater.  They  treated  her  as  a 
child,  and  she  regarded  herself  as  a  child,  although  she  was  a 
child  no  longer.  She  had  feelings  which  she  hid  away,  for 
she  was  fearful  of  them:  accesses  of  tenderness  for  some  per- 


150  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

son  or  thing.  She  was  secretly  in  love  with  Colette,  and  would 
steal  a  ribbon  or  a  handkerchief  that  belonged  to  her :  often 
in  her  presence,  she  could  not  speak  a  word :  and  when  she 
expected  her,  when  she  knew  that  she  was  going  to  see  her, 
she  would  tremble  with  impatience  and'  happiness.  At  the 
theater  when  she  saw  her  pretty  cousin,  in  evening  dress,  come 
into  the  box  and  attract  general  attention,  she  would  smile 
humbly,  affectionately,  lovingly :  and  her  heart  would  lea])  when 
Colette  spoke  to  her.  Dressed  in  white,  with  her  beautiful 
black  hair  loose  and  hanging  over  her  shoulders,  biting  the 
fingers  of  her  long  white  cotton  gloves,  and  idly  poking  her 
fingers  through  the  holes, — every  other  minute  during  the  play 
she  would  turn  towards  Colette  in  the  hope  of  meeting  a  friendly 
look,  to  share  the  pleasure  she  was  feeling,  and  to  say  with  her 
clear  brown  eyes : 

"  I  love  you." 

When  they  were  out  together  in  the  Bois,  outside  Paris,  she 
would  walk  in  Colette's  shadow,  sit  at  her  feet ;  run  in  front 
of  her,  break  off  branches  that  might  be  in  her  way,  place 
stones  in  the  mud  for  her  to  walk  on.  And  one  evening  in  the 
garden,  when  Colette  shivered  and  asked  for  her  shawl,  she 
gave  a  little  cry  of  delight — she  was  at  once  ashamed  of  it — 
to  think  that  her  beloved  would  lie  wrapped  in  something  of 
hers,  and  would  give  it  back  to  her  presently  filled  witli  the 
scent  of  her  body. 

There  were  books,  certain  passages  in  the  poets,  which  she 
read  in  secret — (for  she  was  still  given  children's  books)  — 
which  gave  her  delicious  thrills.  And  there  were  more  even 
in  certain  passages  in  music,  although  she  was  told  that  she 
could  not  understand  them  :  and  she  persuaded  herself  that  she 
did  not  understand  them  : — but  she  would  turn  pale  and  cold 
with  emotion.  Xo  one  knew  what  was  happening  within  her  at 
such  moments. 

Outside  that  she  was  just  a  docile  little  girl,  dreamy,  lazy, 
greedy,  blushing  on  the  slightest  provocation,  now  silent  for 
hours  together,  now  talking  volubly,  easily  touched  to  tears 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  IM 

and  laughter,  breaking  suddenly  into  fits  of  sobbing  or  childish 
laughter.  She  loved  to  laugh,  and  silly  little  things  would 
amuse  her.  She  never  tried  to  be  grown  up.  She  remained  a 
child.  She  was,  above  all,  kind  and  could  not  bear  to  hurt  any- 
body, and  she  was  hurt  by  the  least  angry  word  addressed  to 
herself.  She  was  very  modest  and  retiring,  ready  to  love  and 
admire  anything  that  seemed  good  and  beautiful  to  her, 
and  so  she  attributed  to  others  qualities  which  they  did  not 
possess. 

She  was  being  educated,  for  she  was  very  backward. 
And  that  was  how  she  came  to  be  taught  music  by  Chris- 
tophe. 

She  saw  him  for  the  first  time  at  a  crowded  party  in  her 
aunt's  house.  Christophe,  who  was  incapable  of  adapting  him- 
self to  his  audience,  played  an  interminable  adagio  which  made 
everybody  yawn :  when  it  seemed  to  be  over  he  began  again : 
and  everybody  wondered  if  it  was  ever  going  to  end.  Madame 
Stevens  was  boiling  with  impatience:  Colette  was  highly 
amused:  she  was  enjoying  the  absurdity  of  it,  and  rather  pleased 
with  Christophe  for  being  so  insensible  of  it :  she  felt  that  lie 
was  a  force,  and  she  liked  that :  but  it  was  comic  too :  and  she 
would  have  been  the  last  person  to  defend  him.  Grazia  alone 
was  moved  to  tears  by  the  music.  She  hid  herself  away  in  a 
corner  of  the  room.  When  it  was  over  she  went  away,  so  that 
no  one  should  see  her  emotion,  and  also  because  she  could  not 
bear  to  see  people  making  fun  of  Christophe. 

A  few  days  later,  at  dinner,  Madame  Stevens  in  her  pres- 
ence spoke  of  her  having  music-lessons  from  Christophe.  Graxia 
was  so  upset  that  she  let  her  spoon  drop  into  her  soup-plate, 
and  splashed  herself  and  her  neighbor.  Colette  said  she  ought 
first  to  have  lessons  in  table-manners.  Madame  Stevens  added 
that  Christophe  was  not  the  person  to  go  to  for  that.  Grazia 
was  glad  to  be  scolded  in  Christophe's  company. 

Christophe  began  to  teach  her.  She  was  stiiV  and  frozen, 
and  held  her  arms  close  to  her  sides,  and  could  not  stir:  and 
when  Christophe  placed  his  hand  on  hers,  to  correct  the 


152  JEAN-CHHTSTOPHE  IN  PARTS 

position  of  her  fingers,  and  st fetched  them  over  (he  keys,  she 
nearly  fainted.  She  was  fearful  of  playing  badly  for  him: 
but  in  vain  did  she  practise  until  she  nearly  made  herself  ill, 
and  evoked  impatient  protests  from  her  cousin:  she  always 
played  vilely  when  Christophe  was  present:  she  was  breath- 
less, and  Her  fingers  were  as  stiil'  as  pieces  of  wood,  or  as  flabby 
as  cotton:  she  struck  the  wrong  notes  and  gave  the  emphasis 
all  wrong:  Christophe  would  lose  his  temper,  scold  her.  and 
go  away:  then  she  would  long  to  die. 

He  paid  no  attention  to  her,  and  thought  onlv  of  Colette. 
Grazia  was  envious  of  her  cousin's  intimacy  with  Christophe : 
but.  although  it  hurt  her.  in  her  heart  she  was  glad  both  for 
Colette  and  for  Christophe.  She  thought  Colette  so  superior  to 
herself  that  it  seemed  natural  to  her  that  she  should  monopolize 
attention. — It  was  only  when  she  had  to  choose  between  her 
cousin  and  Christophe  that  she  felt  her  heart  turn  against 
Colette.  With  her  girlish  intuition  she  saw  that  Chrisfopho 
was  made  to  suffer  by  Colette's  coquetry,  and  the  persistent 
courtship  of  her  by  Lucien  Levy-C<eur.  Instinctively  she  dis- 
liked Levy-CVi'ur,  and  she  detested  him  as  soon  as  she  knew 
that  Christophe  detested  him.  She  could  not  understand  how 
Colette  could  admit  him  as  a  rival  to  Christophe.  She  began 
secretly  to  judge  him  harshly.  She  discovered  certain  of  his 
small  hypocrisies,  and  suddenly  changed  her  manner  towards 
him.  Colette  saw  it.  but  did  not  guess  the  cause:  six1  pretended 
to  ascribe  it  to  a  little  girl's  caprice.  l>ut  it  was  verv  certain 
that  she  had  lost  her  power  over  Gra/ia  :  as  was  shown  bv  a 
trifling  incident.  One  evening,  when  thev  were  walking  to- 
gether in  the  garden,  a  gentle  rain  came  on,  and  Colette, 
tenderly,  though  coqueltishly.  offered  (ira/.ia  the  shelter  of  her 
cloak:  Grazia,  for  whom,  a  few  weeks  before,  it  would  have  been 
happiness  ineffable  to  be  held  close  to  her  beloved  cousin, 
moved  away  coldly,  and  walked  on  in  silence  at  a  distance  of 
some  yards.  And  when  Colette  said  that  she  thought  a  piece 
of  music  that  (Jraxia  was  playing  was  ugly,  (irazia  was  not 
kept  from  playing  and  loving  it. 


TTTE  MARKET-PLACE  ir>:J 

She  was  only  concerned  with  Christophe.  Slio  had  the  in- 
sight of  her  tenderness,  and  saw  that  lie  was  suffering,  with- 
out his  saying  a  word.  She  exaggerated  it  in  her  childish,  un- 
easy regard  for  him.  She  thought  that  Christophe  was  in  love 
with  Colette,  when  he  had  really  no  more  than  an  exacting 
friendship.  She  thought  he  was  unhappy,  and  she  was  un- 
happy for  him,  and  she  had  little  reward  for  her  anxiety.  She 
paid  for  it  when  Colette  had  infuriated  Christophc:  then  lie 
was  surly  and  avenged  himself  on  his  pupil,  waxing  wrathful 
with  her  mistakes.  One  morning  when  Colette.'  had  exasperated 
him  more  than  usual,  he  sat  down  by  the  piano  so  savagely  that 
Gra/ia  lost  the  little  nerve  she  had  :  she  floundered  :  he  angrily 
scolded  her  for  her  mistakes:  then  she  lost  her  head  altogether: 
he  fumed,  wrung  his  hands,  declared  that  she  would  never  do 
anything  properly,  and  that  she  had  better  occupy  herself  with 
cooking,  sewing,  anything  she  liked,  only,  in  TIeaveTi's  name, 
she  must  not  u'O  on  with  her  music!  It  was  not  worth  the 
trouble  of  torturing  people  with  her  mistake's.  With  that  he 
left  her  in  the  middle  of  her  lesson.  lie  was  furious.  And 
poor  (Irazia  wept,  not  so  much  for  the  humiliation  of  anvthing 
he  had  said  to  her,  as  for  despair  at  not  being  able  to  please 
Christophe,  when  she  longed  to  do  so.  and  could  onlv  succeed 
in  adding  to  his  sufferings.  The  greatest  grief  was  when  Chris- 
tophe ceased  to  go  to  the  Stevens'  house.  Then  she  longed  to 
go  home.  The  poor  child,  so  healthy,  even  in  her  dreams,  in 
whom  there  was  much  of  the  sweet  peace  of  the  country,  felt 
ill  at  ease  in  the  lo\vn.  among  the  neurasthenic,  restless  women 
of  Paris*  She  never  dared  say  anything,  but  she  had  come  to 
a  fairly  accurate  estimation  of  the  people  about  her.  Hut  she 
was  shy.  and,  like  her  father,  weak,  from  kindness,  modest  v. 
distrust  of  herself.  She  submitted  to  the  authority  <>f  her 
domineering  aunt  and  her  cousin,  who  was  used  to  tvranni/ing 
over  everybody.  She  dared  not  write  to  her  father,  to  whom 
she  wrote  regularly  long,  affectionate  letters; 

"Please,  please,  take  me  home!" 

And   her   father   dared   not   take   her   home,   in   spite   of   his 


154  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IX  PARTS 

own  longing :  for  Madame  Stevens  bad  answered  his  timid 
advances  by  staying  that  Grazia  was  very  well  off  where  she 
was,  much  better  off  than  she  would  be  with  him,  and  that  she 
must  stay  for  the  sake  of  her  education. 

But  there  came  a  time  when  her  exile  was  too  hard  for  the 
little  southern  creature,  a  time  when  she  had  to  fly  back  towards 
the  light. — That  was  after  Christophc's  concert.  She  went  to 
it  with  the  Stevens:  and  she  was  tortured  by  the  hideous  sight 
of  the  rabble  amusing  themselves  with  insulting  an  artist.  .  .  . 
An  artist?  The  man  who,  in  Grazia's  eyes,  was  the  very  type  of 
art,  the  personification  of  all  that  was  divine  in  life!  She 
was  on  the  point  of  tears;  she  longed  to  get  away.  She  had 
to  listen  to  all  the  caterwauling,  the  hisses,  the  howls,  and,  when 
they  reached  home,  to  the  laughter  of  Colette  as  she  exchanged 
pitying  remarks  with  Lucien  Levy-Cceur.  She  escaped  to  her 
room,  and  through  part  of  the  night  she  sobbed :  she  spoke  to 
Christophe,  and  consoled  him :  she  would  gladly  have  given  her 
life  for  him,  and  she  despaired  of  ever  being  able  to  do  any- 
thing to  make  him  happy.  It  was  impossible  for  her  to  stay  in 
Paris  any  longer.  She  begged  her  father  to  take  her  away, 
saying : 

"I  cannot  live  here  any  longer;  I  cannot:  I  shall  die  if  you 
leave  me  here  any  longer." 

Her  father  came  at  once,  and  though  it  was  very  painful  to 
them  both  to  stand  up  to  her  terrible  aunt,  they  screwed  up  their 
courage  for  it  by  a  desperate  effort  of  will. 

Grazia  returned  to  the  sleepy  old  estate.  She  was  glad  to 
get  back  to  Nature  and  the  creatures  that  she  loved.-  Every 
day  she  gathered  comfort  for  her  sorrow,  but  in  her  heart  there 
remained  a  little  of  the  melancholy  of  the  North,  like  a  veil 
of  mist,  that  very  slowly  melted  away  before  the  sun.  Some- 
times she  thought  of  Christophers  wretchedness.  Lying  on  the 
grass,  listening  to  the  familiar  frogs  and  grasshoppers,  or  sitting 
at  her  piano,  which  now  she  played  more  often  than  before. 
she  would  dream  of  the  friend  her  heart  had  chosen  :  she  would 
talk  to  him,  in  whispers,  for  hours  together,  and  it  seemed 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  155 

not  impossible  to  her  that  one  day  he  would  open  the  door 
and  come  in  to  her.  She  wrote  to  him,  and,  after  long  hesita- 
tion, she  sent  the  letter,  unsigned,  which,  one  day,  with  heating 
heart,  she  went  secretly  and  dropped  into  the  box  in  the  village 
two  miles  away,  beyond  the  long  plowed  fields, — a  kind,  good, 
touching  letter,  in  which  she  told  him  that  he  was  not  alone, 
that  he  must  not  be  discouraged,  that  there  was  one  who  thought 
of  him,  and  loved  him,  and  prayed  to  God  for  him, — a  poor 
little  letter,  which  was  lost  in  the  post,  so  that  he  never  re- 
ceived it. 

Then  the  serene,  monotonous  days  succeeded  each  other  in  the 
life  of  his  distant  friend.  And  the  Italian  peace,  the  genius  of 
tranquillity,  calm  happiness,  silent  contemplation,  once  more 
took  possession  of  that  chaste  and  silent  heart,  in  whose  depths 
there  still  burned,  like  a  little  constant  flame,  the  memory  of 
Christophe. 

But  Christophe  never  knew  of  the  simple  love  that  watched 
over  him  from  afar,  and  was  later  to  fill  so  great  a  room  in  his 
life.  Xor  did  he  know  that  at  that  same  concert,  where  he 
had  been  insulted,  there  sat  the  woman  who  was  to  be  the 
beloved,  the  dear  companion,  destined  to  walk  by  his  side, 
shoulder  to  shoulder,  hand  in  hand. 

He  was  alone.  lie  thought  himself  aloue.  But  lie  did  not 
suffer  overmuch.  He  did  not  feel  that  bitter  anguish  that  had 
given  him  such  great  agony  in  Germany.  He  was  stronger, 
riper:  he  knew  that  it  must  be  so.  His  illusions  about  Paris 
were  destroyed:  men  were  everywhere  the  same:  he  must  be  a 
law  unto  himself,  and  not  waste  strength  in  a  childish  struggle 
with  the  world:  he  must  be1  himself,  calmly,  tranquilly.  As 
Beethoven  had  said,  '"'If  we  surrender  the  forces  of  our  lives  to 
life,  what,  then,  will  be  left  for  the  noblest  and  highest?  "  He 
had  firmly  grasped  a  knowledge  of  his  nature  and  the  temper 
of  his  race,  which  formerly  he  had  so  harshly  judged.  The 
more  he  was  oppressed  by  the  atmosphere  of  Paris,  the  more 
keenly  did  he  feel  the  need  of  taking  refuge  in  his  own  coun- 


156  JEAiY-CHBISTOPHE  IN  PAK1S 

try,  in  the  anus  of  the  poets  and  musicians,  in  whom  the  best 
of  Germany  is  garnered  and  preserved.  As  soon  as  lie  opened 
their  books  bis  room  was  tilled  with  the  sound  of  the  sunlit 
Ehine  and  lit  by  the  loving  smiles  of  old  friends  new  found. 

How  ungrateful  he  had  been  to  them!  I  Low  was  it  he  had 
failed  to  feel  the  treasure  of  their  goodness  and  honesty?  lie 
remembered  with  shame  all  the  unjust,  outrageous  things  lie 
had  said  of  them  when  lie  was  in  (iermany.  Then  he  saw 
only  their  defects,  their  awkward  ceremonious  manners,  their 
tearful  idealism,  their  little  mental  hypocrisies,  their 
cowardice.  Ah!  How  small  were  all  these  things  compared 
with  their  great  virtues!  How  could  he  have  been  so  hard 
upon  their  weaknesses,  which  now  made  them  even  more  mov- 
ing in  his  eyes:  for  they  were  more  human  for  them!  In  his 
reaction  he  was  the  more  attracted  to  those  of  them  to  whom  he 
had  been  most  unjust.  What  things  he  had  said  about  Schubert 
and  Bach!  And  now  he  felt  so  near  to  them.  Xow  it  was 
as  though  these  noble  souls,  whose  I'oibles  he  had  so  scorned, 
leaned  over  him,  now  that  he  was  in  exile  and  far  from  his 
own  people,  and  smiled  kindly  and  said  : 

"Brother,  we  are  here!  Courage!  \Ve  too  have  had  more 
than  our  share  of  misery.  .  .  .  Bah!  one  wins  through 
it.  .  .  ." 

lie  heard  the  soul  of  Johann  Sebastian  Bach  roaring  like 
the  sea:  hurricanes,  winds  howling,  the  clouds  of  life  scudding, 
— men  and  women  drunk  with  joy,  sorrow,  fury,  and  the 
Christ,  all  meekness,  the  Prince  of  Peace,  hovering  above 
them,— towns  awakened  by  the  cries  of  the  watchmen,  run- 
ning with  glad  shouts,  to  meet  the  divine  Bridegroom,  whose 
footsteps  shake  the  earth, — the  vast  store  of  thoughts,  passions, 
musical  forms,  heroic  life,  Shakespearean  hallucinations, 
Savoiiarolaesque  prophecies,  pastoral,  epic,  apocalvptic  visions, 
all  contained  in  the  stunted  body  of  the  little  Thuringian  raiifor, 
with  his  double  chin,  and  little  shining  eyes  under  the  wrinkled 
lids  and  the  raised  eyebrows  .  .  . — he  could  see  him  so  clearly! 
somber,  jovial,  a  little  absurd,  with  his  head  stuffed  full  of 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  157 

allegories  and  symbols,  Gothic  and  rococo,  choleric,  obstinate, 
serene,  with  a  passion  for  life,  and  a  great  longing  for  death 
.  .  . — he  saw  him  in  his  school,  a  genial  pedant,  surrounded 
by  his  pupils,  dirty,  coarse,  vagabond,  ragged,  with  hoarse 
voices,  the  ragamuttius  with  whom  he  squabbled,  and  some- 
times fought  like  a  navvy,  one  of  whom  once  gave  him  a  mighty 
thrashing  .  .  . — ho  saw  him  with  his  family,  surrounded  by 
his  twenty-one  children,  of  whom  thirteen  died  before  him,  and 
one  was  an  idiot,  and  the  rest  were  good  musicians  who  gave 
little  concerts.  .  .  .  Sickness,  burial,  bitter  disputes,  want, 
his  genius  misunderstood: — and  through  and  above  it  all,  his 
music,  his  faith,  deliverance  and  light,  joy  half  seen,  felt,  desired, 
grasped, — God,  the  breath  of  God  kindling  his  bones,  thrilling 
through  his  flesh,  thundering  from  his  lips.  .  .  .  O  Force ! 
Force!  Thrice  joyful  thunder  of  Force!  .  .  . 

Christophe  took  great  draughts  of  that  force.  He  felt  the 
blessing  of  that  power  of  music  which  issues  from  the  depths 
of  the  German  soul.  Often  .mediocre,  and  even  coarse,  what 
does  it  matter?  The  great  thing  is  that  it  is  so,  and  that  it- 
flows  plenteously.  In  France  music  is  gathered  carefully,  drop 
by  drop,  and  passed  through  Pasteur  filters  into  bottles,  and 
then  corked.  And  the  drinkers  of  stale  water  are  disgusted  by 
the  rivers  of  German  music!  They  examine  minutely  the  de- 
fects of  the  German  men  of  genius! 

"  Poor  little  things!" — thought  Christophe,  forgetting  that 
he  himself  had  once  been  just  as  absurd — "  they  find  fault  with 
Wagner  and  Beethoven!  They  must  have  faultless  men  of 
genius!  ...  As  though,  when  the  tempest  rages,  it  would 
take  care  not  to  upset  the  existing  order  of  things!  ..." 

He  strode  about  Paris  rejoicing  in  his  strength.  If  he  were 
misunderstood,  so  much  the  better!  Me  would  be  all  the 
freer.  To  create,  as  genius  must,  a  whole  world,  organically 
constituted  according  to  his  own  inward  laws,  the  artist  must 
live  in  it  altogether.  An  artist  can  never  be  too  much  alone. 
What  is  terrible  is  to  see  his  ideas  reflected  in  a  mirror  which 
deforms  and  stunts  them.  He  must  sav  nothing  tc  others  of 


158  JEAN-CHKISTOPHB  IN  PARIS 

\vhat  he  is  doing  until  he  has  done  it :  otherwise  he  would  never 
have  the  courage  to  go  on  to  the  end:  for  it  would  no  longer  he 
his  idea,  but  the  miserable  idea  of  others  that  would  live  in  him. 

Now  that  there  was  nothing  to  disturb  his  dreams,  they 
bubbled  forth  like  springs  from  all  the  corners  of  his  soul, 
and  from  every  stone  of  the  roads  by  which  he  walked.  He 
was  living  in  a  visionary  state.  Everything  he  saw  and  heard 
called  forth  in  him  creatures  and  things  different  from  those 
he  saw  and  heard.  He  had  only  to  live  to  find  everywhere  about 
him  the  life  of  his  heroes.  Their  sensations  came  to  him  of 
their  own  accord.  The  eyes  of  the  passers-by,  the  sound  of  a 
voice  borne  by  the  wind,  the  light  on  a  lawn,  the  birds  singing 
in  the  trees  of  the  Luxembourg,  a  convent-bell  ringing  so  far 
away,  the  pale  sky,  the  little  patch  of  sky  seen  from  his  room, 
the  sounds  and  shades  of  sound  of  the  different  hours  of  the 
day,  all  these  were  not  in  himself,  but  in  the  creatures  of  his 
dreams. — Christophe  was  happy. 

But  his  material  position  was  worse  than  ever.  He  had  lost 
his  few  pupils,  his  only  resource.  It  was  September,  and  rich 
people  were  out  of  town,  and  it  was  difficult  to  find  new  pupils. 
The  only  one  he  had  was  an  engineer,  a  crazy,  clever  fellow, 
who  had  taken  it  into  his  head,  at  forty,  to  become  a  great 
violinist.  Christophe  did  not  play  the  violin  very  well :  but 
he  knew  more  about  it  than  his  pupil:  and  for  some  time  he 
gave  him  three  hours  a  week  at  two  francs  an  hour.  But  at 
the  end  of  six  weeks  the  engineer  got  tired  of  it,  and  sud- 
denly discovered  that  painting  was  his  vocation. — When  he  im- 
parted his  discovery  to  Christophe,  Christophe  laughed  heartily: 
but,  when  he  had  done  laughing,  he  reckoned  up  his  finances, 
and  found  that  lie  had  in  hand  the  twelve  francs  which  his 
pupil  had  just  paid  him  for  his  last  lessons.  That  did  not 
worry  him :  he  only  said  to  himself  that  he  must  certainly  set 
about  finding  some  other  means  of  living,  and  start  once  more 
going  from  publisher  to  publisher.  That  was  not  very  pleasant. 
.  .  .  Pff!  ...  It  was  useless  to  torment  himself  in  ad- 
vance. It  was  a  jolly  day.  He  went  to  Meudon. 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  159 

He  had  a  sudden  longing  for  a  walk.  As  he  walked  there 
rose  in  him  scraps  of  music.  He  was  as  full  of  it  as  a  hive 
of  honey :  and  he  laughed  aloud  at  the  golden  buzzing  of  his 
bees.  For  the  most  part  it  was  changing  music.  And  lively 
leaping  rhythms,  insistent,  haunting.  .  .  .  Much  good  it  is 
to  create  and  fashion  music  buried  within  four  walls!  There 
you  can  only  make  combinations  of  subtle,  hard,  unyielding 
harmonics,  like  the  Parisians! 

When  he  was  weary  he  lay  down  in  the  woods.  The  trees 
were  half  in  leaf,  the  sky  was  periwinkle  blue.  Christophe 
dozed  off  dreamily,  and  in  his  dreams  there  was  the  color  of 
the  sweet  light  falling  from  October  clouds.  His  blood  throbbed. 
He  listened  to  the  rushing  ilood  of  his  ideas.  They  came  from 
all  corners  of  the  earth :  worlds,  young  and  old.  at  war,  rags 
and  tatters  of  dead  souls,  guests  and  parasites  that  once  had 
dwelled  within  him,  as  in  a  city.  The  words  that  Gottfried 
had  spoken  by  the  grave  of  Melchior  returned  to  him  :  he  was 
a  living  tomb,  filled  with  the  dead,  striving  in  him. — all  his  un- 
known forefathers.  He  listened  to  those  countless  lives,  it 
delighted  him  to  set  the  organ  roaring,  the  roaring  of  that 
age-old  forest,  full  of  monsters,  like  the  forest  of  Dante.  He 
was  no  longer  fearful  of  them  as  he  had  been  in  his  youth. 
For  the  master  was  there:  his  will.  It  was  a  great  joy  to  him 
to  crack  his  whip  and  make  the  beasts  howl,  and  feel  the 
wealth  of  living  creatures  in  himself.  He  was  not  alone.  There 
was  no  danger  of  his  ever  being  alone.  He  was  a  host  in  him- 
self. Ages  of  Kraffts,  healthy  and  rejoicing  in  their  health. 
Against  hostile  Paris,  against  a  hostile  people,  he  could  set  a 
whole  people :  the  light  was  equal. 

He  had  left  the  modest  room — it  was  too  expensive— which 
he  occupied  and  taken  an  attic  in  the  Montrouge  district.  It 
was  weil  aired,  though  it  had  no  other  advantage.  There  was 
a  continual  draught.  But  he  wanted  to  breathe.  From  his 
window  he  had  a  wide  view  over  the  chimneys  of  Paris  to  Mont- 
martre  in  the  background.  It  bad  not  taken  him  lonn  to  move: 


160  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IX  PARIS 

a  handcart  was  enough :  Christophe  pushed  it  himself.  Of  all 
his  possessions  the  most  precious  to  him,  after  his  old  bag, 
was  one  of  those  casts,  which  have  lately  become  so  popular, 
of  the  death-mask  of  Beethoven.  He  packed  it  with  as  much 
care  as  though  it  were  a  priceless  work  of  art.  He  never  let 
it  out  of  his  sight.  It  was  an  oasis  in  the  midst  of  the  desert 
of  Paris.  And  also  it  served  him  as  a  moral  thermometer. 
The  death-mask  indicated  more  clearly  than  his  own  conscience 
the  temperature  of  his  soul,  the  character  of  his  most  secret 
thoughts :  now  a  cloudy  sky,  now  the  gusty  wind  of  the  passions, 
now  fine  calm  weather. 

He  had  to  be  sparing  with  his  food.  He  only  ate  once  a 
day,  at  one  in  the  afternoon.  He  bought  a  large  sausage,  and 
hung  it  up  in  his  window :  a  thick  slice  of  it,  a  hunk  of  bread, 
and  a  cup  of  coffee  that  he  made  himself  were  a  feast  for  the 
gods.  He  would  have  preferred  two  such  feasts.  He  was  angry 
with  himself  for  having  such  a  good  appetite.  He  called  him- 
self to  task,  and  thought  himself  a  glutton,  thinking  only  of  his 
stomach.  He  lost  flesh :  he  was  leaner  than  a  famished  dog. 
But  he  was  solidly  built,  he  had  an  iron  constitution,  and  his 
head  was  clear. 

He  did  not  worry  about  the  morrow,  though  he  had  good  rea- 
son for  doing  so.  As  long  as  he  had  in  hand  money  enough 
for  the  day  he  never  bothered  about  it.  When  lie  came  to  the 
end  of  his  money  he  made  up  his  mind  to  go  the  round  of  the 
publishers  once  more.  He  found  no  work.  He  was  on  his  way 
home,  empty,  when,  happening  to  pass  the  music-shop  where  he 
had  been  introduced  to  Daniel  Hecht  by  Sylvain  Kohn.  he  went 
in  without  remembering  that  lie  had  already  been  there  under 
not  very  pleasant  circumstances.  The  iirst  person  lie  saw  was 
Hecht.  He  was  on  the  point  of  turning  tail:  but  lie  was  too 
late:  Hecht  had  seen  him.  Christophe  did  not  wish  to  seem  to 
be  avoiding  him:  he  went  up  to  Hecht,  not  knowing  what  to 
say  to  him,  and  fully  prepared  to  stand  up  to  him  as  ar- 
rogantly as  need  be:  for  he  was  convinced  that  Hoc-lit  would  be 
unsparingly  insolent.  But  he  was  nothing  of  the  kind.  Hecht 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  161 

coldly  held  out  his  hand,  muttered  some  conventional  inquiry 
after  his  health,  and,  without  waiting  for  any  request  from 
Christophe,  he  pointed  to  the  door  of  his  office,  and  stepped 
aside  to  let  him  pass.  He  was  secretly  glad  of  the  visit, 
which  he  had  foreseen,  though  he  had  given  up  expecting  it. 
Without  seeming  to  do  so,  he  had  carefully  followed  Chris- 
tophe's doings:  he  had  missed  no  opportunity  of  hearing  his 
music:  he  had  heen  at  the  famous  performance  of  the  -David: 
and,  despising  the  public,  he  had  not  been  greatly  surprised 
at  its  hostile  reception,  since  he  himself  had  felt  the  beauty  of 
the  work.  There  were  probably  not  two  people  in  Paris  more 
capable  than  Hecht  of  appreciating  Christophe's  artistic  origi- 
nality. But  he  took  care  not  to  pay  anything  about  it,  not  only 
because  his  vanity  was  hurt  by  Christophe's  attitude  towards 
himself,  but  because  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  be  amiable: 
it  was  the  peculiarly  ungracious  quality  of  his  nature.  He  was 
sincerely  desirous  of  helping  Christophe:  but  he  would  not 
have  stirred  a  finger  to  do  so:  lie  was  waiting  for  Christophe  to 
come  and  ask  it  of  him.  And  no\v  that  Christophe  had  come, — 
instead  of  generously  seizing  the  opportunity  of  wiping  out  the 
memory  of  their  previous  misunderstanding  by  sparing  his 
visitor  any  humiliation,  he  gave  himself  the  satisfaction  of 
hearing  him  make  his  request  at  length :  and  he  even  went  so 
far  as  to  offer  Christophe,  at  least  for  the  time  being,  the 
work  which  he  had  formerly  refused.  He  gave  him  fifty  pages 
of  music  to  transpose  for  mandoline  and  guitar  by  the  next 
day.  After  which,  being  satisfied  that  he  had  made  him  truckle 
down,  he  found  him  less  distasteful  work,  but  always  so  un- 
graciously that  it  was  impossible  to  be  grateful  to  him  for  it: 
Christophe  had  to  be  ground  down  by  necessity  before  lie  would 
ever  go  to  Hecht  again.  In  any  case  he  preferred  to  earn  his 
money  by  such  work,  however  irritating  it  might  be,  than  ac- 
cept it  as  a  gift  from  Hecht,  as  it  was  once  more  otl'ered  to 
him: — and,  indeed,  Hecht  meant  it  kindly:  but  Christophe  had 
been  conscious  of  Hecht's  original  intention  to  humiliate  him: 
he  was  forced  to  accept  his  conditions,  but  nothing  would  in- 


162  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

duce  him  to  accept  any  favor  from  him :  he  was  willing  to 
work  for  him : — by  giving  and  giving  he  squared  the  account : 
—but  he  would  not  be  under  any  obligation  to  him.  Unlike 
Wagner,  that  impudent  mendicant  where  his  art  was  concerned, 
he  did  not  place  his  art  above  himself:  the  bread  that  he  had 
not  earned  himself  \vould  have  choked  him. — One  day,  when  he 
brought  some  work  that  he  had  sat  up  all  night  to  finish,  he 
found  Hecht  at  table.  Hecht,  remarking  his  pallor  and  the 
hungry  glances  that  involuntarily  he  cast  at  the  dishes,  felt 
sure  that  he  had  not  eaten  that  day,  and  invited  him  to  lunch. 
He  meant  kindly,  but  he  made  it  so  apparent  that  he  had 
noticed  Christophe's  straits  that  his  invitation  looked  like  char- 
ity: Christophe  would  have  died  of  hunger  rather  than  accept. 
He  could  not  refuse  to  sit  down  at  the  table— (Hecht  said  he 
wanted  to  talk  to  him)  : — but  he  did  not  touch  a  morsel :  he  pre- 
tended that  he  had  just  had  lunch.  His  stomach  was  aching 
with  hunger. 

Christophe  would  gladly  have  done  without  Hecht :  but 
the  other  publishers  were  even  worse. — There  were  also  wealthy 
amateurs  who  had  conceived  some  scrap  of  a  musical  idea, 
and  could  not  even  wrrite  it  down.  They  would  send  for  Chris- 
tophe, hum  over  their  lucubrations,  and  say : 

"Isn't  it  fine?" 

Then  they  would  give  them  to  him  for  elaboration, —  (to  be 
written)  : — and  then  they  would  appear  under  their  own  names 
through  some  great  publishing  house.  They  were  quite  con- 
vinced that  they  had  composed  them  themselves.  Christophe 
knew  such  a  one,  a  distinguished  nobleman,  a  strange,  restless 
creature,  who  would  suddenly  call  him  "  Dear  friend,"  grasp 
him  by  the  arm.  and  burst  into  a  torrent  of  enthusiastic  demon- 
strations, talking  and  giggling,  babbling  and  telling  funny 
stories,  interlarded  with  cries  of  ecstatic  laughter:  P>eeUioven, 
Yerlaine,  Faure,  Yvette  Guilbert.  .  .  .  lie  made  him  work, 
and  failed  tc  pay.  He  worked  it  out  in  invitations  1o  lunch  and 
handshakes.  Finally  he  sent  Christophe  twenty  francs,  which 
Christophe  gave  himself  the  foolish  luxury  of  returning.  That 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  163 

day  lie  had  not  twenty  sous  in  the  world :  and  he  had  to  buy  a 
twenty-five  centimes  stamp  for  a  letter  to  his  mother.  It  was 
Louisa's  birthday,  and  Christophe  would  not  for  the  world  have 
failed  her:  the  poor  old  creature  counted  on  her  son's  hitter, 
and  could  not  have  endured  disappointment.  For  some  weeks 
past  she  had  been  writing  to  him  more  frequently,  in  spite  of 
the  pain  it  caused  her.  She  was  suffering  from  her  loneli- 
ness. But  she  could  not  bring  herself  to  join  Christophe  in 
Paris:  she  was  too  timid,  too  much  attached  to  her  own  little 
town,  to  her  church,  her  house,  and  she  was  afraid  of  traveling. 
And  besides,  if  she  had  wanted  to  come,  Christophe  had  not 
enough  money:  he  had  not  always  enough  for  himself. 

He  had  been  given  a  great  deal  of  pleasure  once  by  receiv- 
ing a  letter  from  Lorchen,  the  peasant  girl  for  whose  sake  he 
had  plunged  into  the  brawl  with  the  Prussian  soldiers :  1  she 
wrote  to  tell  him  that  she  was  going  to  be  married:  she  gave 
him  news  of  his  mother,  and  sent  him  a  basket  of  apples  and 
a  piece  of  cake  to  eat  in  her  honor.  They  came  in  the  nick  of 
time.  That  evening  with  Christophe  was  a  fast.  Ember  Days. 
Lent:  only  the  butt  end  of  the  sausage  hanging  by  the  window 
was  left.  Christophe  compared  himself  to  the  anchorite  saints 
fed  by  a  crow  among  the  rocks.  But  no  doubt  the  crow  was 
hard  put  to  it  to  feed  all  the  anchorites,  for  he  never  came 
again. 

In  spite  of  all  his  difficulties  Christophe  kept  his  end  up. 
He  washed  his  linen  in  his  basin,  and  cleaned  his  boots, 
whistling  like  a  blackbird.  He  consoled  himself  with  the  say- 
ing of  Berlioz:  ''Let  us  raise  our  heads  above  the  miseries  of 
life,  and  let  us  blithely  sing  the  familiar  gay  refrain.  Dirx  ir/r. 
.  .  ." — He  used  to  sing  it  sometimes,  to  the  dismav  of  his 
neighbors,  who  were  amazed  and  shocked  to  hear  him  break 
oil'  in  the  middle  and  shout  with  laughter. 

lie  led  a  life  of  stern  chastity.  As  l>erlioz  remarked:  "The 
lover's  life  is  a  life  for  the  idle  and  the  rich."  Christophe's 
poverty,  his  daily  hunt  for  bread,  his  excessive  sobriety,  and 
1  See  Jean-Christoplie — I,  "  Kevolt." 


164  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PAKTS 

his  creative  fever  left  him  neither  the  time  nor  the  taste  for 
any  thought  of  pleasure.  He  was  more  than  indifferent  about 
it:  in  his  reaction  against  Paris  he  had  plunged  into  a  sort  of 
moral  asceticism.  He  had  a  passionate  need  of  purity,  a  horror 
of  any  sort  of  dirtiness.  It  was  not  that  he  was  rid  of  his 
passions.  At  other  times  he  had  been  swept  headlong  by  them. 
But  his  passions  remained  chaste  even  when  he  yielded  to 
them :  for  he  never  sought  pleasure  through  them  but  the 
absolute  giving  of  himself  and  fulness  of  being.  And  when 
he  saw  that  he  had  been  deceived  he  flung  them  furiously  from 
him.  Lust  was  not  to  him  a  sin  like  any  other.  It  was  the 
great  Sin,  that  which  poisons  the  very  springs  of  life.  All 
those  in  whom  the  old  Christian  belief  has  not  been  crusted 
over  with  strange  conceptions,  all  those  who  still  feel  in  them- 
selves the  vigor  and  life  of  the  races,  which  through  the 
strengthening  of  an  heroic  discipline  have  built  up  Western 
civilization,  will  have  no  difficulty  in  understanding  him.  Chris- 
tophe  despised  cosmopolitan  society,  whose  only  aim  and  creed 
was  pleasure. — In  truth  it  is  good  to  seek  pleasure,  to  desire 
pleasure  for  all  men,  to  combat  the  cramping  pessimistic  beliefs, 
that  have  come  to  weigh  upon  humanity  through  twenty  cen- 
turies of  Gothic  Christianity.  But  that  can  only  be  upon  con- 
dition that  it  is  a  generous  faith,  earnestly  desirous  of  the  good 
of  others.  But  instead  of  that,  what  happens?  The  most  piti- 
ful egoism.  A  handful  of  loose-living  men  and  women  trying 
to  give  their  senses  the  maximum  of  pleasure  with  the  mini- 
mum of  risk,  while  they  take  good  care  that  the  rest  shall 
drudge  for  it. — Yes,  no  doubt,  they  have  their  parlor  Socialism! 
.  .  .  But  they  know  perfectly  well  that  their  doctrine  of 
pleasure  is  only  practicable  for  "  well-fed  "  people,  for  a  select 
pampered  few,  that  it  is  poison  to  the  poor.  .  .  . 
"The  life  of  pleasure  is  a  rich  man's  life." 

Christophe  was  neither  rich  nor  likely  to  become  so.  When 
he  made  a  little  money  he  spent  it  at  once  on  music:  he  went 
without  food  to  go  to  concerts.  He  would  take  cheap  seats 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  1G5 

in  the  gallery  of  the  Theatre  du  Cliatclet:  and  he  would  steep 
himself  in  music:  he  found  both 'food  and  love  in  it.  He  had 
such  a  hunger  for  happiness  and  so  great  a  power  of  enjoying 
it  that  the  imperfections  of  the  orchestra  never  worried  him: 
he  would  stay  for  two  or  three  hours,  drowsy  and  beatific,  and 
wrong  notes  or  defective  taste  never  provoked  in  him  more  than 
an  indulgent  smile:  he  left  his  critical  faculty  outside:  he 
was  there  to  love,  not  to  judge.  Around  him  the  audience  sat 
motionless,  with  eyes  half  closed,  letting  itself  be  borne  on 
by  the  great  torrent  of  dreams.  Christophe  fancied  them  as  a 
mass  of  people  curled  up  in  the  shade,  like  an  enormous  cat, 
weaving  fantastic  dreams  of  lust  and  carnage.  In  the  deep 
golden  shadows  certain  faces  stood  out,  and  their  strange  charm 
and  silent  ecstasy  drew  Christophe's  eyes  and  heart:  he  loved 
them :  he  listened  through  them :  he  became  them,  body  and 
soul.  One  woman  in  the  audience  became  aware  of  it,  and 
between  her  and  Christophe  during  the  concert  there  was 
woven  one  of  those  obscure  sympathies,  which  touch  the  very 
depths,  though  never  by  one  word  are  they  translated  into  the 
region  of  consciousness,  while,  when  the  concert  is  over  and 
the  thread  that  binds  soul  to  soul  is  snapped,  nothing  is  left  of  it. 
It  is  a  state  familiar  to  lovers  of  music,  especially  when  they 
are  young  and  do  most  wholly  surrender:  the  essence  of  music 
is  so  completely  love,  that  the  full  savor  of  it  is  not  won  unless 
it  be  enjoyed  through  another,  and  so  it  is  that,  at  a  concert, 
we  instinctively  seek  among  the  throng  for  friendly  eyes, 
for  a  friend  with  whom  to  share  a  joy  too  great  for  ourselves 
alone. 

Among  such  friends,  the  friends  of  one  brief  hour,  whom 
Christophe  marked  out  for  choice  of  love,  the  better  to  taste 
the  sweetness  of  the  music,  he  was  attracted  by  one  face  which 
he  saw  again  and  again,  at  every  concert.  It  was  the  face  of 
a  little  grisette  who  seemed  to  adore  music  without  understand- 
ing it  at  all.  She  had  an  odd  little  profile,  a  short,  straight 
nose,  almost  in  line  with  her  slightly  pouting  lips  and  del- 
icately molded  chin,  fine  arched  evebrows.  and  clear  eves:  one 


1G6  JEAN-CHKISTOPHE  IX  PAIUS 

of  those  pretty  little  faces  behind  the  veil  of  which  one  feels 
joy  and  laughter  concealed  b'y  calm  indifference.  It  is  per- 
haps in  such  light-hearted  girls,  little  creatures  working  for 
their  living,  that  one  finds  most  the  old  serenity  that  is  no 
more,  the  serenity  of  the  antique  statues  and  the  faces  of 
Raphael.  There  is  but  one  moment  in  their  lives,  the  first 
awakening  of  pleasure:  all  too  soon  their  lives  are  sullied. 
But  at  least  they  have  lived  for  one  lovely  hour. 

It  gave  Christophe  an  exquisite  pleasure  to  look  at  her: 
a  pretty  face  would  always  warm  his  heart:  he  could  enjoy 
without  desire:  he  found  joy  in  it.  force,  comfort,— almost 
virtue.  It  goes  without  saying  that  she  quickly  became  aware 
that  he  was  watching  her:  and,  unconsciously,  there  was  set  up 
between  them  a  magnetic  current.  And  as  they  met  at  al- 
most every  concert,  almost  always  in  the  same  places,  they 
quickly  learned  each  others  likes  and  dislikes.  At  certain 
passages  they  would  exchange  meaning  glances:  when  she  par- 
ticularly liked  some  melody  she  would  just  put  out  her  tongue 
as  though  to  lick  her  lips :  or,  to  show  that  she  did  not  think 
much  of  it,  she  would  disdainfully  wrinkle  up  her  pretty  nose. 
In  these  little  tricks  of  hers  there  was  a  little  of  that  innocent 
posing  of  which  hardly  any  one  can  be  free  when  he  kno\vs 
that  he  is  being  watched.  During  serious  music  she  would 
sometimes  try  to  look  grave  and  serious:  and  she  would  turn 
her  profile  towards  him.  and  look  absorbed,  and  smile  to  her- 
self, and  look  out  of  the  corner  of  her  eye  to  see  if  he  were 
watching.  They  had  become  very  good  friends,  without  ex- 
changing a  word,  and  even  without  having  attempted — at  least 
Christophe  did  not — to  meet  outside. 

At  last  by  chance  at  an  evening  concert  ihev  found  them- 
selves sitting  next  each  other.  After  a  moment  of  smiling 
hesitation  they  began  to  talk  amicably.  She  had  a  charming 
voice  and  said  many  stupid  things  about  music:  for  she  knew 
nothing  about  it  and  wanted  fo  seem  as  if  she  knew:  but  she 
loved  it  passionately.  She  loved  the  worst  and  the  best,  Mas- 
senet and  Wagner:  only  the  mediocre  bored  her.  Music  was  a 


THE  MAEKET-PLACE  167 

physical  pleasure  to  her:  she  drank  it  in  through  all  the 
pores  of  her  skin  as  Danae  did  the  golden  rain.  The  prelude  of 
Tristan  made  her  blood  run  cold:  and  she  loved  feeling  herself 
being  carried  away,  like  some  warrior's  prey,  by  the  Sympkonia 
Eroica.  She  told  Christophe  that  Beethoven  was  deaf  and 
dumb,  and  that,  in  spite  of  it  all,  if  she  had  known  him.  she 
would  have  loved  him,  although  he  was  precious  ugly.  Chris- 
tophe protested  that  Beethoven  was  not  so  very  ugly :  then 
they  argued  about  beauty  and  ugliness:  and  she  agreed  that  it 
was  a  matter  of  taste:  what  was  beautiful  for  one  person  was  not 
so  for  another:  "We're  not  golden  louis  and  can't  please  every 
one."  lie  preferred  her  when  she  did  not  talk :  he  understood 
her  better.  During  the  death  of  Isolde  she  held  out  her  hand 
to  him:  her  hand  was  warm  and  moist:  he  held  it  in  his  until 
the  end  of  the  piece:  they  could  feel  life  coursing  through  the 
veins  of  their  clasped  hands. 

They  went  out  together:  it  was  near  midnight.  They  walked 
back  to  the  Latin  Quarter  talking  eagerly:  she  had  token  his 
arm  and  he  took  her  home:  but  when  they  reached  the  door, 
and  she  seemed  to  suggest  that  he  should  go  up  and  see  her 
room,  he  disregarded  her  smile  and  the  friendliness  in  her 
eyes  and  left  her.  At  first  she  was  amazed,  then  furious:  then 
she  laughed  aloud  at  the  thought  of  his  stupidity:  and  then, 
when  she  had  reached  her  room  and  began  to  undress,  she  felt 
hurt  and  angry,  and  finally  wept  in  silence.  \Yhen  next  she  met 
him  at  a  concert  she  tried  to  be  dignified  and  indifferent  and 
crushing.  Hut  he  was  so  kind  to  her  that  she  could  not  hold 
to  her  resolution.  They  began  to  talk  once  more:  only  now 
she  was  a  little  reserved  witli  him.  lie  talked  to  her  warmly 
but  very  politely  and  always  about  serious  tilings,  and  the  music 
to  which  they  were  listening  and  what  it  meant  to  him.  She 
listened  attentively  and  tried  to  think  as  he  did.  The  mean- 
ing of  his  words  often  escaped  her:  but  she  belicu-d  him  all 
the  same.  She  was  grateful  to  (,'hristophe  and  had  a  respect 
for  him  which  she  hardly  showed.  By  tacit  agreement  they 
only  spoke  to  each  other  at  concerts.  JIc  met  her  once  sur- 


168  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IX  PARIS 

rounded  with  students.  They  bowed  gravely.  She  never  talked 
about  him  to  any  one.  In  the  depths  of  her  soul  there  was  a 
little  sanctuary,  a  quality  of  beauty,  purity,  consolation. 

And  so  Christophe,  by  his  presence,  by  the  mere  fact  of  his 
existence,  exercised  an  influence  that  brought  strength  and 
solace.  Wherever  he  passed  he  unconsciously  left  behind  the 
traces  of  his  inward  light.  He  was  the  last  to  have  any  notion 
of  it,  Near  him,  in  the  house  where  he  lived,  there  were  people 
whom  he  had  never  seen,  people  who,  without  themselves  sus- 
pecting it,  gradually  came  under  the  spell  of  his  beneficent 
radiance. 

For  several  weeks  Christophe  had  no  money  for  concerts 
even  by  fasting:  and  in  his  attic  under  the  roof,  now  that 
winter  was  coming  in,  he  was  numbed  with  the  cold  :  he  could 
not  sit  still  at  his  table.  Then  he  would  get  up  and  walk 
about  Paris,  trying  to  warm  himself.  He  had  the  faculty  of 
forgetting  the  seething  town  about  him,  and  slipping  away 
into  space  and  the  infinite.  It  was  enough  for  him  to  see 
above  the  noisy  street  the  dead,  frozen  moon,  hung  there  in  the 
abysm  of  the  sky,  or  the  sun,  like  a  disc,  rolling  through  the 
white  mist;  then  Paris  would  sink  down  into  the  boundless 
void  and  all  the  life  of  it  would  seem  to  be  no  more  than  the 
phantom  of  a  life  that  had  been  once,  long,  long  ago  .  .  . 
ages  ago  .  .  .  The  smallest  tiny  sign,  imperceptible  to  the 
common  lot  of  men,  of  the  great  wild  life  of  Xature,  so  sparsely 
covered  with  the  livery  of  civilization,  was  enough  to  make  it 
all  come  rushing  mightily  up  before  his  gaze.  The  grass  grow- 
ing between  the  stones  of  the  streets,  the  budding  of  a  tree 
strangled  by  its  cast-iron  cage,  airless,  earthless,  on  some  bleak 
boulevard:  a  dog,  a  passing  bird,  the  last  relics  of  the  beasts 
and  birds  that  thronged  the  primeval  world,  which  man  has 
since  destroyed:  a  whirling  cloud  of  ilies:  the  mysterious  epi- 
demic that  raged  through  a  whole  district: — these  were  enough 
in  the  thick  air  of  that  human  hothouse  to  bring  the  breath  of 
the  Spirit  of  the  Earth  up  to  slap  his  cheeks  and  whip  his 
energy  to  action. 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  169 

During  those  long  walks,  when  he  was  often  starving,  and 
often  had  not  spoken  to  a  soul  for  days  together,  his  wealth 
of  dreams  seemed  inexhaustible.  Privation  and  silence  had 
aggravated  his  morbid  heated  condition.  At  night  he  slept 
feverishly,  and  had  exhausting  dreams:  he  saw  once  more  and 
never  ceased  to  see  the  old  house  and  the  room  in  which  he 
had  lived  as  a  child:  he  was  haunted  by  musical  obsessions. 
By  day  he  talked  and  never  ceased  to  talk  to  the  creatures 
within  himself  and  the  beings  whom  he  loved,  the  absent  and 
the  dead. 

One  cold  afternoon  in  December,  when  the  grass  was  cov- 
ered with  frost,  and  the  roofs  of  the  houses  and  the  great  domes 
were  glistening  through  the  fog.  and  the  trees,  with  their  cold, 
twisted,  naked  branches,  groping  through  the  mist  that  hung 
about  them,  looked  like  great  weeds  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea, — 
Christophc,  who  had  been  shivering  all  day  and  could  not  get 
warm  again,  went  into  the  Louvre,  which  he  hardly  knew  at 
all. 

Till  then  painting  had  never  moved  him  much.  He  was  too 
much  absorbed  by  the  world  within  himself  to  grasp  the 
world  of  color  and  form.  They  only  acted  on  him  through 
their  music  and  rhythm,  which  only  brought  him  an  indis- 
tinguishable echo  of  their  truth.  No  doubt  his  instinct  did 
obscurely  divine  the  selfsame  laws  that  rule  the  harmony  of 
visible  form,  as  of  the  form  of  sounds,  and  the  deep  waters 
of  the  soul,  from  which  spring  the  two  rivers  of  color  and 
sound,  to  flow  down  the  two  sides  of  the  mountain  of  life. 
But  he  only  knew  one  side  of  the  mountain,  and  lie  was  lost 
in  the  kingdom  of  the  eye,  which  was  not  his.  And  so  be 
missed  the  secret  of  the  most  exquisite,  and  perhaps  the 
most  natural  charm  of  clear-eyed  France,  the  queen  of  the 
world  of  light. 

Even  had  he  been  interested  in  painting.  Ohristophe  was  too 
German  to  adapt  himself  to  so  widely  different  a  vision  of 
things.  He  was  not  one  of  those  up-to-date  Hermans  who  decry 
the  German  way  of  feeling,  and  persuade  themselves  that  they 


170  .JEAN-CHEISTOPHE  IN  PAIUS 

admire  and  love  French  Impressionism  or  the  artists  of  the 
eighteenth  century, — except  when  they  go  farther  and  are  con- 
vinced that  they  understand  them  better  than  the  French. 
Christophe  was  a  barbarian,  perhaps:  but  he  was  frank  about  it. 
The  pink  flesh  of  Boucher,  the  fat  chins  of  Watteau,  the  bored 
shepherds  and  plump,  tight-laced  shepherdesses,  the  whipped- 
cream  souls,  the  virtuous  oglings  of  Greuze,  the  tucked  shirts 
of  Fragonard,  all  that  bare-legged  poesy  interested  him  no  more 
than  a  fashionable,  rather  spicy  newspaper.  lie  did  not  see 
its  rich  and  brilliant  harmony;  the  voluptuous  and  sometimes 
melancholy  dreams  of  that  old  civilization,  the  highest,  in  Europe, 
were  foreign  to  him.  As  for  the  French  school  of  the  sev- 
enteenth century,  he  liked  neither  its  devout  ceremony  nor  its 
pompous  portraits :  the  cold  reserve  of  the  gravest  of  the  masters. 
a  certain  grayness  of  soul  that  clouded  the  proud  works  of 
Nicolas  Poussin  and  the  pale  faces  of  Philippe  de  Champaigne. 
repelled  Christophe  from  old  French  art.  And,  once  more,  he 
knew  nothing  about  it.  If  he  had  known  anything  about  it  he 
would  have  misunderstood  it.  The  only  modern  painter  whose 
fascination  he  had  felt  at  all  in  Germany,  Box-klin  of  Basle, 
had  not  prepared  him  much  for  Latin  art.  Christophe  remem- 
bered the  shock  of  his  impact  with  that  brutal  genius,  which 
smacked  of  earth  and  the  musty  smell  of  the  heroic  beasts  that 
it  had  summoned  forth.  His  eyes,  seared  by  the  ra\v  light,  used 
to  the  frantic  motley  of  that  drunken  savage,  could  hardly 
adapt  themselves  to  the  half-tints,  the  dainty  and  mellifluous 
harmonies  of  French  art. 

But  no  man  with  impunity  can  live  in  a  foreign  land.  Un- 
known to  him  it  sets  its  seal  upon  him.  In  vain  does  lie  with- 
draw into  himself:  upon  a  day  he  must  wake  up  to  Jind  that 
something  has  changed. 

There  was  a  change  in  Christophe  on  that  evening  when  he 
wandered  through  the  rooms  of  the  Louvre.  lie  was  tired, 
cold,  hungry;  he  was  alone.  Around  him  darkness  was  descend- 
ing upon  the  empty  galleries,  and  sleeping  forms  awoke.  Chris- 
tophe was  very  cold  as  he  walked  in  silence  among  Egyptian 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  171 

sphinxes,  Assyrian  monsters,  bulls  of  Persepolis,  gleaming 
snakes  from  Palissy.  He  seemed  to  have  passed  into  a  magic 
world:  and  in  his  heart  there  was  a  strange,  mysterious  emo- 
tion. The  dream  of  humanity  wrapped  him  about, — the  strange 
flowers  of  the  soul.  .  .  . 

In  the  misty  gilded  light  of  the  picture-galleries,  and  the 
gardens  of  rich  brilliant  hues,  and  painted  airless  fields,  Chris- 
tophe,  in  a  state  of  fever,  on  the  very  brink  of  illness,  was 
visited  by  a  miracle. — He  was  walking,  numbed  by  hunger,  by 
the  coldness  of  the  galleries,  by  the  bewildering  mass  of  pic- 
tures: his  head  was  whirling.  When  he  reached  the  end  of  the 
gallery  that  looks  on  to  the  river,  he  stood  before  the  Good 
Samaritan  of  Rembrandt,  and  leaned  on  the  rail  in  front  of 
the  pictures  to  keep  himself  from  falling:  he  closed  his  eyes 
for  a  moment.  When  he  opened  them  on  the  picture  in  front 
of  him — he  was  quite  close  to  it — and  he  was  held  spell- 
bound. .  .  . 

Day  was  spent.  Day  was  already  far  gone;  it  was  already 
dead.  The  invisible  sun  was  sinking  down  into  the  night.  Tt 
was  the  magic  hour  when  dreams  and  visions  come  mounting 
from  the  soul,  saddened  by  the  labors  of  the  day.  still,  musing, 
drowsily.  All  is  silent,  only  the  beating  of  the  heart  is  heard. 
In  the  body  there  is  hardly  the  strength  to  move,  hardly  to 
breathe;  sadness;  resignation;  only  an  immense  longing  to  fall 
into  the  arms  of  a  friend,  a  hunger  for  some  miracle,  a  feeling 
that  some  miracle  must  come.  ...  It  comes!  A  flood  of 
golden  light  flames  through  the  twilight,  is  cast  upon  the  walls 
of  the  hovel,  on  the  shoulder  of  the  stranger  bearing  the  dying 
man,  touches  with  its  warmth  those  humble  objects,  and  those 
poor  creatures,  and  the  whole  takes  on  a  new  gentleness,  a 
divine  glory.  It  is  the  very  Cod,  clasping  in  his  terrible,  tender 
arms  the  poor  wretches,  weak.  ugly,  poor,  unclean,  the  poor 
down-at-heel  rascal,  the  miserable  creatures,  with  twisted  hag- 
gard faces,  thronging  outside  the  window,  the  apathetic,  silent 
creatures  standing  in  mortal  terror. — all  the  pitiful  human  be- 
ings of  Rembrandt,  the  herd  cf  obscure  broken  creatures  who 


172  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IX  PAEIS 

know  nothing,  can  do  nothing,  only  wait,  tremble,  weep,  and 
pray. — But  the  Master  is  there.  He  will  come:  it  is  known 
that  He  will  come.  Xot  He  Himself  is  seen :  only  the  light  that 
goes  before,  and  the  shadow  of  the  light  which  He  casts  upon 
all  men.  .  .  . 

Christophe  left  the  Louvre,  staggering  and  tottering.  His 
head  ached.  He  could  not  see.  In  the  street  it  was  raining, 
but  he  hardly  noticed  the  puddles  between  the  flags  and  the 
water  trickling  down  from  his  shoes.  Over  the  Seine  the 
yellowish  sky  was  lit  up,  as  the  day  waned,  by  an  inward  flame 
— like  the  light  of  a  lamp.  Still  Christophe  was  spellbound, 
hypnotized.  It  seemed  as  though  nothing  existed:  not  the 
carriages  rattling  over  the  stones  with  a  pitiless  noise :  the 
passers-by  were  not  banging  into  him  with  their  wet  umbrellas : 
he  was  not  walking  in  the  street:  perhaps  he  was  sitting  at 
home  and  dreaming :  perhaps  he  had  ceased  to  exist.  .  .  . 
And  suddenly, —  (he  was  so  weak!) — he  turned  giddy  and  felt 
himself  falling  heavily  forward.  ...  It  was  only  for  the 
flash  of  a  second:  he  clenched  his  fists,  hurled  himself  back- 
ward, and  recovered  his  balance. 

At  that  very  moment  when  he  emerged  into  consciousness 
his  eyes  met  the  eyes  of  a  woman  standing  on  the  other  side 
of  the  street,  who  seemed  to  be  looking  for  recognition.  He 
stopped  dead,  trying  to  remember  when  he  had  seen  her  before. 
It  was  only  after  a  moment  or  two  that  he  could  place  those 
sad,  soft  eyes :  it  was  the  little  French  governess  whom,  un- 
wittingly, he  had  had  dismissed  in  Germany,  for  whom  he  had 
been  looking  for  so  long  to  beg  her  to  forgive  him.  She  had 
stopped,  too,  in  the  busy  throng,  and  was  looking  at  him.  Sud- 
denly he  saw  her  try  to  cross  through  the  crowd  of  people  and 
step  down  into  the  road  to  come  to  him.  He  rushed  to  meet 
her :  but  they  were  separated  by  a  block  in  the  traffic :  he  saw 
her  again  for  a  moment  struggling  on  the  other  side  of  that  liv- 
ing wall :  he  tried  to  force  his  way  through,  was  knocked  over 
by  a  horse,  slipped  and  fell  on  the  slippery  asphalt,  and  was  all 
but  run  over.  When  he  got  up,  covered  with  mud,  and  sue- 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  173 

ceeded  in  reaching  the  other  side  of  the  street,  she  had  dis- 
appeared. 

He  tried  to  follow  her,  but  he  had  another  attack  of  giddi- 
ness, and  he  had  to  give  it  up.  Illness  was  close  upon  him : 
he  felt  that,  but  he  would  not  submit  to  it.  He  set  his  teeth, 
and  would  not  go  straight  home,  but  went  far  out  of  his  way. 
It  was  just  a  useless  torment  to  him:  he  had  to  admit  that  he 
was  beaten :  his  legs  ached,  he  dragged  along,  and  only  reached 
home  with  frightful  difficulty.  Half-way  up  the  stairs  he 
choked,  and  had  to  sit  down.  When  he  got  to  his  icy  room  he 
refused  to  go  to  bed :  he  sat  in  his  chair,  wet  through ;  his  head 
was  heavy  and  he  could  hardly  breathe,  and  he  drugged  himself 
with  music  as  broken  as  himself.  He  heard  a  few  fugitive  bars 
of  the  Unfinished  Symphony  of  Schubert.  Poor  Schubert!  He, 
too,  was  alone  when  he  wrote  that,  feverish,  somnolent,  in  that 
semitorpid  condition  which  precedes  the  last  great  sleep :  he  sat 
dreaming  by  the  fireside:  all  round  him  were  heavy  drowsy 
melodies,  like  stagnant  water:  he  dwelt  on  them,  like  a  child 
half-asleep  delighting  in  some  self-told  story,  and  repeating 
some  passage  in  it  twenty  times :  so  sleep  comes,  then  death. 
.  .  .  And  Christophe  heard  fieetingly  that  other  music,  with 
burning  hands,  closed  eyes,  a  little  weary  smile,  heart  big  with 
sighs,  dreaming  of  the  deliverance  of  death : — the  first  chorus 
in  the  Cantata  of  J.  S.  Bach:  "Dear  (iod,  when  shall  I  die?" 
.  .  .  It  was  sweet  to  sink  back  into  the  soft  melodies  slowly 
floating  by,  to  hear  the  distant,  mullled  clangor  of  the  bells. 
...  To  die,  to  pass  into  the  peace  of  earth !  .  .  .  Und 
dann  seller  Erdc  wcrden.  .  .  .  "And  then  himself  to  become 
earth.  ..." 

Christophe  shook  off  these  morbid  thoughts,  the  murderous 
smile  of  the  siren  who  lies  in  wait  for  the  hours  of  weakness  of 
the  soul.  He  got  up,  and  tried  to  walk  about  his  room:  but 
he  could  not  stand.  He  was  shaking  and  shivering  with  fever. 
He  had  to  go  to  bed.  He  felt  that  it  was  serious  this  time:  but 
he  did  not  lay  down  his  arms:  he  never  was  of  those  who, 
when  they  are  ill,  yield  utterly  to  their  illness:  he  struggled, 


174  'JEAtf-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PA1US 

he  refused  to  be  ill,  and,  above  all.  he  was  absolutely  determined 
not  to  die.  lie  had  his  poor  mother  waiting  for  him  in  Ger- 
many. And  he  had  his  work  to  do :  lie  would  not  yield  to  death. 
He  clenched  his  chattering  teeth,  and  firmly  grasped  his  will 
that  was  oozing  away:  he  was  like  a  sturdy  swimmer  battling 
with  the  waves  dashing  over  him.  At  every  moment,  down  he 
plunged:  his  mind  wandered,  endless  fancies  haunted  him, 
memories  of  Germany  and  of  Parisian  society:  he  was  obsessed 
by  rhythms  and  scraps  of  melody  which  went  round,  and  round, 
and  round,  like  horses  in  a  circus:  the  sudden  shock  of  the 
golden  light  of  the  Good  Samaritan  :  the  tense,  stricken  faces  in 
the  shadow :  and  then,  dark  nothingness  and  night.  Then  up 
he  would  come  once  more,  wrenching  away  the  grimacing  mists, 
clenching  his  fists,  and  setting  his  jaw.  He  clung  to  all  those 
whom  he  loved  in  the  present  and  the  past,  to  the  face  of  the 
friend  he  had  just  seen  in  the  street,  his  dear  mother,  and  to  the 
indestructible  life  within  himself,  that  he  felt  was  like  a  rock, 
impervious  to  death.  But  once  more  the  rock  was  covered 
by  the  tide:  the  waves  dashed  over  it,  and  tore  his  soul  away 
from  its  hold  upon  it:  it  was  borne  headlong  and  dashed  by 
the  foam.  And  Christophe  struggled  in  delirium,  babbling 
strangely,  conducting  and  playing  an  imaginary  orchestra: 
trombones,  horns,  cymbals,  timbals,  bassoons,  double-bass,  .  .  . 
he  scraped,  blew,  beat  the  drum,  frantically.  The  poor  wretch 
was  bubbling  over  with  suppressed  music.  For  weeks  he  had 
been  unable  to  hear  or  play  any  music,  and  he  was  like  a  boiler 
at  high  pressure,  near  bursting-point.  Certain  insistent  phrases 
bored  into  his  brain  like  gimlets,  pierced  his  skull,  and  made 
him  scream  with  agony.  After  these  attacks  he  would  fall  back- 
on  his  pillow,  dead  tired,  wet  through,  utterly  weak,  breath- 
less, choking.  He  had  placed  his  water-jug  by  his  bedside,  and 
he  took  great  draughts  of  it.  The  various  noises  of  the  adjoin- 
ing rooms,  the  banging  of  the  attic  doors,  made  him  start,  lie 
was  tilled  with  a  delirious  disgust  for  the  creatures  swarming 
round  him.  But  his  will  fought  on.  sounded  a  warlike  clarion- 
note,  declaring  battle  on  all  devils.  ...  "  L'nd  wcnn  die 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  175 

Welt  voll  Teufel  war,  und  woUien  uns  versclilingen,  so  filrchten 
wir  uns  nicht  so  schr.  ..."  ("And  even  though  the  world 
were  full  of  devils,  all  seeking  to  devour  us,  we  should  not  be 
afraid.  .  .  ."). 

And  over  the  sea  of  scalding  shadows  that  dashed  over  him 
there  came  a  sudden  calm,  glimpses  of  light,  a  gentle  murmur- 
ing of  violins  and  viols,  the  clear  triumphant  notes  of  trumpet* 
and  horns,  while,  almost  motionless,  like  a  great  wall,  there  rose 
from  the  sick  man's  soul  an  indomitable  song,  like  a  choral  of 
J.  S.  Bach. 

While  he  was  fighting  against  the  phantoms  of  fever  and 
the  choking  in  his  lungs,  he  was  dimly  aware  that  some  one 
had  opened  the  door,  and  that  a  woman  entered  with  a  candle 
in  her  hand.  He  thought  it  was  another  hallucination.  He 
tried  to  speak,  but  could  not,  and  fell  back  on  his  pillow. 
When,  every  now  and  then,  he  was  brought  for  a  moment  back 
to  consciousness,  he  felt  that  his  pillow  had  been  raised,  that  his 
feet  had  been  wrapped  up,  that  there  was  something  burning 
his  back,  or  he  would  see  the  woman,  whose  face  was  not  al- 
together unfamiliar,  sitting  at  the  foot  of  his  bed.  Then  he  saw 
another  face,  that  of  a  doctor  using  a  stethoscope.  Christophe 
could  not  hear  what  they  were  saying,  but  he  gathered  that 
they  were  talking  of  sending  him  to  the  hospital.  He  tried  to 
protest,  to  cry  out  that  he  would  not  go.  that  lie  would  die 
where  he  was,  alone:  but  he  could  only  frame  incomprehensible 
sounds.  But  the  woman  understood  him:  for  she  took  bis  part, 
and  reassured  him.  He  tried  hard  to  find  out  who  she  was. 
As  soon  as  he  could,  with  frightful  effort,  frame  a  sentence,  he 
asked  her.  She  replied  that  she  lived  in  the  next  attic  and  bad 
heard  him  moaning  through  the  wall,  and  had  taken  the  liberty 
of  coming  in,  thinking  that  he  wanted  help.  She  begged  him 
respectfully  not  to  wear  himself  out  with  talking.  He  obeyed, 
her.  He  was  worn  out  with  the  ell'ort  he  bad  made:  he  lay 
still  and  said  nothing:  but  his  brain  went  on  working,  pain- 
fully gathering  together  its  scattered  memories.  Where  had 


176  JEAN-CHEISTOPHE  IN  PAEIS 

he  seen  her?  ...  At  last  he  remembered:  yes,  he  had  met 
her  on  the  attic  landing:  she  was  a  servant,  and  her  name  was 
Sidonie. 

He  watched  her  with  half-closed  eves,  so  that  she  could  not 
see  him.  She  was  little,  and  had  a  grave  face,  a  wide  forehead, 
hair  drawn  back,  so  that  her  temples  uere  exposed;  her  cheeks 
were  pale  and  high-boned;  she  had  a  short  nose,  pale  blue  eyes, 
with  a  soft,  steady  look  in  them,  thick  lips  tightly  pressed  to- 
gether, an  anemic  complexion,  a  humble,  deliberate,  and  rather 
stiff  manner.  She  looked  after  Christophe  with  busy  silent  de- 
votion, without  a  spark  of  familiarity,  and  without  ever  break- 
ing down  the  reserve  of  a  servant  who  never  forgets  class 
differences. 

However,  little  by  little,  when  he  was  better  and  could  talk 
to  her,  Christophe's  affectionate  cordiality  made  Sidonie  talk 
to  him  a  little  more  freely:  but  she  was  always  on  her  guard: 
there  were  obviously  certain  things  which  she  would  not  tell. 
She  was  a  mixture  of  humility  and  pride.  Ohristophe  learned 
that  she  came  from  Brittany,  where  she  had  left  her  father, 
of  whom  she  spoke  very  discreetly:  but  rhristophe  gathered 
that  he  did  nothing  but  drink,  have  a  good  time,  and  live  on  his 
daughter:  she  put  up  with  it.  without  saying  anything,  from 
pride:  and  she  never  failed  to  send  him  part  of  her  month's 
wages:  but  she  was  not  taken  in.  She  had  also  a  younger  sister 
who  was  preparing  for  a  teacher's  examination,  and  she  was 
very  proud  of  her.  She  was  paying  almost  all  the  expenses 
of  her  education.  She  worked  frightfully  hard,  with  grim 
determination. 

"  Have  you  a  good  situation  ?  "  asked  Christophe. 

"Yes.     But  1  am  thinking  of  leaving.'' 

"  Why  ?     Aren't  they  good  to  you  ?  " 

"  Oh !  no.     They're  very  good  to  me." 

"  Don't  they  pay  you  enough  ?  " 

"Yes.   .    .    ." 

He  did  not  quite  understand :  he  tried  to  understand,  and  en- 
couraged her  to  talk.  She  had  nothing  to  tell  him  but  the 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  177 

monotony  of  her  life,  and  the  difficulty  of  earning  a  living: 
she  did  not  lay  any  stress  on  it :  she  was  not  afraid  of  work : 
it  was  a  necessity  to  her,  almost  a  pleasure.  She  never  spoke  of 
the  thing  that  tried  her  most :  boredom.  He  guessed  it.  Little 
by  little,  with  the  intuition  of  perfect  sympathy,  he  saw  that 
her  suffering  was  increasing,  and  it  was  made  more  acute 
for  him  by  the  memory  of  the  trials  supported  by  his  own 
mother  in  a  similar  existence.  He  saw,  as  though  he  had  lived 
it,  the  drab,  unhealthy,  unnatural  existence — the  ordinary  ex- 
istence imposed  on  servants  by  the  middle-classes : — employers 
who  were  not  so  much  unkind  as  indifferent,  sometimes  leav- 
ing her  for  days  together  without  speaking  a  word  outside  her 
work.  The  hours  and  hours  spent  in  the  stuffy  kitchen,  the  one 
small  window,  blocked  up  by  a  meat-safe,  looking  out  on  to  a 
white  wall.  And  her  only  pleasure  was  when  she  was  told  care- 
lessly that  her  sauce  was  good  or  the  meat  well  cooked.  A 
cramped  airless  life  with  no  prospect,  with  no  ray  of  desire  or 
hope,  without  interest  of  any  kind. — The  worst  time  of  all  for 
her  was  when  her  employers  went  away  to  the  country.  They 
economized  by  not  taking  her  with  them:  they  paid  her  wages 
for  the  month,  but  not  enough  to  take  her  borne:  they  gave 
her  permission  to  go  at  her  own  expense.  She  would  not,  she 
could  not  do  that.  And  so  she  was  left  alone  in  the  deserted 
house.  She  had  no  desire,  to  go  out,  and  did  not  even  talk 
to  other  servants,  whose  coarseness  and  immorality  sbe  despised. 
She  never  went  out  in  search  of  amusement:  she  was  naturally 
serious,  economical,  and  afraid  of  misadventure.  She  sat  in 
her  kitchen,  or  in  her  room,  from  whence  across  the  chimneys 
she  could  see  the  top  of  a  tree  in  the  garden  of  a  hospital.  She 
did  not  read,  but  tried  to  work  listlessly:  she,  would  sit  there 
dreaming,  bored,  bored  to  tears:  she  had  a  singular  and  infinite 
capacity  for  weeping:  it  was  her  only  pleasure.  But  when  her 
boredom  weighed  too  heavilv  on  her  she.  could  not  even  woep : 
she  was  frozen,  sick  at  heart,  and  dead.  Then  she  would  pull 
herself  together:  or  life  would  return  of  its  own  mvord.  She 
would  think  of  her  sister,  listen  to  a  barrel-organ  in  the  distance, 


178  JEAN-CHEISTOPHE  IN  PAKTS 

and  dream.,  and  slowly  count  the  days  until  she  had  gained 
such  and  such  a  sum  of  money  :  she  would  be  out  in  her  reckon- 
ing, and  begin  to  count  all  over  again :  she  would  fall  asleep. 
So  the  days  passed.  .  .  . 

The  fits  of  depression  alternated  with  outbursts  of  childish 
chatter  and  laughter.  She  would  make  fun  of  herself  and 
other  people.  She  watched  and  judged  her  employers,  and  their 
anxieties  fed  by  their  want  of  occupation,  and  her  mistress's 
moods  and  melancholy,  and  the  so-called  interests  of  these  so- 
called  people  of  culture,  how  they  patronized  a  picture,  or  a 
piece  of  music,  or  a  book  of  verse.  With  her  rude  common 
sense,  as  far  removed  from  the  snobbishness  of  the  very  Parisian 
servants  as  from  the  crass  stupidity  of  the  very  provincial  girls, 
who  only  admire  what  they  do  not  understand,  she  had  a  re- 
spectful contempt  for  their  dabbling  in  music,  their  pointless 
chatter,  and  all  those  perfectly  useless  and  tiresome  intellectual 
smatterings  which  play  so  large  a  part  in  such  hypocritical  ex- 
istences. She  could  not  help  silently  comparing  the  real  life, 
with  which  she  grappled,  with  the  imaginary  pains  and  pleas- 
ures of  that  cushioned  life,  in  which  everything  seems  to  be  the 
product  of  boredom.  She  was  not  in  revolt  against  it.  Things 
were  so :  things  were  so.  She  accepted  everything,  knaves  and 
fools  alike.  She  said  : 

"  It  takes  all  sorts  to  make  a  world." 

Christophe  imagined  that  she  was  borne  up  by  her  religion: 
but  one  day  she  said,  speaking  of  others  who  were  richer  and 
more  happy : 

"  But  in  the  end  we  shall  all  be  equal." 

"When?"  asked  Christophe.     "'After  the  social  revolution?" 

"The  revolution?"  said  she.  "'Oh,  there'll  be  much  water 
flowing  under  bridges  before  that.  .1  don't  believe  that  stuiL 
Things  will  always  be  the  same." 

"  When  shall  we  all  be  equal,  then?  " 

"When  we're  dead,  of  course!     That's  the  end  of  everybody." 

He  was  surprised  by  her  calm  materialism.  He  dared  not 
sav  to  her: 


TJIE  MARKET-PLACE  179 

"  Isn't  it  a  friglitful  thing,  in  that  ease,  if  there  is  only  one 
life,  that  it  should  be  the  like  of  yours,  while  there  are  so  many 
others  who  are  happy  ?  " 

But  she  seemed  to  have  guessed  his  thought :  she  went  on 
phlegmatically,  resignedly,  and  a  little  ironically: 

"  One  has  to  put  up  with  it.  Everybody  cannot  draw  a  prize. 
I've  drawn  a  blank  :  so  much  the  worse !  " 

She  never  even  thought  of  looking  for  a  more  profitable 
place  outside  France.  (She  had  once  been  offered  a  situa- 
tion in  America.)  The  idea  of  leaving  the  country  never 
entered  her  head.  She  said: 

"  Stones  are  hard  everywhere." 

There  was  in  her  a  profound,  skeptical,  and  mocking  fatal- 
ism. She  was  of  the  stock  that  has  little  or  no  faith,  few  con- 
sidered reasons  for  living,  and  yet  a  tremendous  vitality — the 
stock  of  the  French  peasantry,  industrious  and  apathetic,  riotous 
and  submissive,  who  have  no  great  love  of  life,  but  cling  to  it, 
and  have  no  need  of  artificial  stimulants  to  keep  up  their 
courage. 

Christophe,  who  had  not  yet  come  across  them,  was  aston- 
ished to  find  in  the  girl  an  absence  of  all  faith  :  he  marveled 
at  her  tenacious  hold  on  life,  without  pleasure  or  purpose,  and 
most  of  all  lie  admired  her  sturdy  moral  sense  that  had  no  need 
of  prop  or  support.  Till  then  he  had  onlv  seen  the  French 
people  through  naturalistic  novels,  and  the  theories  of  the  man- 
nikins  of  contemporary  literature,  who.  reacting  from  the  art 
of  the  century  of  pastoral  scenes  and  the  Revolution,  loved  to 
present  natural  man  as  a  vicious  brute,  in  order  to  sanctify  their 
own  vices.  .  .  .  He  was  amaze;!  when  he  discovered  Sidonie's 
uncompromising  honesty.  It  was  not  a  matter  of  moraliiv  but 
of  instinct  and  pride.  She  had  her  aristocratic  pride.  For  it 
is  foolish  to  imagine  that  ev-rybody  belonging  to  the  people  is 
"popular."  The  people  have  their  aristocrats  just  as  the  upper 
classes  have  their  vulgarians.  The  aristocrats  are  those  creatures 
whose  instincts,  and  perhaps  whose  blood,  are  purer  than  those 
of  the  others:  those  who  know  and  are  conscious  of  what  they 


180  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

are,  and  must  be  true  to  themselves.  They  arc  in  the  minority: 
but,  even  when  they  are  forced  to  live  apart,  the  others  know 
that  they  are  the  salt  of  the  earth :  and  the  fact  of  their  ex- 
istence is  a  check  upon  the  others,  who  are  forced  to  model  them- 
selves upon  them,  or  to  pretend  to  do  so.  Every  province,  every 
village,  every  congregation  of  men,  is,  to  a  certain  degree, 
what  its  aristocrats  are :  and  public  opinion  varies  accordingly, 
and  is,  in  one  place,  severe,  in  another,  lax.  The  present  anarchy 
and  upheaval  of  the  majority  will  not  change  the  unvoiced 
power  of  the  minority.  It  is  more  dangerous  for  them  to  be 
uprooted  from  their  native  soil  and  scattered  far  and  wide  in 
the  great  cities.  But  even  so,  lost  amid  strange  surroundings, 
living  in  isolation,  yet  the  individualities  of  the  good  stock 
persist  and  never  mix  with  those  about  them. — Sidonie  knew 
nothing,  wished  to  know  nothing,  of  all  that  Christ ophe  had 
seen  in  Paris.  She  was  no  more  interested  in  the  sentimental 
and  unclean  literature  of  the  newspapers  than  in  the  political 
news.  She  did  not  even  know  that  there  Avere  Popular  Uni- 
versities: and,  if  she  had  kncnvn,  it  is  probable  that  she  Avould 
have  put  herself  out  as  little  to  go  to  them  as  she  did  to  hear 
a  sermon.  She  did  her  Avork,  and  thought  for  herself :  she  Avas 
not  concerned  Avith  Avhat  other  people  thought.  Christophe 
congratulated  her. 

"Why  is  that  surprising?"  she  asked.  "I  am  like  every- 
body else.  You  haven't  met  any  French  people." 

"I've  been  living  among  them  for  a  year,"  said  Christophe, 
"and  I  haven't  met  a  ?ingle  one  Avho  thought  of  anything  but 
amusing  himself  or  of  aping  those  who  amuse  him." 

"  That's  true,"  said  Sidonie.  "  You  have  only  seen  rich 
people.  The  rich  are  the  same  everywhere.  You've  seen 
nothing  at  all." 

"That's  true,"  said  Christophe.     "I'm  beginning." 

For  the  first  time  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  people  of 
France,  men  and  women  Avho  seem  to  be  built  for  eternity,  who 
are  one  with  the  earth,  AV!IO,  like  the  earth,  have  seen  so  many 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  181 

conquering  races,  so  many  masters  of  a  day,  pass  away,  while 
they  themselves  endure  and  do  not  pass. 

When  he  was  getting  better  and  was  allowed  to  get  up  for 
a  little,  the  first  thing  he  thought  of  was  to  pay  Sidonic  back 
for  the  expenses  she  had  incurred  during  his  illness.  It  was 
impossible  for  him  to  go  about  Paris  looking  for  work,  and  he 
had  to  bring  himself  to  write  to  Hecht :  he  asked  him  for  an 
advance  on  account  of  future  work.  With  his  amazing  com- 
bination of  indifference  and  kindliness  Hecht  made  him  wait  a 
fortnight  for  a  reply — a  fortnight  during  which  Christophe  tor- 
mented himself  and  practically  refused  to  touch  any  of  the  food 
Sidouie  brought  him,  and  would  only  accept  a  little  bread  and 
milk,  which  she  forced  him  to  take,  and  then  he  grumbled  and 
was  angry  with  himself  because  he  had  not  earned  it :  then, 
without  a  word,  Hecht  sent  him  the  sum  he  asked  :  and  not  once 
during  the  months  of  Christophe' s  illness  did  Hecht  make  any 
inquiry  after  him.  He  had  a  genius  for  making  himself  dis- 
liked even  when  he  was  doing  a  kindness.  Even  in  his  kind- 
ness Hecht  could  not  be  generous. 

Sidonie  came  every  day  in  the  afternoon  and  again  in  the 
evening.  She  cooked  Christophe's  dinner  for  him.  She  made 
no  noise,  but  went  quietly  about  her  business :  and  when  she 
saw  the  dilapidated  condition  of  his  clothes  she  took  them  away 
to  mend  them.  Insensibly  there  had  crept  an  element  of  af- 
fection into  their  relation.  Christophe  talked  at  length  about 
his  mother:  and  that  touched  Sidonie:  she  would  put  herself 
in  Louisa's  place,  alone  in  Germany:  and  she  had  a  maternal 
feeling  for  Christophe,  and  when  he  talked  to  her  he  tried  to 
trick  his  need  of  mothering  and  love,  from  which  a  man  suf- 
fers most  when  lie  is  weak  and  ill.  Me  felt  nearer  Louisa  with 
Sidonie  than  with  anybody  else.  Sometimes  lie  would  confide 
his  artistic  troubles  to  her.  She  would  pity  him  gently,  though 
she  seemed  to  regard  such  sorrows  of  the  intellect  ironically. 
That,  too,  reminded  him  of  his  mother  and  comforted  him. 

He  tried  to  <ret  her  to  confide  in  him :   hut  she  was  much 


182  JEAN-CHRLSTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

less  open  than  he.  He  asked  her  jokingly  why  she  did  not  get 
married.  And  she  would  reply  in  her  usual  tone  of  mocking 
resignation  that  "  it  was  not  allowed  for  servants  to  marry :  it 
complicates  things  too  much.  Besides,  she  was  sure  to  make  a 
bad  choice,  and  that  is  not  pleasant.  Men  are  sordid  creatures. 
They  come  courting  when  a  woman  has  money,  squeeze  it  out 
of  her,  and  then  leave  her  in  the  lurch.  She  had  seen  too  many 
cases  of  that  and  was  not  inclined  to  do  the  same."— She  did 
not  tell  him  of  her  own  unfortunate  experience :  her  future  hus- 
band had  left  her  when  lie  found  that  she  was  giving  all  her 
earnings  to  her  family. — Christophe  used  to  see  her  in  the  court- 
yard mothering  the  children  of  a  family  living  in  the  house. 
When  she  met  them  alone  on  the  stairs  she  would  sometimes  cm- 
brace  them  passionately.  Christophe  would  fancy  her  occupy- 
ing the  place  of  a  lady  of  his  acquaintance:  she  was  not  a  fool, 
and  she  was  no  plainer  than  many  another  woman :  he  declared 
that  in  the  lady's  place  she  would  have  been  the  better  woman  of 
the  two.  There  are  so  many  splendid  lives  hidden  in  the  world. 
unknown  and  unsuspected!  And,  on  the  other  hand,  the  hosts 
of  the  living  dead,  who  encumber  the  earth,  and  take  up  the 
room  and  the  happiness  of  others  in  the  light  of  the  sun!  .  .  . 

Christophe  had  no  ulterior  thought.  He  was  fond,  too  fond 
of  her :  he  let  her  coddle  him  like  a  child. 

Some  days  Sidonie  would  be  queer  and  depressed:  hut  he  at- 
tributed that  to  her  work.  Once  when  they  were  talking  she 
got  up  suddenly  and  left  him,  making  some  excuse  about  her 
work.  Finally,  after  a  day  when  Christophe  had  been  more 
confidential  than  usual,  she  broke  off  her  visits  for  a  time:  and 
when  she  came  back  she  would  only  talk  to  him  constrainedly. 
He  wondered  what  he  could  have  done  to  oll'end  her.  He  asked 
her.  She  replied  quickly  that  he  had  not  oll'ended  her:  but  she 
stayed  away  again.  A  few  days  later  she  told  him  that  she  was 
going  away:  she  had  given  up  her  situation  and  was  leaving 
the  house.  Coldly  and  reservedly  she  thanked  him  for  all  his 
kindness,  told  him  she  hoped  he  would  soon  recover,  and  that  his 
mother  would  remain  in  good  health,  and  then  she  said  good-by, 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  183 

He  was  so  astonished  at  her  abrupt  departure  that  he  did  not 
know  what  to  say :  he  tried  to  discover  her  reasons :  she  replied 
evasively.  He  asked  her  where  she  was  going :  she  did  not  reply, 
and,  to  cut  short  his  questions,  she  got  up  to  go.  As  she  reached 
the  door  he  held  out  his  hand:  she  grasped  it  warmly:  but  her 
face  did  not  betray  her,  and  to  the  end  she  maintained  her  stiff, 
cold  manner.  She  went  away. 
He  never  understood  why. 

He  dragged  through  the  winter — a  wet,  misty,  muddy  winter. 
Weeks  on  end  without  sun.  Although  Christophe  was  better 
he  was  by  no  means  recovered.  He  still  had  a  little  pain  in  his 
lungs,  a  lesion  which  healed  slowly,  and  fits  of  coughing  which 
kept  him  from  sleeping  at  night.  The  doctor  had  forbidden  him 
to  go  out.  He  might  just  as  well  have  ordered  him  to  go  to  the 
Riviera  or  the  Canary  Islands.  He  had  to  go  out!  If  he  did 
not  go  out  to  look  for  his  dinner,  his  dinner  would  certainly 
not  come  to  look  for  him. — And  he  was  ordered  medicines  which 
he  could  not  afford.  And  so  he  gave  up  consulting  doctors :  it 
was  a  waste  of  money :  and  besides  he  was  always  ill  at  ease  with 
them:  they  could  not  understand  each  other:  they  lived  in 
separate  worlds.  They  had  an  ironical  and  rather  contemptu- 
ous pity  for  the  poor  devil  of  an  artist  who  claimed  to  be  a 
world  to  himself,  and  was  swept  along  like  a  straw  by  the  river 
of  life.  He  was  humiliated  by  being  examined,  and  prodded, 
and  handled  by  these  men.  He  was  ashamed  of  his  sick  body, 
and  thought : 

"How' glad  I  shall  be  when  it  is  dead !  *' 

In  spite  of  loneliness,  illness,  poverty,  and  so  many  other 
causes  of  suffering,  Christophe  bore  his  lot  patientlv.  He  had 
never  been  so  patient,  lie  was  surprised  at  himself.  Illness  is 
often  a  blessing.  ]>y  ravaging  the  body  it  frees  the  soul  and 
purities  it:  during  the  nights  and  davs  of  forced  inaction 
thoughts  arise  which  are  fearful  of  the  raw  light  of  dav,  and  are 
scorched  by  the  sun  of  health.  No  man  who  has  never  been  ill 
can  have  a  thorough  knowledge  of  himself. 


184  JEAN-CHBISTOPHE  IN  PARTS 

His  illness  had,  in  a  queer  way,  soothed  Christophe.  It  had 
purged  him  of  the  coarser  elements  of  his  nature.  Through 
his  most  subtle  nerves  lie  felt  the  world  of  mysterious  forces 
which  dwrell  in  each  of  us,  though  the  tumult  of  life  prevents 
our  hearing  them.  Since  his  visit  to  the  Louvre,  in  his  hours 
of  fever,  the  smallest  memories  of  which  were  graven  upon  his 
mind,  he  had  lived  in  an  atmosphere  like  that  of  the  Rem- 
brandt picture,  warm,  soft,  profound.  He  too  felt  in  his  heart 
the  magic  beams  of  an  invisible  sun.  And  although  he  did  not 
believe,  he  knew  that  he  was  not  alone:  a  God  was  holding  him 
by  the  hand,  and  leading  him  to  the  predestined  goal  of  his  en- 
deavors. He  trusted  in  Him  like  a  little  child. 

For  the  first  time  for  years  he  felt  that  he  must  rest.  The 
lassitude  of  his  convalescence  was  in  itself  a  rest  for  him  after 
the  extraordinary  tension  of  mind  that  had  gone  before  his  ill- 
ness and  had  left  him  still  exhausted.  Christophe,  who  for 
many  months  had  been  continually  on  the  alert  and  strained, 
upon  his  guard,  felt  the  fixity  of  his  gaze  slowly  relax.  He  was 
not  less  strong  for  it :  he  was  more  human.  The  great  though 
rather  monstrous  quality  of  life  of  the  man  of  genius  had  passed 
into  the  background:  he  found  himself  a  man  like  the  rest. 
purged  of  the  fanaticism  of  his  mind,  and  all  the  hardness  and 
mercilessness  of  his  actions.  He  hated  nothing:  he  gave  no 
thought  to  things  that  exasperated  him,  or,  if  he  did,  lie 
shrugged  them  off:  he  thought  less  of  his  own  troubles  and 
more  of  the  troubles  of  others.  Since  Sidonie  had  reminded 
him  of  the  silent  suffering  of  the  lowly,  lighting  on  without 
complaint,  all  over  the  world,  he  forgot  himself  in  them.  He 
who  was  not  usually  sentimental  now  bad  periods  of  that  mystic 
tenderness  which  is  the  flower  of  weakness  and  sickness.  In 
the  evening,  as  he  sat  with  his  elbows  on  the  window-sill,  gazing 
down  into  the  courtyard  and  listening  to  all  the  mysterious 
noises  of  the  night.  ...  a  voice  singing  in  a  house  near  by, 
made  moving  by  the  distance,  or  a  little  girl  artlessly  strum- 
ming Mozart.  .  .  .  he  thought: 

"  All  you  whom  I  love  though  1  know  you  not !     You  whom 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  185 

life  has  not  sullied ;  you,  who  dream  of  great  things,  that  you 
know  to  be  impossible,  while  you  fight  for  them  against  the  en- 
vious world, — may  you  be  happy — it  is  so  good  to  be  happy ! 
.  .  .  Oh,  my  friends,  I  know  that  you  are  there,  and  I 
hold  my  arms  out  to  you.  .  .  .  There  is  a  wall  between  us. 
Stone  by  stone  I  am  breaking  it  down,  but  1  am  myself 
broken  in  the  labor  of  it.  Shall  we  ever  be  together?  Shall 
I  reach  you  before  another  wall  is  raised  up  between  us :  the 
wall  of  death?  .  .  .  No  matter!  Though  all  my  life  I  am 
alone,  so  only  I  may  work  for  you,  do  you  good,  and  you 
may  love  me  a  little,  later  on,,  when  I  am  dead!  .  .  ." 

So  the  convalescent  Christophe  was  nursed  by  those  two 
good  foster-mothers  "  Licbe  und  Noth  "  (Love  and  Poverty). 

While  his  will  was  thus  in  abeyance  Christophe  felt  a  long- 
ing to  be  with  people.  And,  although  he  was  still  very  weak, 
and  it  was  a  very  foolish  thing  to  do,  he  used  to  go  out  early  in 
the  morning  when  the  stream  of  people  poured  out  of  the  resi- 
dential streets  on  their  way  to  their  work,  or  in  the  evening, 
when  they  were  returning.  His  desire  was  to  plunge  into  the 
refreshing  bath  of  human  sympathy.  Xot  that  he  spoke  to  a 
soul.  He  did  not  even  try  to  do  so.  It  was  enough  for  him  to 
watch  the  people  pass,  and  guess  what  they  were,  and  love  them. 
With  fond  pity  he  used  to  watch  the  workers  hurrying  along, 
all,  as  it  were,  already  worn  out  by  the  business  of  tbe  day, 
— young  men  and  girls,  with  pale  faces,  worn  expressions,  and 
strange  smiles, — thin,  eager  faces  beneath  which  there  passed 
desires  and  anxieties,  all  with  a  changing  irony, — all  so  in- 
telligent, too  intelligent,  a  little  morbid,  the  dwellers  in  a  great 
city.  They  all  hurried  along,  the  men  reading  the  papers,  the 
women  nibbling  and  munching.  Christophe  would  have  given 
a  month  of  his  life  to  let  one  poor  girl,  whose  eyes  were  swol- 
len with  sleep,  who  passed  near  him  with  a  little  nervous, 
mincing  walk,  sleep  on  for  a  few  hours  more.  Oh!  how  she 
would  have  jumped  at  it,  if  she  had  been  offered  the  chance! 


18G  JEAN-CHPJSTOPHE  IN  PAEIS 

He  would  have  loved  to  pluck  all  the  idle  rich  people  out  of 
their  rooms,  hermetically  sealed  at  that  hour,  where  they  were 
so  ungratefully  lying  at  their  ease,  and  replace  them  in  their 
beds,  in  their  comfortable>  existence,  with  all  these  eager,  weary 
bodies,  these  fresh  souls,  not  abounding  with  life,  but  alive  and 
greedy  of  life.  In  that  hour  he  was  full  of  kindness  towards 
them:  and  he  smiled  at  their  alert,  thin  little  faces,  in  which 
there  were  cunning  and  ingenuousness,  a  bold  and  simple  desire 
for  pleasure,  and,  behind  all,  honest  little  souls,  true  and  in- 
dustrious. And  he  was  not  hurt  when  some  of  the  girls  laughed 
in  his  face,  or  nudged  each  other  to  point  out  the  strange 
young  man  staring  at  them  so  hard. 

And  he  would  lounge  about  the  riverside,  lost  in  dreams. 
That  was  his  favorite  walk.  ]t  did  a  little  satisfy  his  longing 
for  the  great  river  that  had  sung  the  lullaby  of  his  childhood. 
Ah!  it  was  not  Vater  Rliein!  It  had  none  of  his  all-puissant 
might:  none  of  the  wide  horizons,  vast  plains  over  which  the 
mind  soars  and  is  lost.  A  river  with  gray  eyes,  gowned  in 
pale  green,  with  finely  drawn,  correct  features,  a  graceful 
river,  with  supple  movements,  wearing  with  sparkling  non- 
chalance the  sumptuous  and  sober  garb  of  her  city,  the  brace- 
lets of  its  bridges,  the  necklets  of  its  monuments,  and  smiling 
at  her  own  prettiness,  like  a  lovely  woman  strolling  through 
the  town.  .  .  .  The  delicious  light  of  Paris!  That  was 
the  first  thing  that  Ohristophc  had  loved  in  the  city:  it  filled 
his  being  sweetly,  sweetly:  and  imperceptibly,  slowly,  it  changed 
his  heart.  It  was  to  him  the  most  lovely  music,  the  only 
music  in  Paris.  He  would  spend  hours  in  the  evening  walk- 
ing by  the  river,  or  in  the  gardens  of  old  Prance,  tasting  the 
harmonies  of  the  light  of  day  touching  the  fall  trees  bathed  in 
purple  mist,  the  gray  statues  and  ruins,  the  worn  stones  of 
the  royal  monuments  which  had  absorbed  the  light  of  cen- 
turies,—that  smooth  atmosphere,  made  of  pale  sunshine  and 
milky  vapor,  in  which,  on  a  cloud  of  silvery  dust,  there  floats 
the  laughing  spirit  of  the  race. 

One  evening  he  was  leaning  over  the  parapet  near  the  Saint- 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  187 

Michel  Bridge,  and  looking  at  the  water  and  absently  turning 
over  the  books  in  one  of  the  little  boxes.  He  chanced  upon 
a  battered  old  volume  of  Michelet  and  opened  it  at  random. 
He  had  already  read  a  certain  amount  of  that  historian,  and 
had  been  put  off  by  his  Gallic  boasting,  his  trick  of  making 
himself  drunk  with  words,  and  his  halting  style.  But  that 
evening  he  was  held  from  the  very  first  words:  he  had  lighted 
on  the  trial  of  Joan  of  Arc.  He  knew  the  Maid  of  Orleans 
through  Schiller:  but  hitherto  she  bad  only  been  a  romantic 
heroine  who  had  been  endowed  with  an  imaginary  life  by  a 
great  poet.  Suddenly  the  reality  was  presented  to  him  and 
gripped  his  attention.  He  read  on  and  on,  his  heart  aching 
for  the  tragic  horror  of  the  glorious  story:  and  when  he  came 
to  the  moment  when  Joan  learns  that  she  is  to  die  that  evening 
and  faints  from  fear,  his  hands  began  to  tremble,  tears  came 
into  bis  eyes,  and  he  had  to  stop.  Tie  was  weak  from  bis  ill- 
ness: he  had  become  absurdly  sensitive,  and  was  himself  ex- 
asperated by  it. — When  he  turned  once  more  to  the  book  it  was 
late  and  the  bookseller  was  shutting  up  his  boxes,  lie  de- 
cided to  buy  the  book  and  hunted  through  bis  pockets:  ]\e  bad 
exactly  six  sous.  Such  scantiness  was  not  rare  and  did  not 
bother  him  :  he  bad  paid  for  bis  dinner,  and  counted  on  getting 
some  money  out  of  Hecht  next  day  for  some  copying  be  had 
done.  But  it  was  hard  to  have  to  wait  a  day!  Why  had  be 
spent  all  he  had  on  his  dinner?  Ah!  if  only  he  could  offer 
the  bookseller  the  bread  and  sausages  that  were  in  his  pockets, 
in  payment ! 

Xext  morning,  very  early,  ho  went  to  lleeht's  to  get  his 
money:  hut  as  he  was  passing  the  bridge  which  hears  the 
name  of  the  archangel  of  battle — ''flic  brother  in  Paradise"  of 
Joan  of  Arc — he  could  not  help  stopping.  He  found  the 
precious  hook  once  more  in  the  bookseller's  box.  and  read 
it  right  through:  he  staved  reading  it  for  nearlv  two  hours 
and  missed  his  appointment  with  Hecht:  and  he  wasted  the 
whole  day  wailing  to  see  him.  At  last  he  managed  to  p>f  bis 
new  commission  and  the  monev  for  the  old.  At  once  he  rushed 


188  JEAN-CHBISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

back  to  buy  the  book,  although  he  had  read  it.  He  was  afraid 
it  might  have  been  sold  to  another  purchaser,  Xo  doubt  that 
would  not  have  mattered  much :  it  was  quite  easy  to  get  another 
copy :  but  Christophe  did  not  know  whether  the  book  was  rare 
or  not:  and  besides,  he  wanted  that  particular  book  and  no  other. 
Those  who  love  books  easily  become  fetish  worshipers.  The 
pages  from  which  the  well  of  dreams  springs  forth  are  sacred 
to  them,  even  when  they  are  dirty  arid  spotted. 

In  the  silence  of  the  night,  in  his  room,  Christophe  read 
once  more  the  Gospel  of  the  Passion  of  Joan  of  Arc :  and 
now  there  was  nothing  to  make  him  restrain  his  emotion.  He 
was  filled  with  tenderness,  pity,  infinite  sorrow  for  the  poor 
little  shepherdess  in  her  coarse  peasant  clothes,  tall,  shy,  soft- 
voiced,  dreaming  to  the  sound  of  bells — (she  loved  them  as  he 
did) — with  her  lovely  smile,  full  of  understanding  and  kind- 
ness, and  her  tears,  that  flowed  so  readily — tears  of  love,  tears 
of  pity,  tears  of  weakness :  for  she  was  at  once  so  manlike  and 
so  much  a  woman,  the  pure  and  valiant  girl,  \vho  tamed  the 
savage  lusts  of  an  army  of  bandits,  and  calmly,  with  her  in- 
trepid sound  good  sense,  her  woman's  subtlety,  and  her  gentle 
persistency,  alone,  betrayed  on  all  hands,  for  months  together 
foiled  the  threats  and  hypocritical  tricks  of  a  gang  of  church- 
men and  lawyers, — wolves  and  foxes  with  bloody  eyes  and  fangs 
— who  closed  a  ring  about  her. 

What  touched  Christophe  most  nearly  was  her  kindness, 
her  tenderness  of  heart, — weeping  after  her  victories,  weeping 
over  her  dead  enemies,  over  those  who  had  insulted  her,  giving 
them  consolation  when  they  were  wounded,  aiding  them  in 
death,  knowing  no  bitterness  against  those  who  sold  her,  and 
even  at  the  stake,  when  the  flames  roared  about  her,  thinking 
not  of  herself,  thinking  only  of  the  monk  who  exorcised  her, 
and  compelling  him  to  depart.  She  was  "gentle  in  the  most 
bitter  fight,  good  even  amongst  the  most  evil,  peaceful  even 
in  war.  Into  war,  the  triumph  of  Satan,  she  brought  the  very 
Spirit  of  God." 

And  Christophe,  thinking  of  himself,  said: 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  189 

"And  into  my  fight  I  have  not  brought  ei^nofe  of  the  Spirit 
of  God." 

He  read  the  fine  words  of  the  evangelist  of  Joan  of  ?\.rc : 

"  Be  kind,  and  seek  always  to  be  kinder,  amid  all  the  in- 
justice of  men  and  the  hardships  of  Fate.  ...  Be  gentle 
and  of  a  good  countenance  even  in  bitter  quarrels,  win  through 
experience,  and  never  let  it  harm  that  inward  treasure.  .  .  .'"' 

And  he  .said  within  himself : 

"  I  have  sinned.  I  have  not  been  kind.  I  have  not  shown 
good-will  towards  men.  I  have  been  too  hard. — Forgive  me. 
Do  not  think  me  your  enemy,  you  against  whom  I  wage  war! 
For  you  too  I  seek  to  do  good.  .  .  .  But  you  must  be  kept 
from  doing  evil.  ..." 

And,  as  he  was  no  saint,  the  thought  of  them  was  enough 
to  kindle  his  anger  again.  What  he  could  least  forgive  them 
was  that  when  he  saw  them,  and  saw  France,  through  them, 
he  found  it  impossible  to  conceive  such  a  flower  of  purity 
and  poetic  heroism  ever  springing  from  such  a  soil.  And  yet 
it  was  so.  Who  could  say  that  such  a  flower  would  not 
spring  from  it  a  second  time?  The  France  of  to-day  could  not 
be  worse  than  that  of  Charles  YIT.  the  debauched  and  pros- 
tituted nation  from  which  the  Maid  sprang.  The  temple  was 
empty,  fouled,  half  in  ruins.  Xo  matter!  Cod  had  spoken 
in  it. 

Christophe  was  seeking  a  Frenchman  whom  he  could  love 
for  the  love  of  France. 

It  was  about  the  end  of  March.  For  months  Christophe 
had  not  spoken  to  a  soul  nor  had  a  single  letter,  except  everv 
now  and  then  a  few  lines  from  his  mother,  who  did  not  know 
that  he  was  ill  and  did  not  tell  him  that  she  herself  was  ill. 
His  relation  with  the  outside  world  was  confined  to  his  journeys 
to  the  music  shop  to  take  or  bring  away  his  work.  lie  ar- 
ranged to  go  there  at  times  when  he  knew  thnt  Hecht  would 
be  out — to  avoid  having  to  talk  to  him.  The  precaution  was 
superfluous,  for  the  only  time  he  met  Ilecht.  be  hardly  did 
more  than  ask  him  a  few  indifferent  questions  about  his  health. 


190  JEAX-CTIRISTOPHE  TV  PARIS 

He  was  imaiboed  in  a  prison  of  silence  when,  one  morning, 
he  received  an  invitation  from  Madame  Roussin  to  a  musical 
soiree:  •'/"  famous  quartet  was  to  play.  The  letter  was  very  friendly 
in  tone,  and  Houssin  had  added  a  few  cordial  lines.  He  was 
not  very  proud  of  his  quarrel  with  Christopher  the  less  so  as 
he  had  since  quarreled  with  the  singer  and  now  condemned  her 
in  no  sparing  terms,  lie  was  a  good  fellow:  he  never  bore 
those  whom  he  had  wronged  any  grudge.  And  he  would  have 
thought  it  preposterous  for  any  of  his  victims  to  be  more  thin- 
skinned  than  himself.  And  so,  when  he  had  the  pleasure  of  see- 
ing them  again,  he  never  hesitated  about  holding  out  his  hand. 

Christophe's  first  impulse  was  to  shrug  his  shoulders  and 
vow  that  he  would  not  go.  But  he  wavered  as  the  day  of  the 
concert  came  nearer.  He  was  stifling  from  never  hearing  a 
human  voice  or  a  note  of  music.  But  lie  vowed  again  that  he 
would  never  set  foot  inside  the  Houssins'  house.  But  when  the 
day  came  he  went,  raging  against  his  own  cowardice. 

He  was  ill  rewarded.  Hardly  did  he  tind  himself  once  more 
in  the  gathering  of  politicians  and  snobs  than  he  was  tilled 
with  an  aversion  for  them  more  violent  than  ever:  for  during 
his  months  of  solitude  he  had  lost  the  trick  of  such  people. 
It  was  impossible  to  hear  the  music:  it  was  a  profanation:  Chris- 
tophe  made  up  his  mind  to  go  as  soon  as  the  first  piece  was 
over. 

He  glanced  round  among  the  faces  of  those  people  who  were 
even  physically  so  antipathetic  to  him.  At  the  other  end  of 
the  room  lie  saw  a  face,  the  face  of  a  young  man,  looking  at 
him,  and  then  he  turned  awav  at  once.  There  was  in  the  face 
a  strange  quality  of  candor  which  among  such  bored,  indif- 
ferent people  was  most  striking.  The  eves  were  timid,  but 
clear  and  direct.  French  eyes,  which,  once  they  marked  a 
man.  went  on  looking  at  him  with  absolute  truth,  hiding 
nothing  of  the  soul  behind  them,  missing  nothing  of  the  soul 
of  the  man  at  whom  they  gazed.  They  were  familiar  to  Chi'is- 
tophe.  And  yet  he  did  not  know  the  face.  \\  was  that  of  a 
young  man  between  twenty  and  twenty-five,  short,  slightly 


THE  MAEKET-PLACE  191 

stooping,  delicate-looking,  beardless,  and  melancholy,  with  chest- 
nut hair,  irregular  features,  though  fine,  a  certain  Crookedness 
which  gave  it  an  expression  not  so  much  of  uneasiness  as  of 
bashfulness,  which  was  not  without  charm,  and  seemed  to  con- 
tradict the  tranquillity  of  the  eyes.  He  was  standing  in  an  open 
door:  and  nobody  was  paying  any  attention  to  him.  Once  more 
Christophe  looked  at  him :  and  once  more  he  met  his  eyes, 
which  turned  away  timidly  with  a  delightful  awkwardness: 
once  more  he  "  recognized  "  them  :  it  seemed  to  him  that  he 
had  seen  them  in  another  face. 

Christophe,  as  usual,  was  incapable  of  concealing  what  he 
felt,  and  moved  towards  the  young  man:  but  as  he  made  his 
way  he  wondered  what  he  should  say  to  him  :  and  he  hesitated 
and  stood  still  looking  to  right  and  left,  as  though  he  were 
moving  without  any  fixed  object.  But  the  young  man  was  not 
taken  in,  and  saw  that  Christophe  was  moving  towards  him- 
self: he  was  so  nervous  at  the  thought  of  speaking  to  him 
that  he  tried  to  slip  into  the  next  room  :  but  lie  was  glued  to 
his  place  by  his  very  bashfulness.  So  they  came  face  to  face. 
It  was  some  moments  before  they  could  find  anything  to  say. 
And  as  they  went  on  standing  like  that  each  thought  the  other 
must  think  him  absurd.  At  last  Christophe  looked  straight 
at  the  young  man,  and  said  with  a  smile,  in  a  gruff  voice: 

"You're  not  a  Parisian?" 

In  spite  of  his  embarrassment  the  young  man  smiled  at  this 
unexpected  question,  and  replied  in  the  negative.  His  light 
voice,  with  its  hint  of  a  musical  quality,  was  like  some  delicate 
instrument. 

"  I  thought  not,"  said  Christophe.  And.  as  he  saw  that  he 
was  a  little  confused  by  the  singular  remark,  he  added: 

"It  is  no  reproach." 

But  the  young  man's  embarrassment  was  only  in- 
creased. 

There  was  another  silence.  The  young  man  made  an  effort 
to  speak:  his  lips  trembled:  it  seemed  that  he  had  a  sentence 
on  the  tip  of  his  tongue,  but  he  could  not  bring  himself  to 


193  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARTS 

speak  it.  Christophe  eagerly  studied  his  mobile  face,  the 
muscles  of  which  he  could  see  twitching  under  the  clear  skin: 
he  did  not  seem  to  be  of  the  same  clay  as  the  people  all  about 
him  in  the  room,  with  their  heavy,  coarse  faces,  which  were  only 
a  continuation  of  their  necks,  part  and  parcel  of  their  bodies. 
In  the  young  man's  face  the  soul  shone  forth :  in  every  part  of  it 
there  was  a  spiritual  life. 

He  could  not  bring  himself  to  speak.  Christophe  went  on 
genially: 

"What  arc  you  doing  among  all  these  people?" 

He  spoke  out  loud  with  that  strange  freedom  of  manner 
which  made  him  hated.  His  friend  blushed  and  could  not 
help  looking  round  to  see  if  he  had  been  heard :  and  Chris- 
tophe  disliked  the  movement.  Then,  instead  of  answering, 
he  asked  with  a  shy,  sweet  smile: 

"  And  you  ?  " 

Christophe  began  to  laugh  as  usual,  rather  loudly. 

"  Yes.     And  I,"  he  said  delightedly. 

The  young  man  at  last  summoned  up  his  courage. 

"  I  love  your  music  so  much !  "  he  said,  in  a  choking  voice. 

Then  he  stopped  and  tried  once  move,  vainly,  to  get  the 
better  of  his  shyness.  He  was  blushing,  and  knew  it:  and  he 
blushed  the  more,  up  to  his  temples  and  round  to  his  ears. 
Christophe  looked  at  him  with  a  smile,  and  longed  to  take  him 
in  his  arms.  The  young  man  looked  at  him  timidly. 

"  No,"  he  said.  "  Of  course,  I  can't  ...  I  can't  talk  about 
that  .  .  .  not  here.  ..." 

Christophe  took  his  hand  with  a  grin.  He  felt  the  stranger's 
thin  fingers  tremble  in  his  great  paw  and  press  it  with  an  in- 
voluntary tenderness:  and  the  young  man  felt  Christophe's  paw 
affectionately  crush  his  hand.  They  ceased  to  hear  the  chatter 
of  the  people  round  them.  They  were  alone  together  and  they 
knew  that  they  were  friends. 

It  was  only  for  a  second,  for  then  Madame  Roussin  touched 
Christophe  on  the  arm  with  her  fan  and  said: 

"I  see  that  you  have  introduced  yourselves  and  don't  need 


THE  MARKET-PLACE  193 

me   to   do   so.     The   boy   came   on   purpose   to    meet   you    this 
evening." 

Then,  rather  awkwardly,  they  parted. 

Christophe  asked  Madame  Roussin : 

"Who  is  he?" 

"What?"  said  she.  "You  don't  know  him?  He  is  a  young 
poet  and  writes  very  prettily.  One  of  your  admirers.  He  is  a 
good  musician  and  plays  the  piano  quite  nicely.  It  is  no  good 
discussing  you  in  his  presence:  he  is  mad  about  you.  The 
other  day  he  all  but  came  to  blows  about  you  with  Lucien  Levy- 
Cceur." 

"Oh!     Bless  him  for  that!"  said   Christophe. 

"  Yes,  1  know  you  are  unjust  to  poor  Lucien.  And  yet  he 
too  loves  your  work." 

"  Ah  !  don't  toll  me  that !     I  should  hate  myself." 

"  It  is  so,  I  assure  you." 

"Xever!  never!     1  will  not  have  it.     I  forbid  him  to  do  so." 

"Just  what  your  admirer  said.  You  are  both  mad.  Lucien 
was  just  explaining  one  of  your  compositions  to  us.  The  shy 
boy  you  met  just  now  got  up,  trembling  with  anger,  and  for- 
bade him  to  mention  your  name.  Think  of  it  !  .  .  .  For- 
tunately I  was  there.  I  laughed  it  on":  Lucien  did  the  .- 
and  the  boy  was  utterly  confused  and  relapsed  into  silence 
in  the  end  he  apologized." 

"  Poor  boy!  "  said  Christophe. 

He  was  touched  bv  it. 

"Where  did  he  go?"  he  asked,  without  listening  to  Madame 
Roussin,  who  had  already  begun  to  talk  about  something  else. 

He  went  to  look  for  him.  P>ut  his  unknown  friend  had  dis- 
appeared. Christophe  returned  to  Madame  Roussin: 

"Tell  me,  what  is  his  name?" 

"Who?"  she  asked. 

"  The  boy  you  were  talking  about  just   now." 

"'Your  young  poet?"  she  said.  "His  name  is  Olivier 
Jeannin." 

The    name    rang    in    Christophe's    ears    like    some    familiar 


194  JEAX-CHRISTOPHE  IX  PARIS 

melody.  The  shadowy  figure  of  a  girl  floated  for  a  moment 
before  his  eyes.  But  the  new  image,  the  image  of  his  friend 
blotted  it  out  at  once. 

Christophe  wrent  home.  He  strode  through  the  streets  of 
Paris  mingling  with  the  throng.  He  saw  nothing,  heard 
nothing;  he  was  insensible  to  everything  about  him.  He  was 
like  a  lake  cut  off  from  the  rest  of  the  world  by  a  ring  of 
mountains.  Xot  a  breath  stirred,  not  a  sound  was  heard,  all 
was  still.  Peace.  He  said  to  himself  over  and  over  again: 

"  I  have  a  friend." 


ANTOINETTE 


THE  Jeannins  wore  one  of  those  old  French  families  who 
have  remained  stationary  for  centuries  in  the  same  little  cor- 
ner of  a  province,  and  have  kept  themselves  pure  from  any  in- 
fusion of  foreign  blood.  There  are  more  of  them  than  one 
would  think  in  France,  in  spite  of  all  the  changes  in  the  social 
order:  it  would  need  a  great  upheaval  to  uproot  them  from  the 
soil  to  which  they  are  held  by  so  many  ties,  the  profound 
nature  of  which  is  unknown  to  them.  Kcason  counts  for 
nothing  in  their  devotion  to  the  soil,  and  interest  for  very 
little:  and  as  for  sentimental  historic  memories,  they  only  hold 
good  for  a  few  literary  men.  What  does  bind  them  irresistibly 
is  the  obscure  though  very  strong  feeling,  common  to  the  dull 
and  the  intelligent  alike,  of  having  been  for  centuries  past  a 
parcel  of  the  land,  of  living  in  its  life,  breathing  the  same  air, 
hearing  the  heart  of  it  beating  against  their  own,  like  the  heart 
of  the  beloved,  feeling  its  slightest  tremor,  the  changing  hours 
and  seasons  and  days,  bright  or  dull,  and  hearing  the  voices  and 
the  silence  of  all  things  in  Nature.  It  is  not  always  the  most 
beautiful  country,  nor  that  which  has  the  greatest  charm  of  life. 
that  most  strongly  grips  the  affections,  but  rather  it  is  the 
region  where  the  earth  seems  simplest  and  most  humble,  nearest 
man.  speaking  to  him  in  a  familiar  friendly  tongue. 

Such  was  the  country  in  the  center  of  France  where  the 
Jeannins  lived.  A  flat,  damp  country,  an  old  sleepy  little  town, 
wearily  gazing  at  its  reflection  in  the  dull  waters  of  a  still 
canal  :  round  about  it  were  monotonous  fields,  plowed  fields. 
meadows,  little  rivers,  woods,  and  again  monotonous  fields.  .  .  . 
No  scenery,  no  monuments,  no  memories.  Nothing  attractive. 
It  is  all  dull  and  oppressive.  In  its  drowsv  torpor  is  a  hidden 

197 


198  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARTS 

force?.  The  soul  tasting  it  for  the  first  time  suffers  and  revolts 
against  it.  But  those  who  have  lived  with  it  for  generations 
cannot  break  free:  it  eats  into  their  very  bones:  and  the  still- 
ness of  it,  the  harmonious  dullness,  the  monotony,  have  a  charm 
for  them  and  a  sweet  savor  which  they  cannot  analyze,  which 
they  malign,  love,  and  can  never  forget. 

The  Jeannins  had  always  lived  there.  The  family  could 
be  traced  back  to  the  sixteenth  century,  living  in  the  town  or 
its  neighborhood :  for  of  course  they  had  a  great-uncle  who  had 
devoted  his  life  to  drawing  up  the  genealogical  tree  of  their 
obscure  line  of  humble,  industrious  people :  peasants,  farmers, 
artisans,  then  clerks,  country  notaries,  working  in  the  sub- 
prefecture  of  the  district,  where  Augustus  Jeannin.  the  father 
of  the  present  head  of  the  house,  had  successfully  established 
himself  as  a  banker:  he  was  a  clever  man,  with  a  peasant's  cun- 
ning and  obstinacy,  but  honest  as  men  go,  not  over-scrupulous, 
a  great  worker,  and  a  good  liver:  he  had  made  himself  respected 
and  feared  everywhere  by  his  genial  malice,  his  bluntness  of 
speech,  and  his  wealth.  Short,  thick-set,  vigorous,  with  little 
sharp  eyes  set  in  a  big  red  face,  pitted  with  smallpox,  he  had 
been  known  as  a  petticoat-hunter :  and  he  had  not  altogether 
lost  his  taste  for  it.  lie  loved  a  spicy  yarn  and  good  eating. 
It  was  a  sight  to  see  him  at  meals,  with  his  son  Antoine  sitting 
opposite  him,  with  a  few  old  friends  of  their  kidney:  the  district 
judge,  the  notary,  the  Archdeacon  of  the  Cathedral: — (old 
Jeannin  loved  stuffing  the  priest:  but  also  he  could  stull'  with 
the  priest,  if  the  priest  were  good  at  it)  : — hearty  old  fellows 
built  on  the  same  Rabelaisian  lines.  There  was  a  running  lire 
of  terrific  stories  to  the  accompaniment  of  thumps  on  the  table 
and  roars  of  laughter,  and  the  row  they  made  could  be  heard 
by  the  servants  in  the  kitchen  and  the  neighbors  in  the  street. 

Then  old  Augustus  caught  a  chill,  which  turned  to  pneu- 
monia, through  going  down  into  his  cellars  one  hot  sum  HUT'S 
day  in  his  shirt-sleeves  to  bottle  his  wine.  In  less  than  twenty- 
four  hours  he  had  departed  this  life  for  the  next  world,  in 


ANTOINETTE  199 

which  he  hardly  believed,  properly  equipped  with  all  the  Sacra- 
ments of  the  Church,  having,  like  a  good  Voltairian  provincial, 
submitted  to  it  at  the  last  moment  in  order  to  pacify  his  women, 
and  also  because  it  did  not  matter  one  way  or  the  other.  .  .  . 
And  then,  one  never  knows.  .  .  . 

His  son  Antoine  succeeded  him  in  business.  He  was  a  fat 
little  man,  rubicund  and  expansive,  clean-shaven,  except  for 
his  mutton-chop  whiskers,  and  he  spoke  quickly  and  with  a 
slight  stutter,  in  a  loud  voice,  accompanying  his  remarks  with 
little  quick,  curt  gestures.  He  had  not  his  father's  grasp  of 
finance :  but  he  was  quite  a  good  manager.  He  had  only  to 
look  after  the  established  undertakings,  which  went  on  de- 
veloping day  by  day,  by  the  mere  fact  of  their  existence.  He 
had  the  advantage  of  a  business  reputation  in  the  district,  al- 
though he  had  very  little  to  do  with  the  success  of  the  firm's 
ventures.  He  only  contributed  method  and  industry. '  For  the 
rest  he  was  absolutely  honorable,  and  was  everywhere  deservedly 
esteemed.  His  pleasant  unctuous  manners,  though  perhaps  a 
little  too  familiar  for  some  people,  a  little  too  expansive,  and 
just  a  little  common,  had  won  him  a  very  genuine  popularity  in 
the  little  town  and  the  surrounding  country.  lie  was  more 
lavish  with  his  sympathy  than  with  his  money:  tears  came  read- 
ily to  his  eyes:  and  the  sight  of  poverty  so  sincerely  moved  him 
that  the  victim  of  it  could  not  fail  to  be  touched  by  it. 

Like  most  men  living  in  small  towns,  his  thoughts  were 
much  occupied  with  politics.  He  was  an  ardent  moderate  He- 
publican,  an  intolerant  Liberal,  a  patriot,  and,  like  his  father, 
extremely  anti-clerical.  He  was  a  member  of  the  Municipal 
Council:  and.  like  the  rest  of  his  colleagues,  he  delighted  in 
playing  tricks  on  the  cure  of  the  parish,  or  on  the  Lent  preacher, 
who  roused  so  much  enthusiasm  in  the  ladies  of  the  town.  It 
must  not  be  forgotten  that  the  anti-clericalism  of  the  little 
towns  in  France  is  always,  more  or  less,  an  episode  in  domestic 
warfare,  and  is  a  subtle  form  of  that  silent,  hitter  struggle 
between  husbands  and  wives,  which  goes  on  in  almost  every 
house. 


200  JEAN-CHKISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

Antoinc  Jeannin  had  also  some  literary  pretensions.  Like 
all  provincials  of  his  generation,  he  had  been  brought  up  on  the 
Latin  Classics,  many  pages  of  which  he  knew  by  heart,  and 
also  a  mass  of  proverbs,  and  on  La  Fontaine  and  Boileau, — the 
Boileau  of  17 Art  Pott'n/iie.  and,  above  all,  of  Lutrin, — on  the 
author  of  La  Puerile,  and  the  poetce  minor  c.s  of  the  eighteenth 
century,  in  whose  manner  he  squee/ed  out  a  certain  number  of 
poems.  He  was  not  the  only  man  of  his  acquaintance  pos- 
sessed by  that  particular  mania,  and  his  reputation  gained  by  it. 
His  rhyming  jests,  bis  quatrains,  couplets,  acrostics,  epigrams, 
and  songs,  which  were  sometimes  rather  risky,  though  they  had 
a  certain  coarsely  witty  quality,  were  often  quoted.  lie  was 
wont  to  sing  the  mysteries  of  digestion :  the  Muse  of  the  Loire 
districts  is  fain  to  blow  her  trumpet  like  the  famous  devil  of 
Dante : 

".    .    .•  Ed  cgli  avea  del  cul  fatto  trombetta." 

This  sturdy,  jovial,  active  little  man  had  taken  to  wife  a 
woman  of  a  very  different  character, — the  daughter  of  a  coun- 
try magistrate,  Lucie  de  Yilliers.  The  De  Yilliers — or  rather 
Devilliers,  for  their. name  had  split  in  its  passage  through  time, 
like  a  stone  which  cracks  in  two  as  it  goes  hurtling  down  a  hill- 
side— were  magistrates  from  father  to  son ;  they  we; re  of  that 
old  parliamentary  race  of  Frenchmen  who  had  a  lofty  idea  of 
the  law,  and  duty,  the  social  conventions,  their  personal,  and 
especially  their  professional,  dignity,  which  was  fortified  Im- 
perfect honesty,  tempered  with  a  certain  conscious  uprightness. 
During  the  preceding  century  they  had  been  infected  by  non- 
conformist Jansenism,  which  had  given  them  a  grumbling  pessi- 
mistic quality,  as  well  as  a  contempt  for  the  Jesuit  attitude  of 
mind.  They  did  not  see  life  as  beautiful  :  and,  rather  than 
smooth  away  life's  difficulties,  they  preferred  to  exaggerate 
them  so  as  to  have  good  reason  to  complain.  Lucie  de  Yilliers 
had  certain  of  these  characteristics,  which  were  so  directly  oft- 
posed  to  the  not  very  refined  optimism  of  her  husband.  She 
was  tall — taller  than  he  by  a  head — slender,  well  made;  she 
dressed  well  and  elegantly,  though  in  a  rather  sober  fashion, 


ANTOINETTE  201 

which  made  her  seem — perhaps  designedly — older  than  she  was: 
she  was  of  a  high  moral  quality:  hut  she  was  hard  on  other 
people;  she  would  countenance  no  fault,  and  hardly  even  a 
caprice:  she  was  thought  cold  and  disdainful.  She  was  very 
pious,  and  that  gave  rise  to  perpetual  disputes  with  her  hus- 
band. For  the  rest,  they  were  very  fond  of  each  other:  and. 
in  spite  of  their  frequent  disagreements,  they  could  not  have 
lived  without  each  other.  They  were  both  rather  unpractical : 
he  from  want  of  perception — (he  was  always  in  danger  of  being 
taken  in  by  good  looks  and  fine  words), — she  from  her  ab- 
solute inexperience  of  business — (she  knew  nothing  about  it: 
and  having  always  been  kept  outside  it,  she  took  no  interest 
in  it). 

They  had  two  children :  a  girl.  Antoinette,  the  elder  by 
five  years;  and  a  boy,  Olivier. 

Antoinette  was  a  pretty  dark-haired  child,  with  a  charming, 
honest  face  of  the  French  type,  round,  with  sharp  eyes,  a  round 
forehead,  a  fine  chin,  a  little  straight  nose — "  one  of  those  very 
pretty,  fine,  noble  noses ''  (as  an  old  French  portrait- painter 
says  so  charmingly)  "  in  which  there  was  a  certain  imper- 
ceptible play  of  expression,  which  animated  the  face,  and  re- 
vealed the  subtlety  of  the  workings  of  her  mind  as  she  talked 
or  listened."  She  had  her  father's  gaiety  and  carelessness. 

Olivier  was  a  delicate  fair  boy,  short,  like  his  father,  but 
very  dilf'erent  in  character.  His  health  had  been  undermined 
by  one  illness  after  another  when  he  was  a  child:  and  although. 
as  a  result,  he  was  petted  by  his  family,  his  physical  weakness 
had  made  him  a  melancholy,  dreamy  little  boy.  who  was  afraid 
of  death  and  very  poorly  equipped  for  life.  He  was  shy.  and 
preferred  to  be  alone:  he  avoided  the  society  of  other  children: 
he  was  ill  at  ease  with  them:  he  hated  their  games  and  quarrels: 
their  brutality  filled  him  with  horror.  He  let  them  strike  him. 
not  from  want  of  courage,  but  from  timidity,  because  he  was 
afraid  to  defend  himself,  afraid  of  hurting  them:  they  would 
have  bullied  the  life  out  of  him.  but  for  the  safeguard  of  his 


202  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IX  PARIS 

father's  position.  He  was  tender-hearted  and  morbidly  sensi- 
tive :  a  word,  a  sign  of  sympathy,  a  reproach,  were  enough  to 
make  him  burst  into  tears.  His  sister  was  much  sturdier,  and 
laughed  at  him,  and  called  him  a  "  little  fountain." 

The  two  children  were  devoted  to  each  other :  but  they  were 
too  different  to  live  together.  They  went  their  own  ways  and 
lived  in  their  own  dreams.  As  Antoinette  grew  up,  she  became 
prettier:  people  told  her  so,  and  she  was  well  aware  of  it:  it 
made  her  happy,  and  she  wove  romances  about  the  future. 
Olivier,  in  his  sickly  melancholy,  was  always  rubbed  up  the 
wrong  way  by  contact  with  the  outer  world  :  and  he  withdrew 
into  the  circle  of  his  own  absurd  little  brain:  and  he  told  him- 
self stories.  He  had  a  burning,  almost  feminine,  longing  to 
love  and  be  loved:  and,  living  alone,  away  from  boys  of  his 
own  age,  he  had  invented  two  or  three  imaginary  friends:  one 
was  called  Jean,  another  Etienne,  another  Franc.ois :  he  was 
always  with  them.  He  never  slept  well,  and  he  was  always 
dreaming.  In  the  morning,  when  he  was  lifted  out  of  bed,  he 
would  forget  himself,  and  sit  with  his  bare  legs  dangling 
down,  or  sometimes  with  two  stockings  on  one  leg.  He  would 
go  off  into  a  dream  with  his  hands  in  the  basin.  He  would 
forget  himself  at  his  desk  in  the  middle  of  writing  or  learning 
a  lesson :  he  would  dream  for  hours  on  end :  and  then  he  would 
suddenly  wake  up.  horrified  to  find  that  he  had  learned  nothing. 
At  dinner  he  was  abashed  if  any  one  spoke  to  him:  he  would 
reply  two  minutes  after  he  had  been  spoken  to :  he  would  forget 
what  he  was  going  to  say  in  the  middle  of  a  sentence,  lie 
would  doze  off  to  the  murmuring  of  his  thoughts  and  the  familiar 
sensations  of  the  monotonous  provincial  days  that  ma  relied  so 
slowly  by:  the  great  half-empty  house,  only  part  of  which  they 
occupied:  the  vast  and  dreadful  barns  and  cellars:  the  mysteri- 
ous closed  rooms,  the  fastened  shutters,  the  covered  furniture, 
veiled  mirrors,  arid  the  chandeliers  wrapped  up:  the  old  fam- 
ily portraits  with  their  haunting  smiles:  the  Empire  engravings, 
with  their  virtuous,  suave  heroism:  Alcibiades  and  Socrates  in 
the  House  of  the  Courtezan,  Antiochas  and  Stratonice,  The  Story 


ANTOINETTE  203 

of  Epaminondas,  Bclisarius  Begging.  .  .  .  Outside,  the  sound 
of  the  smith  shoeing  horses  in  the  smithy  opposite,  the  un- 
even clink  of  the  hammers  on  the  anvil,  the  snorting  of  the 
broken-winded  horses,  the  smell  of  the  scorched  hoofs,  the 
slapping  of  the  pats  of  the  washerwomen  kneeling  by  the  water, 
the  heavy  thuds  of  the  butcher's  chopper  next  door,  the  clatter 
of  a  horse's  hoofs  on  the  stones  of  the  street,  the  creaking  of 
a  pump,  or  the  drawbridge  over  the  canal,  the  heavy  barges 
laden  with  blocks  of  wood,  slowly  passing  at  the  end  of  the 
garden,  drawn  along  by  a  rope:  the  little  tiled  courtyard,  with  a 
square  patch  of  earth,  in  which  two  lilac-trees  grew,  in  the 
middle  of  a  clump  of  geraniums  and  petunias :  the  tubs  of  laurel 
and  flowering  pomegranate  on  the  terrace  above  the  canal : 
sometimes  the  noise  of  a  fair  in  the  square  hard  by,  with  peas- 
ants in  bright  blue  smocks,  and  grunting  pigs.  .  .  .  And  on 
Sunday,  at  church,  the  precentor,  who  sang  out  of  tune,  and 
the  old  priest,  who  went  to  sleep  as  lie  was  saying  Mass :  the 
family  walk  along  the  station  road,  where  all  the  time  he  had  to 
take  off  his  hat  politely  to  other  wretched  beings,  who  were  un- 
der the  same  impression  of  the  necessity  of  going  for  a  walk  all 
together, — until  at  last  they  reached  the  sunny  fields,  above 
which  larks  soared  invisible, — or  along  by  the  still  mirror  of 
the  canal,  on  both  sides  of  which  were  poplars  rustling  in 
line.  .  .  .  And  then  there  was  the  great  provincial  Sunday 
dinner,  when  they  went  on  and  on  eating  and  talking  about 
food  learnedly  and  with  gusto:  for  everybody  was  a  connoisseur: 
and,  in  the  provinces,  eating  is  the  chief  occupation,  the  first 
of  all  the  arts.  And  they  would  talk  business,  and  tell  spicy 
yarns,  and  every  now  and  then  discuss  their  neighbors'  illnesses, 
going  into  endless  detail.  .  .  .  And  the  little  boy.  sitting 
in  his  corner,  would  make  no  more  noise  than  a  little  mouse, 
pick  at  his  food,  eat  hardly  anything,  and  listen  with  all  his 
ears.  Nothing  escaped  him  :  and  when  he  did  not  understand, 
his  imagination  supplied  the  deficiency.  He  bad  that  singular 
gift,  which  is  often  to  be  remarked  in  the  children  of  old 
families  and  an  old  stock,  on  which  the  imprint  of  the  ages  is 


204  JEAN-CHftTSTOPHE  IX  PATU3 

too  strongly  marked,  of  divining  thoughts,  which  ha\'0  never 
passed  through  their  minds  before,  and  arc  hardly  compre- 
hensible to  them. — Then  there  was  the  kitchen,  where  bloody 
and  succulent  mysteries  were  concocted :  and  the  old  servant 
who  used  to  tell  him  frightful  and  droll  stories.  ...  At 
last  came  evening,  the  silent  flitting  of  the  bats,  the  terror  of 
the  monstrous  creatures  that  were  known  to  swarm  in  the  dark 
depths  of  the  old  house :  huge  rats,  enormous  hairy  spiders : 
and  he  would  say  his  prayers,  kneeling  at  the  foot  of  his  bed, 
and  hardly  know  what  he  was  saying:  the  little  cracked  bell  of 
the  convent  hard  by  would  sound  the  bed-time  of  the  nuns ; — 
and  so  to  bed,  the  Island  of  Dreams.  .  .  . 

The  best  times  of  the  year  were  those  that  they  spent  in 
spring  and  autumn  at  their  country  house  some  miles  away 
from  the  town.  There  he  could  dream  at  his  case :  he  saw  no- 
body. Like  most  of  the  children  of  their  class,  the  little  J can- 
ning were  kept  apart  from  the  common  children:  the  children 
of  servants  and  farmers,  who  inspired  them  with  fear  and  dis- 
gust. They  inherited  from  their  mother  an  aristocratic — or, 
rather,  essentially  middle-class — disdain  for  all  who  worked  with 
their  hands.  Olivier  would  spend  the  day  perched  up  in  the 
branches  of  an  ash  reading  marvelous  stories:  delightful  folk- 
lore, the  Talcs  of  Musrcus,  or  Madame  d'Aulnoy.  or  the  Arabian, 
Nighls,  or  stories  of  travel.  For  he  had  that  strange  longing 
for  distant  lands,  "those  oceanic  dreams."  which  sometimes 
possess  the  minds  of  boys  in  the  little  provincial  towns 
of  France.  A  thicket  lay  between  the  house  and  himself,  and 
he  could  fancy  himself  very  far  away.  But  be  knew  that  he 
was  really  near  home,  and  was  quite  happy:  for  he  did  not  like 
straying  too  far  alone:  he  felt  lost  with  Nature.  Hound  him 
the  wind  whispered  through  the  trees.  Through  the  leaves  that 
hid  his  nest  he  could  see  the  yellowing  vines  in  the  distance, 
and  the  meadows  where  the  straked  cows  were  at  pasture,  tilling 
the  silence  of  the  sleeping  country-side  with  their  plaintive 
long-drawn  lowing.  The  strident  cocks  crowed  to  each  other 
from  farm  to  farm.  There  came  up  the  irregular  beat  of  the 


ANTOINETTE  sor, 

flails  in  the  barns.  The  fevered  life  of  myriads  of  creatures 
swelled  and  flowed  through  the  peace  of  inanimate  Nature.  Un- 
easily Olivier  would  watch  the  ever  hurrying  columns  of  the 
ants,  and  the  bees  big  with  their  booty,  buzzing  like  organ-pipes, 
and  the  superb  and  stupid  wasps  who  know  not  what  they  wont 
— the  whole  world  of  busy  little  creatures,  all  seemingly  de- 
voured by  the  desire  to  reach  their  destination.  .  .  .  Where 
is  it?  They  do  not  know.  Xo  matter  where!  Somewhere. 
.  .  .  Olivier  was  fearful  amid  that  blind  and  hostile  world. 
He  would  start,  like  a  young  hare,  at  the  sound  of  a  pine-cone 
falling,  or  the  breaking  of  a  rotten  branch.  .  .  .  He  would 
find  his  courage  again  when  lie  heard  the  rattling  of  the  chains 
of  the  swing  at  the  other  end  of  the  garden,  where1  Antoinette 
would  be  madly  swinging  to  and  fro. 

She,  too,  would  dream :  but  in  her  own  fashion.  She  would 
spend  the  day  prowling  round  the  garden,  eating,  watching, 
laughing,  picking  at  the  grapes  on  the  vines  like  a  thrush, 
secretly  plucking  a  peach  from  the  trellis,  climbing  a  plum- 
tree,  or  giving  it  a  little  surreptitious  shake  as  she  passed  to 
bring  down  a  rain  of  the  golden  mirabelles  which  melt  in  the 
mouth  like  scented  honey.  Or  slit1  would  pick  the  flowers,  al- 
though that  was  forbidden:  quickly  she  would  pluck  a  rose 
that  she  had  been  coveting  all  day,  and  run  away  with  it  to  the 
arbor  at  the  end  .if  the  garden.  Then  slit1  would  bury  her  little 
nose  in  the  delicious  scented  flower,  and  kiss  it.  and  bite  it. 
and  suck  it  :  and  then  she  would  conceal  her  booty,  and  hide 
it  in  her  bosom  between  her  little  breasts,  at  the  wonder  of 
whose  coming  she  would  gaze  in  eager  fondness.  .  .  .  And 
there  was  an  exquisite  forbidden  jov  in  taking  oh"  her  shoes  and 
stockings,  and  walking  bare-foot  on  the  cool  sand  of  the  paths, 
and  on  the  dewy  turf,  and  on  the  stones,  cold  in  the  shadow, 
burning  in  the  sun.  and  in  the  little  stream  that  ran  along  the 
outskirts  of  the  wood,  and  kissing  with  her  feet,  and  legs,  and 
knees,  water,  earth,  and  light.  Lying  in  the  shadow  of  the 
pines,  she  would  hold  her  hands  up  to  the  sun,  and  watch 
the  light  play  through  them,  and  she  would  press  her  lips 


206  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IX  PARIS 

upon  the  soft  satin  skin  of  her  pretty  rounded  arms.  She  would 
make  herself  crowns  and  necklets  and  gowns  of  ivy-leaves  and 
oak-leaves :  and  she  would  deck  them  with  the  blue  thistles,  and 
barberry  and  little  pine-branches,  with  their  green  fruit:  and 
then  she  looked  like  a  little  savage  Princess.  And  she  would 
dance  for  her  own  delight  round  and  round  the  fountain  :  and, 
with  arms  outstretched,  she  would  turn  and  turn  until  her  head 
whirled,  and  she  would  slip  down  on  the  lawn  and  bury  her 
face  in  the  grass,  and  shout  with  laughter  for  minutes  on  end, 
unable  to  stop  herself,  without  knowing  why. 

So  the  days  slipped  by  for  the  two  children,  within  hail  of 
each  other,  though  neither  ever  gave  a  thought  to  the  other, — 
except  when  it  would  suddenly  occur  to  Antoinette  to  play  a 
prank  on  her  brother,  and  throw  a  handful  of  pine-needles 
in  his  face,  or  shake  the  tree  in  which  he  was  sitting,  threat- 
ening to  make  him  fall,  or  frighten  him  by  springing  suddenly 
out  upon  him  and  yelling : 

"Ooh!     Ooh!    ..." 

Sometimes  she  would  be  seized  by  a  desire  to  tease  him.  She 
would  make  him  come  down  from  his  tree  by  pretending  that 
her  mother  was  calling  him.  Then,  when  he  had  climbed  down, 
she  would  take  his  place  and  refuse  to  budge.  Then  Olivier 
would  whine  and  threaten  to  tell.  But  there  was  no  danger 
of  Antoinette  staying  in  the  tree  for  long:  she  could  not 
keep  still  for  two  minutes.  When  she  had  done  with  taunting 
Olivier  from  the  top  of  his  tree,  when  she  had  thoroughly 
infuriated  him  and  brought  him  almost  to  tears,  then  she 
would  slip  down,  fling  her  arms  round  him,  shake  him,  and 
laugh,  and  call  him  a  "little  mull',"  and  roll  him  on  the  ground, 
and  rub  his  face  with  handfuls  of  grass.  He  would  try  to 
struggle:  but  he  was  not  strong  enough.  Then  he  would  lie 
still,  flat  on  his  black,  like  a  cockchafer,  with  his  thin  arms 
pinned  to  the  ground  by  Antoinette's  strong  little  hands:  and 
he  would  look  piteous  and  resigned.  Antoinette  could  not  resist 
that:  she  would  look  at  her  vanquished  prisoner,  and  burst  out 
laughing  and  kiss  him  suddenly,  and  let  him  go — not  without 


ANTOINETTE  207 

the  parting  attention  of  a  little  gag  of  fresh  grass  in  his  mouth: 
and  that  he  detested  most  of  all,  because  it  made  him  sick. 
And  he  would  spit  and  wipe  his  mouth,  and  storm  at  her.  while 
she  ran  away  as  hard  as  she  could,  pealing  with  laughter.  She 
was  always  laughing.  Even  when  she  was  asleep  she  laughed. 
Olivier,  lying  awake  in  the  next  room,  would  suddenly  start 
up  in  the  middle  of  the  stories  he  was  telling  himself,  at  the 
sound  of  the  wild  laughter  and  the  muttered  words  which  she 
would  speak  in  the  silence  of  the  night.  Outside,  the  trees 
would  creak  with  the  wind,  an  owl  would  hoot,  in  the  distant 
villages  and  the  farms  in  the  heart  of  the  woods  dogs  would 
bark.  In  the  dim  phosphorescence  of  the  night  Olivier  would 
see  the  dark,  heavy  branches  of  the  pines  moving  like  ghosts 
outside  his  window :  and  Antoinette's  laughter  would  comfort 
him. 

The  two  children  were  very  religious,  especially  Olivier. 
Their  father  used  to  scandalize  them  with  his  anti-clerical 
professions  of  faith,  but  he  did  not  interfere  with  them:  and, 
at  heart,  like  so  many  men  of  his  class  who  are  unbelievers, 
he  was  not  sorry  that  his  family  should  believe  for  him  :  for 
it  is  always  good  to  have  allies  in  the  opposing  cam]),  and  one 
is  never  sure  which  way  Fortune  will  turn,  lie  was  a  Deist, 
and  he  reserved  the  right  to  summon  a  priest  when  the  time 
came,  as  his  father  had  done:  even  if  it  did  no  good,  it  could 
do  no  harm:  one  insures  against  lire,  even  if  one  has  no  reason 
to  believe  that  the  house  will  be  burned  down. 

Olivier  was  morbidly  inclined  towards  •mysticism.  There 
were  times  when  he  doubted  whether  he  existed.  He  was 
credulous  and  soft-hearted,  and  needed  a  prop:  he  took  a 
sorrowful  delight  in  confession,  in  the  comfort  of  confiding  in 
the  invisible  Friend,  whose  arms  are  always  open  to  you.  to 
whom  you  can  tell  everything,  who  understands  and  forgives 
everything:  he  tasted  the  sweetness  of  the  waters  of  humility 
and  love,  from  which  the  soul  issues  pure,  cleansed,  and  com- 
forted. Jt  was  so  natural  to  him  to  believe,  that  he  could  not 


208  JEAN-CHHISTOPHE  IX  PATHS 

understand  how  any  one  could  doubt:  he  thought  people  did  so 
from  wickedness,  and  that  God  would  punish  them.  He  used 
to  pray  secretly  that  his  father  might  find  grace :  and  he  was 
delighted  when,  one  day,  as  they  went  into  a  little  country 
church,  he  saw  his  father  mechanically  make  the  sign  of  the 
crose.  The  stories  of  the  Gospel  were  mixed  up  in  his  mind 
with  the  marvelous  tales  of  Kiibezahl.,  and  Gracicuse  and  Per- 
cinet,  and  the  Caliph  Haroun-al-Raschid.  When  lie  was  a  lit- 
tle boy  he  no  more  doubted  the  truth  of  the  one  than  the 
other.  And  just  as  he  was  not  sure  that  he  did  not  know 
Shacabac  of  the  cleft  lips,  and  the  loquacious  barber,  and  the 
little  hunchback  of  Casgar.  just  as  when  he  was  out  walking  he 
used  to  look  about  for  the  black  woodpecker  which  bears  in  its 
beak  the  magic  root  of  the  treasure-seeker,  so  Canaan  and  the 
Promised  Land  became  in  his  childish  imagination  certain 
regions  in  Burgundy  or  Berrichon.  A  round  bill  in  the  coun- 
try, with  a  little  tree,  like  a  shabby  old  feather,  at  the  summit, 
seemed  to  him  to  be  like  the  mountain  where  Abraham  had 
built  hi.s  pyre.  A  large  dead  bush  by  the  edge  of  a  iield  was  the 
Burning  Bush,  which  the  ages  bad  put  out.  Even  when  he  was 
older,  and  his  critical  faculty  had  been  awakened,  he  loved  to 
feed  on  the  popular  legends  which  enshrined  his  faith:  and 
they  gave  him  so  much  pleasure,  though  he  no  longer  accepted 
them  implicitly,  that  he  would  amuse  himself  by  pretending  to 
do  so.  So  for  a  long  time  on  Easter  Saturday  he  would  look 
out  for  the  return  of  the  Easter  bells,  which  went  away  to 
Koine  on  the  Thursday  before,  and  would  come  floating  through 
the  air  with  little  streamers.  He  did  finally  admit  that  it  was 
not  true:  but  he  did  not  give  up  looking  skywards  when  he 
heard  them  ringing:  and  once — though  he  knew  perfectly  well 
that  it  could  not  be — he  fancied  he  saw  one  of  them  disappear- 
ing over  the  house  with  blue  ribbons. 

It  was  vitally  necessary  for  him  to  steep  himself  in  the  world 
of  legend  and  faith.  He  avoided  life.  He  avoided  himself. 
Thin.  pale.  puny,  he  suffered  from  being  so.  and  could  not 
bear  its  being  talked  about,  ile  was  naturally  pessimistic, 


ANTOINETTE  209 

no  doubt  inheriting  it  from  his  mother,  and  his  pessimism  was 
fed  by  his  morbidity.  He  did  not  know  it :  thought  everybody 
must  be  like  himself:  and  the  queer  little  boy  of  ten,  instead 
of  romping  in  the  gardens  during  his  play-time,  used  to  shut 
himself  up  in  his  room,  and,  carefully  picking  his  words, 
wrote  his  will. 

He  used  to  write  a  great  deal.  Every  evening  he  used  labori- 
ously and  secretly  to  write  his  diary — he  did  not  know  why,  for 
he  had  nothing  to  say,  and  he  said  nothing  worth  saying.  Writ- 
ing was  an  inherited  mania  with  him,  the  age-old  itch  of  the 
French  provincial — the  old  indestructible  stock — who  every  day, 
until  the  day  of  his  death,  with  an  idiotic  patience  which  is  al- 
most heroic,  writes  down  in  detail  what  he  has  seen,  said,  done, 
heard,  eaten,  and  drunk.  For  his  own  pleasure,  entirely.  1 1 
is  not  for  other  eyes.  No  one  will  ever  read  it:  he  knows  that: 
he  never  reads  it  again  himself. 

Music,  like  religion,  was  for  Olivier  a  shelter  from  the  too 
vivid  light  of  day.  Both  brother  and  sister  were  born  musi- 
cians.— especially  Olivier,  who  had  inherited  the  gift  from  his 
mother.  Their  taste,  as  it  needed  to  be,  was  excellent.  There 
was  no  one  capable  of  forming  it  in  the  province,  where  no  music 
was  ever  heard  but  that  of  the  local  band,  which  played  nothing 
but  marches,  or — on  its  good  days — selections  from  Adolphe 
Adam,  and  the  church  organist  who  played  romanxas,  and  the 
exercises  of  the  young  ladies  of  the  town  who  strummed  a  few 
valses  and  polkas,  the  overture  to  the  (.'til  I /sit  of  Hin/dinl.  In 
Chaw  du  J a nnc  Henri,  and  two  or  three  sonatas  of  Mo/art, 
always  the  same,  and  always  with  the  same  mistakes,  on  in- 
struments that  were  sadly  out  of  tune.  These  things  were  in- 
variably included  in  the  evening's  program  at  paries.  After 
dinner,  those  who  had  talent  were  asked  to  display  it  :  at  first 
they  would  blush  and  refuse,  but  then  they  would  yield  to  the 
entreaties  of  the  assembled  company:  and  they  would  play  their 
stock  pieces  without  their  music.  Everv  one  would  then  ad- 
mire the  artist's  memory  and  her  beautiful  touch. 


210  JEAX-CHRISTOPHE  IX  PARTS 

The  ceremony  was  repeated  at  almost  every  party,  and  the 
thought  of  it  would  altogether  spoil  the  children's  dinner. 
When  they  had  to  play  the  Voyage  en  Chine  of  Bazin,  or  their 
pieces  of  Weber  as  a  duet,  they  gave  each  other  confidence, 
and  were  not  very  much  afraid.  But  it  was  torture  to  them 
to  have  to  play  alone.  Antoinette,  as  usual,  was  the  braver 
of  the  two.  Although  it  bored  her  dreadfully, — as  she  knew 
that  there  was  no  way  out  of  it,  she  would  go  through  with  it, 
sit  at  the  piano  with  a  determined  air,  and  gallop  through  her 
rondo  at  breakneck  speed,  stumbling  over  certain  passages,  make 
a  hash  of  others,  break  off,  turn  her  head,  and  say,  with  a 
smile : 

"  Oh  !  I  can't  remember.    ..." 

Then,  she  would  start  off  again  a  few  bars  farther  on,  and 
go  on  to  the  end.  And  she  would  make  no  attempt  to  conceal 
her  pleasure  at  having  finished :  and  when  she  returned  to  her 
chair,  amid  the  general  chorus  of  praise,  she  would  laugh  and 
say: 

"  I  made  such  a  lot  of  mistakes." 

But  Olivier  was  not  so  easy  to  handle.  He  could  not  bear 
making  a  show  of  himself  in  public,  and  being  "  the  observed  of 
all  observers."  It  was  bad  enough  for  him  to  have  to  speak  in 
company.  But  to  have  to  play,  especially  for  people  who  did 
not  like  music — (that  was  obvious  to  him) — for  people  whom 
music  actually  bored,  people  who  only  asked  him  to  play  as  a 
matter  of  habit,  seemed  to  him  to  be  neither  more1  nor  less  than 
tyranny,  and  be  tried  vainly  to  revolt  against  it.  He  would 
refuse  obstinately.  Sometimes  ho  would  escape  and  go  and 
hide  in  a  dark  room,  in  a  passage,  or  even  in  the  barn,  in 
spite  of  his  horror  of  spiders.  His  refusal  would  make  the 
guests  only  insist  the  more,  and  they  would  quiz  him:  and 
his  parents  would  sternly  order  him  to  play,  and  even  slap 
him  when  he  was  too  impudently  rebellious.  And  in  the  end  he 
always  had  to  play, — of  course  unwillingly  and  sulkily.  And 
then  he  would  suffer  agonies  all  night  because  he  had  played 


ANTOINETTE  •  211 

so  badly,  partly  from  vanity,  and  partly  from  his  very  genuine 
love  for  music. 

The  taste  of  the  little  town  had  not  always  been  so  banal. 
There  had  been  a  time  when  there  were  quite  good  chamber 
concerts  at  several  houses.  Madame  Jeannin  used  often  to 
speak  of  her  grandfather,  who  adored  the  violoncello,  and  used 
to  sing  airs  of  (iluek,  and  Dalayrac,  and  Berton.  There  was 
a  large  volume  of  them  in  the  house,  and  a  pile  of  Italian 
songs.  For  the  old  gentleman  was  like  M.  Andrieux.  of  whom 
Berlioz  said:  "He  loved  Gluck."  And  he  added  bitterly:  "  Ho 
also  loved  Piccinni." — Perhaps  of  the  two  he  preferred  Pic- 
cinni.  At  all  events,  the  Italian  songs  were  in  a  large  majority 
in  her  grandfather's  collection.  They  had  been  Olivicr's  first 
musical  nourishment.  Xot  a  very  substantial  diet,  rather  like 
those  sweetmeats  with  which  provincial  children  are  stuffed: 
they  corrupt  the  palate,  destroy  the  tissues  of  the  stomach,  and 
there  is  always  a  danger  of  their  killing  the  appetite  for  more 
solid  nutriment.  But  Olivier  could  not  be  accused  of  greedi- 
ness. He  was  never  offered  any  more  solid  food.  Having  no 
bread,  he  was  forced  to  cat  cake.  And  so.  by  force  of  circum- 
stance, it  came  about  that  Cimarosa.  Paesicllo,  and  Kossini  fed 
the  mystic,  melancholy  little  boy,  who  was  more  than  a 
intoxicated  by  his  draughts  of  the  A*li  *]»iin<inle  poured 
for  him,  instead  of  milk,  by  these  bacchanalian  Satyrs,  and  the 
two  lively,  ingenuously,  lasciviously  smiling  Bacchante  of 
Naples  and  Catania — Pergolesi  and  Bellini. 

He  played  a  great  deal  to  himself,  for  his  own  pleasure.  He 
was  saturated  with  music,  lie  did  not  trv  to  understand  what 
he  was  playing,  but  gave  himself  up  to  it.  Nobodv  ever  thought 
of  teaching  him  harmony,  and  it  never  occurred  to  him  to  learn 
it.  Science  and  the  scientific  mind  were  foreign  to  the  nature 
of  his  familv.  especially  on  his  mother's  side.  All  the  lawyer-, 
wits,  and  humanists  of  the  De  Yilliers  were  ballled  by  any  sort 
of  problem.  It  was  fold  of  a  member  of  the  family — a  distant 
cousin — as  a  remarkable  thing  that  he  had  found  a  post  in  the 
Bureau  Jen  Longitudes.  And  it  was  further  told  how  he  had 


212  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IX  PARIS 

gone  mad.  The  old  provincial  middle-classes,  robust  and  posi- 
tive in  temper,  but  dull  and  sleepy  as  a  result  of  their  gigantic 
meals  and  the  monotony  of  their  lives,  are  very  proud  of  their 
common  sense:  they  have  so  much  faith  in  it  that  they  boast  that 
there  is  no  difficulty  which  cannot  be  resolved  by  it:  and  they 
are  never  very  far  from  considering  men  of  science  as  artists 
of  a  sort,  more  useful  than  the  others,  but  less  exalted,  be- 
cause at  least  artists  serve  no  useful  purpose,  and  there  is  a 
sort  of  distinction  about  their  lounging  existence. —  (Besides, 
every  business  man  flatters  himself  that  he  might  have  been 
an  artist  if  he  had  cared  about  it.)— While  scientists  are  not 
far  from  being  manual  laborers, —  (which  is  degrading), — just 
master-workmen  with  more  education,  though  they  are  a  little 
cracked:  they  are  mighty  fine  on  paper:  but  outside  their  arith- 
metic factories  they're  nobody.  They  would  not  be  much  use 
without  the  guidance  of  common-sense  people  who  have  some 
experience  of  life  and  business. 

Unfortunately,  it  is  not  proven  that  their  experience  of  life 
and  business  goes  so  far  as  these  people  like  to  think.  It  is 
only  a  routine,  ringing  the  changes  on  a  few  easy  cases.  If  any 
un  foreseen  position  arises,  in  which  they  have  to  decide  quickly 
and  vigorously,  they  are  always  disgruntled. 

Antoine  .Jcannin  was  that  sort  of  man.  Everything  was  so 
nicely  adjusted,  and  his  business  jogged  along  so  comfortably 
in  its  place  in  the  life  of  the  province,  that  he  had  never  en- 
countered any  serious  difficulty.  He  had  succeeded  to  his 
father's  position  without  having  any  special  aptitude  for  the 
business:  and,  as  everything  had  gone  well,  he  attributed  it  to 
his  own  brilliant  talents.  He  loved  to  say  that  it  was  enough 
to  be  honest,  methodical,  and  to  have  common  sense:  and  he  in- 
tended handing  down  his  business  to  his  son.  without  any  more 
regard  for  the  bov's  tastes  than  his  father  had  had  for  his  own. 
He  did  not  do  anything  to  prepare  him  for  it.  He  let  his  chil- 
dren grow  up  as  thev  liked,  so  long  as  thev  were  good,  and, 
above  all,  happv:  for  he  adored  them.  And  so  the  two  children 
were  as  little  prepared  for  the  struggle  of  life  as  possible:  they 


ANTOINETTE  213 

were  like  hothouse  flowers.  But,  surely,  they  would  always  live 
like  that?  In  the  soft  provincial  atmosphere,  in  the  hosom  of 
their  wealthy,  influential  family,  with  a  kindly,  gay,  jovial 
father,  surrounded  hy  friends,  one  of  the  leading  men  of  the 
distriet,  life  was  so  easy,  so  bright  and  smiling. 

Antoinette  was  sixteen.  Olivier  was  about  to  he  confirmed. 
His  mind  was  filled  with  all  kinds  of  mystic  dreams.  In  her 
heart  Antoinette  heard  the  sweet  song  of  new-horn  hope  soaring 
like  the  lark  in  April,  in  the  springtime  of  her  life.  It  was  a 
joy  to  her  to  feel  the  flowering  of  her  body  and  soul,  to  know 
that  she  was  pretty,  and  to  he  told  so.  Tier  father's  immoderate 
praises  were  enough  to  turn  her  head. 

He  was  in  ecstasies  over  her:  he  delighted  in  her  little 
coquetries,  to  see  her  eying  herself  in  her  mirror,  to  watch 
her  little  innocent  tricks.  He  would  take  her  on  his  knees,  and 
tease  her  about  her  childish  love-affairs,  and  the  conquests  she1 
had  made,  and  the  suitors  that  lie  pretended  had  come  to  him 
a- wooing :  he  would  tell  her  their  names:  respectable  citizens, 
each  more  old  and  ugly  than  the  last.  And  she  would  cry  out  in 
horror,  and  break  into  rippling  laughter,  and  put  her  arms  about 
her  father's  neck,  and  press  her  cheek  close  to  his.  And  he 
would  ask  which  was  the  happy  man  of  her  choice:  was  it  the 
District  Attorney,  who,  the  Jeannins'  old  maid  used  to  say. 
was  as  ugly  as  the  seven  deadly  sins?  Or  was  it  tin1  fat  notary? 
And  she  would  slap  him  playfully  to  make  him  cease,  or  hold 
her  hand  over  his  mouth.  lie  would  kiss  her  little  hands,  and 
jump  her  up  and  down  on  his  knees,  and  sing  the  old  song 

"  What  would  you,  pretty  maid  '.' 
An  ugly  husband,  eh  ''.  " 

And  she  would  giggle  and  tie  his  whiskers  under  his  chin, 
and  reply  with  the  refrain : 

"  A  handsome  husband  I, 
Xo  ugly  man,  madame." 

She  would  declare  her  intention  of  choosing  for  herself. 
She  knew  thai  she  was,  or  would  be.  very  rich. —  (her  father 


214  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IX  PAKIS 

used  to  tell  her  so  at  every  turn) — she  was  a  "line  catch." 
The  sons  of  tho  distinguished  families  of  the  country  were  al- 
ready courting  her,  setting  a  wide  white  net  of  flattery  and 
cunning  snares  to  catch  the  little  silver  fish.  But  it  looked 
as  though  the  fish  would  elude  them  all :  for  Antoinette  saw 
all  their  tricks.,  and  laughed  at  them :  she  was  quite  ready  to  be 
caught,  but  not  against  her  will.  She  had  already  made  up 
her  mind  to  marry. 

The  noble  family  of  the  district — (there  is  generally  one 
noble  family  to  every  district,  claiming  descent  from  the  ancient 
lords  of  the  province,  though  generally  its  origin  goes  no  farther 
back  than  some  purchaser  of  the  national  estates,  some  com- 
missary of  the  eighteenth  century,  or  some  Xapoleonic  army- 
contractor) — the  Bonnivets,  who  lived  some  few  miles  away 
from  the  town,  in  a  castle  with  tall  towers  with  gleaming  slates, 
surrounded  by  vast  woods,  in  which  were  innumerable  fish- 
ponds, themselves  proposed  for  the  hand  of  Mademoiselle  Jean- 
nin.  Young  Bonnivet  was  very  assiduous  in  his  courtship  of 
Antoinette.  He  Avas  a  handsome  boy,  rather  stout  and  heavy 
for  his  age,  who  did  nothing  but  hunt  and  eat.  and  drink  and 
sleep :  he  could  ride,  dance,  had  charming  manners,  and  was  not 
more  stupid  than  other  young  men.  He  would  ride  into  the 
town,  or  drive  in  his  buggy  and  call  on  the  banker,  on  some 
business  pretext :  and  sometimes  he  would  bring  some  game  or  a 
bouquet  of  flowers  for  the  ladies.  He  would  seize  the  oppor- 
tunity to  pay  court  to  Antoinette.  They  would  walk  in  tho 
garden  together.  He  would  pay  her  lumbering  compliments, 
and  pull  his  mustache,  and  make  jokes,  and  make  his  spurs 
clatter  on  the  tiles  of  the  terrace.  Antoinette  thought  him 
charming.  Her  pride  and  her  affections  were  both  tickled. 
She  would  swim  in  those  first  sweet  hours  of  young  love. 
Olivier  detested  the  young  squire,  because  he  was  strong,  heavy. 
brutal,  had  a  loud  laugh,  and  hands  that  gripped  like  a  vise, 
and  a  disdainful  trick  of  always  calling  him:  "Boy  .  .  ." 
and  pinching  his  cheeks.  He  detested  him  above  all, — without 
knowing  it, — because  he  dared  to  love  his  sister:  .  .  .  his 


ANTOINETTE  215 

sister,  his  very  own,  his,  and  she  could  not  belong  to  any  one 
else !   .    .    . 

Disaster  came.  Sooner  or  later  there  must  come  a  crisis 
in  the  lives  of  the  old  middle-class  families  which  for  cen- 
turies have  vegetated  in  the  same  little  corner  of  the  earth, 
and  have  sucked  it  dry.  They  sleep  in  peace,  and  think  them- 
selves as  eternal  as  the  earth  that  bears  them.  But  the  soil 
beneath  them  is  dry  and  dead,  their  roots  are  sapped:  just  the 
blow  of  an  ax,  and  down  they  come.  Then  they  talk  of  ac- 
cidents and  unforeseen  misfortunes.  There  would  have  been 
no  accident  if  there  had  been  more  strength  in  the  tree :  or,  at 
least,  would  have  been  no  more  than  a  sudden  storm,  wrenching 
away  a  few  branches,  but  never  shaking  the  tree. 

Antoine  Jeannin  was  weak,  trustful,  and  a  little  vain,  lie 
loved  to  throw  dust  in  people's  eyes,  and  easily  confounded 
"'seeming"  and  "being."  He  spent  recklessly,  though  his 
extravagance,  moderated  by  fits  of  remorse  as  the  result  of  the 
age-old  habit  of  economy — (he  would  fling  away  pounds,  and 
haggle  over  a  farthing) — never  seriously  impaired  his  capital. 
He  was  not  very  cautious  in  business  either.  lie  never  refused 
to  lend  money  to  his  friends:  and  it  was  not  diHiciilt  to  be  a 
friend  of  his.  He  did  not  always  trouble  to  ask  for  a  receipt: 
he  kept  a  rough  account  of  what  was  owing  to  him,  and  never 
asked  for  payment  before  it  was  offered  him.  He  believed  in 
the  good  faith  of  other  men.  and  supposed  that  they  would 
believe  in  his  own.  He  was  much  more  timid  than  his  jocular, 
easy-going  manners  led  people  to  suppose.  He  would  never 
have  dared  to  refuse  certain  importunate  borrowers,  or  to  let 
his  doubts  of  their  solvencv  appeal'.  That  arose  from  a  mixture 
of  kindness  and  pusillanimity.  He  did  not  wish  to  oll'end  any- 
body, and  he  was  afraid  of  being  insulted.  So  he  was  always 
giving  wav.  And.  by  way  of  carrving  it  oil',  he  would  lend  with 
alacritv,  as  though  his  debtors  were  doing  him  a  serviee  bv 
borrowing  his  money.  And  he  was  not  far  from  believing  it: 


2.1(5  JK\X-Cm:iST01'lIK   IN    PARIS 

his  vanity  and  optimism  had  no  dilliculty  in  persuading  him 
that  every  business  lie  touched  was  good  business. 

Such  ways  of  dealing  were  not  calculated  to  alienate  the 
sympathies  of  his  debtors:  lie  was  adored  by  the  peasants,  who 
knew  that  they  could  always  eount  on  his  good  nature,  and 
never  hesitated  lo  resort  to  him.  Hut  the  gratitude  of  men — 
even  of  honest  men — is  a  fruit  that  niust  he  gathered  in  good 
season.  If  it  is  left  too  long  upon  the  tree,  it  quickly  rots. 
After  a  few  months  M.  .leannin's  debtors  would  begin  to  think 
that  his  assistance  was  their  right:  and  they  were  even  inclined 
to  think  that,  as  M.  Jcannin  had  been  so  glad  to  help  them,  it 
must  have  been  to  his  interest  to  do  so.  The  best  of  them  con- 
sidered themselves  discharged — if  not  of  the  debt,  at  least  of  the 
obligation  of  gratitude} — by  the  present,  of  a  hare  they  had 
killed,  or  a  basket  of  eggs  from  their  fowlyard,  which  they 
would  come  and  offer  to  the  banker  on  the  day  of  the  great  fair 
of  the  year. 

As  hitherto  only  small  sums  had  been  lent,  and  M.  Jeannin 
had  only  had  to  do  with  fairly  honest  people,  there  were  no 
very  awkward  consequences:  the  loss  of  money — of  which  the 
banker  never  breathed  a  word  to  a  soul — was  very  small.  Hut 
it  was  a  very  diJferent  matter  when  M.  Jcannin  knocked  up 
against  a  certain  company  promoter  who  was  launching  a  great 
industrial  concern,  and  had  got  wind  of  the  banker's  easy-going 
wavs  and  financial  resources.  This  gentleman,  who  wore  the 
ribbon  of  the  Legion  of  Honor,  and  pretended  to  be  intimate 
with  two  or  three1  .Ministers,  an  Archbishop,  an  assortment  of 
senators,  and  various  celebrities  of  the  literary  and  Jinancial 
world,  and  to  be  in  touch  with  an  omnipotent  newspaper,  had  a 
very  imposing  manner,  and  most  adroitly  assumed  the  authori- 
tative and  familiar  tone  most  calculated  to  impress  his  man. 
IJv  way  of  introduction  and  recommendation,  with  a  clumsiness 
which  would  have  aroused  the  suspicions  of  a  quicker  man  than 
M.  Jeannin,  he  produced  certain  ordinary  complimentary  let- 
ters which  he  had  received  from  the  illustrious  persons  of  his 
acquaintance,  asking  him  to  dinner,  or  thanking  him  for  some 


ANTOINETTE  217 

invitation  they  had  received:  for  it  is  well  known  that  the 
French  are  never  niggardly  with  such  epistolary  small  change, 
nor  particularly  chary  of  shaking  hands  with,  and  accepting  in- 
vitations from,  an  individual  whom  they  have  only  known  for 
an  hour — provided  only  that  he  amuses  them  and  does  not  ask 
them  for  money:  and  even  as  regards  that,  there  are  many  who 
would  not  refuse  to  lend  their  new  friend  money  so  long  as 
others  did  the  same.  And  it  would  he  a  poor  lookout  for  a 
clever  man  bent  on  relieving  his  neighhor  of  his  superfluous 
money  if  he  could  not  find  a  sheep  who  could  he  induced  to 
jump  the  fence  so  that  all  the  rest  would  follow. — If  other 
sheep  had  not  taken  the  fence  before  him,  M.  Jeannin  would 
have  heen  the  first.  He  was  of  the  woolly  tribe  which  is  made 
to  be  fleeced.  He  was  seduced  by  his  visitor's  exalted  connec- 
tions, his  fluency  and  his  trick  of  flattery,  and  also  by  the  first 
fine  results  of  his  advice.  He  only  risked  a  little  at  first,  and 
won:  then  he  risked  much:  finally  he  risked  all:  not  only  his 
own  money,  but  that  of  his  clients  as  well.  He  did  not  tell 
them  about  it:  he  was  sure  he  would  win:  he  wanted  to  over- 
whelm them  with  the  great  thing  he  had  done  for  them. 

The  venture  collapsed.  He  heard  of  it  indirectly  through 
one  of  his  Parisian  correspondents  who  happened  to  mention 
the  new  crash,  without  ever  dreaming  that  Jeannin  was  one 
of  the  victims:  for  the  banker  bad  not  said  a  word  to  any- 
body: with  incredible  irresponsibility,  lie  had  not  taken  the, 
trouble — even  avoided — asking  the  advice  of  men  who  were  in 
a  position  to  give  him  information:  he  had  done  the  whole 
thing  secretly,  in  the  infatuated  belief  in  bis  infallible  com- 
mon sense,  and  he  bad  been  satisfied  with  the  vaguest  knowledge 
of  what  he  was  doing.  There  are  such  moments  of  aberration 
in  life:  moments,  it  would  seem,  when  a  man  is  marked  out 
for  ruin,  when  he  is  fearful  lest  any  one  should  come  to  his  aid, 
when  he  avoids  all  advice  that  might  save  him.  bides  away,  and 
rushes  headlong,  madly,  shaking  himself  free  for  the  fatal 
plunge. 

M.  Jeannin  rushed  to  the  station,  utterly  sick  at  heart,  and 


218  JEAN-CHKISTOPHE  IX  PARTS 

took  train  for  Paris.  lie  wont  to  look  for  his  man.  He  flat- 
tered himself  with  the  hope  that  the  news  might  he  false,  or,  at 
least,  exaggerated.  Naturally  he  did  not  find  the  fellow,  and 
received  further  news  of  the  collapse,  which  was  as  complete  as 
possible.  He  returned  distracted,  and  said  nothing.  Xo  one 
had  any  idea  of  it  yet.  He  tried  to  gain  a  few  weeks,  a  feu- 
days.  In  his  incurable  optimism,  he  tried  hard  to  believe  that 
he  would  find  a  way  to  make  good,  if  not  his  own  losses,  at 
least  those  of  his  clients.  He  tried  various  expedients,  with  a 
clumsy  haste  which  Avould  have  removed  any  chance  of  succeed- 
ing that  he  might  have  had.  He  tried  to  borrow,  but  was 
everywhere  refused.  In  his  despair,  he  staked  the  little  he 
had  left  on  wildly  speculative  ventures,  and  lost  it  all.  From 
that  moment  there  was  a  complete  change  in  his  character.  He 
relapsed  into  an  alarming  state  of  terror:  still  he  said  nothing: 
but  he  was  bitter,  violent,  harsh,  horribly  sad.  But  still,  when 
he  was  with  strangers,  he  affected  his  old  gaiety :  but  no  one 
could  fail  to  see  the  change  in  him :  it  was  attributed  to  his 
health.  With  his  family  he  was  less  guarded  :  and  they  saw 
at  once  that  he  was  concealing  some  serious  trouble.  They 
hardly  knew  him.  Sometimes  he  would  burst  into  a  room  and 
ransack  a  desk,  flinging  all  the  papers  higgledy-piggledy  on 
to  the  floor,  and  flying  into  a  fren/y  because  he  could  not  find 
what  he  was  looking  for,  or  because  sonic  one  offered  to  help 
him.  Then  he  would  stand  stock  still  in  the  middle  of  it  all, 
and  when  they  asked  him  what  he  was  looking  for,  he  did  not 
know  himself.  He  seemed  to  have  lost  all  interest  in  his  fam- 
ily: or  he  would  kiss  them  with  tears  in  his  eyes.  He  could  not 
sleep,  lie  could  not  eat. 

Madame  Jeannin  saw  that  they  were  on  the  eve  of  a  catas- 
trophe :  but  she  had  never  taken  any  part  in  her  husband's 
affairs,  and  did  not  understand  them.  She  questioned  him  :  he 
repulsed  her  brutally:  and,  hurt  in  her  pride,  she  did  not  per- 
sist. But  she  trembled,  without  knowing  why. 

The  children  could  have  no  suspicion  of  the  impending 
disaster.  Antoinette,  no  doubt,  was  too  intelligent  not,  like 


ANTOINETTE  210 

her  mother,  to  have  a  presentiment  of  some  misfortune:  but  she 
was  absorbed  in  the  delight  of  her  budding  love:  she  refused  to 
think  of  unpleasant  things:  she  persuaded  herself  that  the 
clouds  would  pass — or  that  it  would  be  time  enough  to  see  them 
when  it  was  impossible  to  disregard  them. 

Of  the  three,  the  boy  Olivier  was  perhaps  the  nearest  to 
understanding  what  was  going  on  in  his  unhappy  father's 
soul.  He  felt  that  his  father  was  suffering,  and  he  suffered 
with  him  in  secret.  But  he  dared  not  say  anything:  naturally 
he  could  do  nothing,  and  he  was  helpless.  And  then  he,  too. 
thrust  back  the  thought  of  sad  things,  the  nature  of  which 
he  could  not  grasp :  like  his  mother  and  sister,  he  was  super- 
stitiously  inclined  to  believe  that  perhaps  misfortune,  the  ap- 
proach of  which  he  did  not  wish  to  see,  would  not  come.  Those 
poor  wretches  who  feel  the  imminence  of  danger  do  readily 
play  the  ostrich:  they  hide  their  heads  behind  a  stone,  and 
pretend  that  Misfortune  will  not  see  them. 

Disturbing  rumors  began  to  fly.  It  was  said  that  the  bank's 
credit  was  impaired.  In  vain  did  the  banker  assure  his  clients 
that  it  was  perfectly  all  right,  on  one  pretext  or  another  the 
more  suspicious  of  them  demanded  their  money.  M.  .Teannin 
felt  that  he  was  lost:  he  defended  himself  desperately,  assum- 
ing a  tone  of  indignation,  and  complaining  loftily  and  bitterly 
of  their  suspicions  of  himself:  he  even  went  so  far  as  to  he 
violent  and  angry  with  some  of  his  old  clients,  but  that  onlv 
let  him  down  finally.  Demands  for  payment  came  in  a  rush. 
On  his  beam-ends,  at  bay.  he  completely  lost  his  head,  lie 
went  away  for  a  few  days  to  gamble  with  his  last  few  bank- 
notes at  a  neighboring  watering-place,  was  cleaned  out  in  a 
quarter  of  an  hour,  and  returned  home.  His  sudden  departure 
set  the  little  town  by  the  ears,  and  it  was  said  that  lie  had 
cleared  out:  and  Madame  Jeannin  had  had  great  difficulty  in 
coping  with  the  wild,  anxious  inquiries  of  the  people:  she  begged 
them  to  be  patient,  and  swore  that  her  husband  would  return. 
They  did  not  believe  her,  although  they  would  have  been  only 


220  JEAtf-CHlUSTOPHE  IX   PA1US 

too  glad  to  do  so.  And  so,  when  it  was  known  that  he  had 
returned,  there  was  a  general  sigh  of  relief :  there  were  many 
who  almost  believed  that,  their  fears  had  been  baseless,  and 
that  the  Jeannins  were  much  too  shrewd  not  to  get  out  of  a 
hole  by  admitting  that  they  had  fallen  into  it.  The  banker's 
attitude  confirmed  that  impression.  Now  that  he  no  longer  had 
any  doubt  as  to  what  he  must  do.  lie  seemed  to  be  weary,  but 
quite  ealm.  He  chatted  quietly  to  a  few  friends  whom  he  met 
in  the  station  road  on  his  way  home,  talking  about  the  drought 
and  the  country  not  having  had  any  water  for  weeks,  and  the 
superb  condition  of  the  vines,  and  the  fall  of  the  Ministry,  an- 
nounced in  the  evening  papers. 

When  he  reached  home  he  pretended  not  to  notice  his 
wife's  excitement,  who  had  run  to  meet  him  when  she  heard 
him  come  in,  and  told  him  volubly  and  confusedly  what  had 
happened  during  his  absence.  She  scanned  his  features  to 
try  and  see  whether  he  had  succeeded  in  averting  the  unknown 
danger:  but,  from  pride,  she  did  not  ask  him  anything:  she 
was  waiting  for  him  to  speak  first.  But  he  did  not  say  a  word 
about  the  tiling  that  was  tormenting  them  both.  Tie  silently 
disregarded  her  desire  to  confide  in  him,  and  to  get  him  to  con- 
fide in  her.  lie  spoke  of  the  heat,  and  of  bow  tired  he  was. 
and  complained  of  a  racking  headache:  and  they  sat  down  to 
dinner  as  usual. 

Ihi  talked  little,  and  was  dull,  lost  in  thought,  and  his 
brows  were  knit:  he  drummed  with  his  lingers  on  the  table: 
he  forced  himself  to  cat.  knowing  that  they  were  watching 
him,  and  looked  with  vague,  unseeing  eyes  at  his  children, 
who  were  intimidated  by  the  silence,  and  at  his  wife,  who  sat 
stillly  nursing  her  injured  vanity,  and,  without  looking  at  him, 
marking  his  every  movement.  Towards  the  end  of  dinner  he 
seemed  to  wake  up:  he  tried  to  talk  to  Antoinette  and  Olivier, 
and  asked  them  what  they  had  been  doing  during  his  absence: 
but  he  did  not  listen  to  their  replies,  and  heard  only  the 
sound  of  their  voices:  and  although  he  was  staring  at  them, 
his  gaze  was  elsewhere.  Olivier  felt  it:  he  stopped  in  the 


ANTOINETTE  321 

middle  of  his  prattle,  and  had  no  desire  io  go  on.  But,  after  a 
moment's  embarrassment,  Antoinette  recovered  her  gaiety:  she 
chattered  merrily,  like  a  magpie,  laid  her  head  on  her  father's 
shoulder,  or  tugged  his  sleeve  to  make  him  listen  to  what  she 
was  saying.  M.  Jeannin  said  nothing:  his  eyes  wandered  from 
Antoinette  to  Olivier,  and  the  crease  in  his  forehead  grew 
deeper  and  deeper.  In  the  middle  of  one  of  his  daughter's 
stories  he  could  hear  it  no  longer,  and  got  up  and  went  and 
looked  out  of  the  window  to  conceal  his  emotion.  The  chil- 
dren folded  their  napkins,  and  got  up  too.  Madame  Jeannin 
told  them  to  go  and  play  in  the  garden:  in  a  moment  or  two 
they  could  he  heard  chasing  each  other  down  the  paths  and 
screaming.  Madame  Jeannin  looked  at  her  husband,  whose 
hack  was  turned  towards  her,  and  she  walked  round  the  talile 
as  though  to  arrange  something.  Suddenly  she  went  up  to 
him,  and,  in  a  voice  hushed  by  her  fear  of  being  over- 
heard by  the  servants  and  by  the  agony  that  was  in  her.  she 
said: 

"Tell  me,  Antoine,  what  is  the  matter?  There  is  something 
the  matter.  .  .  .  You  are  hiding  something.  .  .  .  Has, 
something  dreadful  happened?  Are  you  ill?" 

But  once  more  M.  Jeannin  put  her  oil',  and  shrugged  his 
shoulders,  and  said  harshly  : 

"Xo!     Xo,  I  tell  you!     Let  me  he!" 

She  was  angry,  and  went  away:  in  her  t'urv.  she  declared 
that,  no  matter  what  happened  to  her  husband,  she  would  not 
bother  about  it  any  more. 

M.  Jeannin  went  down  into  the  garden.  Antoinette1  was  still 
larking  about,  and  tugging  at  her  brother  to  make  him  run. 
But  the  boy  declared  suddenly  that  he  was  not  going  to  play 
any  more:  and  he  leaned  against  tin 
few  yards  awav  from  his  father, 
teasing  him:  but  he  drove  her 
called  him  names:  and  when 
fun  out  of  him.  she  went  in  and  began  to 

M.  Jeannin  and  Olivier  were  left  alone. 


222  JEAN-CHEISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

"  What's  the  matter  with  you,  boy?     Why  won't  you  play?" 
asked  the  father  gently 
.  "  I'm  tired,  father." 

"  Well,  let  us  sit  here  on  this  seat  for  a  little." 

They  sat  down.  It  was  a  lovely  September  night.  A  dark, 
clear  sky.  The  sweet  scent  of  the  petunias  was  mingled  with 
the  stale  and  rather  unwholesome  smell  of  the  canal  sleeping 
darkly  below  the  terrace  wall.  Great  moths,  pale  and  sphinx- 
like,  fluttered  about  the  flowers,  with  a  little  whirring  sound. 
The  even  voices  of  the  neighbors  sitting  at  their  doors  on 
the  other  side  of  the  canal  rang  through  the  silent  air.  In  the 
house  Antoinette  was  playing  a  florid  Italian  cavatina.  M. 
Jeannin  held  Olivier  s  hand  in  his.  He  was  smoking.  Through 
the  darkness  behind  which  his  father's  face  was  slowly  dis- 
appearing the  boy  could  see  the  red  glow  of  the  pipe,  which 
gleamed,  died  away,  gleamed  again,  and  finally  went  out. 
Neither  spoke.  Then  Olivier  asked  the  names  of  the  stars. 
M.  Jeannin,  like  almost  all  men  of  his  class,  knew  nothing 
of  the  things  of  Nature,  and  could  not  tell  him  the  names  of 
any  save  the  great  constellations,  which  are  known  to  every 
one:  but  he  pretended  that  the  boy  was  asking  their  names,  and 
told  him.  Olivier  made  no  objection:  it  always  pleased  him 
to  hear  their  beautiful  mysterious  names,  and  to  repeat  them 
in  a  whisper.  Besides,  he  was  not  so  much  wanting  to  know 
their  names  as  instinctively  to  come  closer  to  his  father.  They 
said  nothing  more.  Olivier  looked  at  the  stars,  with  his  head 
thrown  back  and  his  mouth  open :  he  was  lost  in  drowsy 
thoughts:  he  could  feel  through  all  his  veins  the  warmth 
of  his  father's  hand.  Suddenlv  the  baud  began  to  trem- 
ble. That  seemed  funny  to  Olivier,  and  he  laughed  and  said 
sleepily: 

"Oh,  how  your  hand  is  trembling,  father!" 

M.  Jeannin  removed  his  hand. 

After  a  moment  Olivier,  still  busy  with  his  own  thoughts, 
said  : 

"Are  you  tired,  too,  father?" 


ANTOINETTE  223 

"  Yes,  my  boy." 

The  boy  replied  affectionately : 

"Yon  must  not  tire  yourself  out  so  much,  father." 

M.  Jcannin  drew  Olivier  towards  him,  and  held  him  to  his 
breast  and  murmured : 

"My  poor  boy!    ..." 

But  already  Oliviers  thoughts  had  flown  off  on  another  tack. 
The  church  clock  chimed  eight  o'clock.  He  broke  away,  and 
said: 

"  I'm  going  to  read." 

On  Thursdays  he  was  allowed  to  read  for  an  hour  after  din- 
ner, until  bedtime:  it  was  his  greatest  joy:  and  nothing  in  the 
world  could  induce  him  to  sacrifice  a  minute  of  it. 

M.  Jeannin  let  him  go.  He  walked  up  and  down  the  ter- 
race for  a  little  in  the  dark.  Then  he,  too,  went  in. 

In  the  room  his  wife  and  the  two  children  were  sitting  round 
the  lamp.  Antoinette  was  sewing  a  ribbon  on  to  a  blouse, 
talking  and  humming  the  while,  to  Olivier's  obvious  discom- 
fort, for  he  was  stopping  his  ears  with  his  fists  so  a?  not  to 
hear,  while  he  pored  over  his  book  with  knitted  brows,  and 
his  elbows  on  the  table.  Madame  Jeannin  was  mending  stock- 
ings and  talking  to  the  old  nurse,  who  was  standing  by  her 
side  and  giving  an  account  of  her  day's  expenditure,  and  seiz- 
ing the  opportunity  for  a  little  gossip:  she  always  had  some 
amusing  tale  to  tell  in  her  extraordinary  lingo,  which  used  to 
make  them  roar  with  laughter,  while  Antoinette  would  try  to 
imitate  her.  M.  Jeannin  watched  them  silently.  No  one 
notu-ed  him.  He  wavered  for  a  moment,  sat  down,  took  up 
a  bonk,  opened  it  at  random,  shut  it  again,  got  up:  he  could 
not  sit  still.  lie  lit  a  candle  and  said  good-night,  lie  went 
up  to  the  children  and  kissed  them  fondly:  they  returned  his 
kiss  absently  without  looking  up  at  him. — Antoinette  being 
absorbed  in  her  work,  and  Olivier  in  his  book.  Olivier  did 
not  even  take  his  hands  from  his  ears,  and  grunted  4t  Ciood- 
night,"  and  went  on  reading: — (when  he  was  reading  even  if 
one  of  his  familv  had  fallen  into  the  tire,  he  would  not  have 


224:  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IX  PARIS 

looked  up). — M.  Joannin  left  the  room.  He  lingered  in  the 
next  room,  for  a  moment.  His  wife  came  out  soon,  the  old 
nurse  having  gone  to  arrange  the  linen-cupboard.  She  pre- 
tended not  to  see  him.  He  hesitated,  then  came  up  to  her, 
and  said : 

"  I   heg  your   pardon.     I   was   rather   rude   just   now." 

She  longed  to  say  to  him : 

"My  dear,  my  dear,  that  is  nothing:  but,  tell  me,  what  is 
the  matter  with  you?  Tell  me,  what  is  hurting  you  so?" 

But  she  jumped  at  the  opportunity  of  taking  her  revenge. 
and  said : 

"  Let  me  be !  You  have  been  behaving  odiously.  You  treat 
me  worse  than  you  would  a  servant." 

And  she  went  on  in  that  strain,  setting  forth  all  her 
grievances  volubly,  shrilly,  rancorously. 

He  raised  his  hands  wearily,  smiled  bitterly,  and  left  her. 

Xo  one  heard  the  report  of  the  revolver.  Only,  next  day, 
when  it  was  known  what  had  happened,  a  few  of  the  neigh- 
bors remembered  that,  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  when  the 
streets  were  quiet,  they  had  noticed  a  sharp  noise  like  the 
cracking  of  a  whip.  They  did  not  pay  any  attention  to  it. 
The  silence  of  the  night  fell  once  more  upon  the  town,  wrap- 
ping both  living  and  dead  about  with  its  mystery. 

Madame  Jeannin  was  asleep,  but  woke  up  an  hour  or  two 
later.  Xot  seeing  her  husband  by  her  side  she  got  up  and 
went  anxioush-  through  all  the  rooms,  and  downstairs  to  the 
offices  of  the  bank,  which  were  in  an  annex  of  the  house:  and 
there,  sitting  in  his  chair  in  his  office,  she  found  M.  Jeannin 
huddled  forward  on  his  desk  in  a  pool  of  blood,  which  was  still 
dripping  do\vn  on  to  the  floor.  She  gave  a  scream,  dropped 
her  candle,  and  fainted.  She  was  heard  in  the  house.  The 
servants  came  running,  picked  her  up,  took  care  of  her,  and 
laid  the  body  of  M.  Jeannin  on  a  bed.  The  door  of  the  chil- 
dren's room  was  locked.  Antoinette  was  sleeping  happily. 
Olivier  heard  the  sound  of  voices  and  footsteps :  he  wanted  to 


ANTOINETTE  225 

go  and  see  what  it  was  all  about:  but  he  was  afraid  of  waking 
his  sister,  and  presently  he  went  to  sleep  again. 

Next  morning  the  news  was  all  over  the  town  before  they 
knew  anything.  Their  old  nurse  came  sobbing  and  told  them. 
Their  mother  was  incapable  of  thinking  of  anything:  her  con- 
dition was  critical.  The  two  children  were  left  alone  in  the 
presence  of  death.  At  first  they  were  more  fearful  than  sor- 
rowful. And  they  were  not  allowed  to  weep  in  peace.  The 
cruel  legal  formalities  were  begun  the  first  thing  in  the  morning. 
Antoinette  hid  away  in  her  room,  and  with  all  the  force  of 
her  youthful  egoism  clung  to  the  only  idea  which  could  help 
her  to  thrust  back  the  horror  of  the  overwhelming  reality : 
the  thought  of  her  lover:  all  day  long  she  waited  for  him  to 
come.  Never  had  he  been  more  ardent  than  the  last  time  she 
had  seen  him,  and  she  had  no  doubt  that,  as  soon  as  he  heard  of 
the  catastrophe,  he  would  hasten  to  share  her  grief. — But  no- 
body came,  or  wrote,  or  gave  one  sign  of  sympathy.  As  soon 
as  the  news  of  the  suicide  was  out,  people  who  had  intrusted 
their  money  to  the  banker  rushed  to  the  Jeannins'  house,  forced 
their  way  in,  and,  with  merciless  cruelty,  stormed  and  screamed 
at  the  widow  and  the  two  children. 

In  a  few  days  they  were  faced  with  their  utter  ruin:  the 
loss  of  a  dear  one,  the  loss  of  their  fortune,  their  position,  their 
public  esteem,  and  the  desertion  of  their  friends.  A  total 
wreck.  Nothing  was  left  to  provide  for  them.  They  had  all 
three  an  uncompromising  feeling  for  moral  purity,  which  made 
their  suffering  all  the  greater  from  the  dishonor  of  which  they 
were  innocent.  Of  the  three  Antoinette  was  the  most  dis- 
traught by  their  sorrow,  because  she  had  never  really  known 
suffering.  Madame  Jeannin  and  Olivier,  though  they  were 
racked  by  it,  were  more  inured  to  it.  Instinctively  pessimistic, 
they  were  overwhelmed  but  not  surprised.  The  idea  of  death 
had  always  been  a  refuge  to  them,  as  it  was  now,  more  than 
ever:  they  longed  for  death.  It  is  pitiful  to  be  so  resigned,  but 
not  so  terrible  as  the  revolt  of  a  young  creature,  confident  and 
happy,  loving  every  moment  of  her  life,  who  suddenly  finds 


226  JEAN-CHRISTOPIIK  IX  PARIS 

herself  face  to  face  with  such  unfathomable,  irremediable  sor- 
row, and  death  which  is  horrible  to  her.  .  .  . 

Antoinette  discovered  the  ugliness  of  the  world  in  a  flash. 
Her  eyes  were  opened :  she  saw  life  and  human  beings  as  they 
are :  she  judged  her  father,  her  mother,  and  her  brother. 
While  Olivier  and  Madame  Jeannin  wept  together,  in  her 
grief  she  drew  into  herself.  Desperately  she  pondered  the 
past,  the  present,  and  the  future:  and  she  saw  that  there  was 
nothing  left  for  her,  no  hope,  nothing  to  support  her:  she 
could  count  on  no  one. 

The  funeral  took  place,  grimly,  shamefully.  The  Church 
refused  to  receive  the  body  of  the  suicide.  The  widow  and 
orphans  were  deserted  by  the  cowardice  of  their  former 
friends.  One  or  two  of  them  came  for  a  moment:  and  their 
embarrassment  was  even  harder  to  bear  than  the  absence  of  the 
rest.  They  seemed  to  make  a  favor  of  it,  and  their  silence  was 
big  with  reproach  and  pitying  contempt.  It  was  even  worse 
with  their  relations:  not  only  did  they  receive  no  single  word  of 
sympathy,  but  they  were  visited  with  bitter  reproaches.  The 
banker's  suicide,  far  from  removing  ill-feeling,  seemed  to  be 
hardly  less  criminal  than  his  failure.  Respectable  people  can- 
not forgive  those  who  kill  themselves.  It  seems  to  them  mon- 
strous that  a  man  should  prefer  death  to  life  with  dishonor: 
and  they  would  fain  call  down  all  the  rigor  of  the  law  on  him 
who  seems  to  say : 

"There  is  no  misery  so  great  as  that  of  living  with  you." 

The  greatest  cowards  are  not  the  least  ready  to  accuse  him 
of  cowardice.  And  when,  in  addition,  the  suicide,  by  ending 
his  life,  touches  their  interests  and  their  revenge,  they  lose 
all  control. — Not  for  one  moment  did  they  think  of  all  that 
the  wretched  Jeannin  must  have  suffered  to  come  to  it.  They 
would  have  had  him  suffer  a  thousand  times  more.  And  as  he 
had  escaped  them,  they  transferred  their  fury  to  his  family. 
They  did  not  admit  it  to  themselves:  for  they  knew  they  were 
unjust.  But  they  did  it  all  the  same,  for  they  needed  a  victim. 

Madame  Jeannin,  who  seemed  to  be  able  to  do  nothing  but 


ANTOINETTE  22? 

weep  and  moan,  recovered  her  energy  when  her  husband  was 
attacked.  She  discovered  then  how  much  she  had  loved  him  : 
and  she  and  her  two  children,  who  had  no  idea  what  would 
become  of  them  in  the  future,  all  agreed  to  renounce  their  claim 
to  her  dowry,  and  to  their  own  personal  estate,  in  order,  as 
far  as  possible,  to  meet  M.  Jcannin's  debts.  And,  since  it  had 
become  impossible  for  them  to  stay  in  the  little  town,  they  de- 
cided to  go  to  Paris. 

Their  departure  was  something  in  the  nature  of  a  flight. 

On  the  evening  of  the  day  before, —  (a  melancholy  evening 
towards  the  end  of  September :  the  fields  were  disappearing 
behind  the  white  veil  of  mist,  out  of  which,  as  they  walked 
along  the  road,  on  either  side  the  fantastic  shapes  of  the  drip- 
ping, shivering  bushes  started  forth,  looking  like  the  plants  in 
an  aquarium), — they  went  together  to  say  farewell  to  the  grave 
where  he  lay.  They  all  three  knelt  on  the  narrow  curbstone 
which  surrounded  the  freshly  turned  patch  of  earth.  They 
wept  in  silence;  Olivier  sobbed.  Madame  Jeannin  mopped  her 
eyes  mournfully.  She  augmented  her  grief  and  tortured  her- 
self by  saying  to  herself  over  and  over  again  the  words  she 
had  spoken  to  her  husband  the  last  time  she  had  seen  him  alive. 
Olivier  thought  of  that  last  conversation  on  the  seat  on  the 
terrace.  Antoinette  wondered  dreamily  what  would  become  of 
them.  Xone  of  them  ever  dreamed  of  reproaching  the  wretched 
man  who  had  dragged  them  down  in  his  own  ruin.  But  An- 
toinette thought : 

"Ah!  dear  father,  how  we  shall  suffer!" 

The  mist  grew  more  dense,  the  cold  damp  pierced  through 
to  their  bones.  But  Madame  Jeannin  could  not  bring  herself 
to  go.  Antoinette  saw  that  Olivier  was  shivering  and  she  said 
to  her  mother : 

"  I  am  cold." 

They  got  up.  Just  as  they  wore  going.  Madame  Jeannin 
•  turned  once  more  towards  the  grave,  gazed  at  it  for  the  last 
time,  and  said: 


228  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IX  PARIS 

"  My  dear,  my  dear !  " 

They  left  the  cemetery  as  night  was  falling.  Antoinette  held 
Olivier's  icy  hand  in  hers. 

They  went  back  to  the  old  house.  It  was  their  last  night 
under  the  roof-tree  where  they  had  always  slept,  where  their 
lives  and  the  lives  of  their  parents  had  been  lived — the  walls, 
the  hearth,  the  little  patch  of  earth  were  so  indissolubly  linked 
with  the  family's  joys  and  sorrows,  as  almost  themselves  to 
be  part  of  the  family,  part  of  their  life,  which  they  could  only 
leave  to  die. 

Their  boxes  were  packed.  They  were  to  take  the  first  train 
next  day  before  the  shops  were  opened :  they  wanted  to  escape 
their  neighbors'  curiosity  and  malicious  remarks. — They  longed 
to  cling  to  each  other  and  stay  together :  but  they  went  in- 
stinctively to  their  rooms  and  stayed  there :  there  they  re- 
mained standing,  never  moving,  not  even  taking  off  their  hats 
and  cloaks,  touching  the  walls,  the  furniture,  all  the  things  they 
were  going  to  leave,  pressing  their  faces  against  the  window- 
panes,  trying  to  take  away  with  them  in  memory  the  contact  of 
the  things  they  loved.  At  last  they  made  an  effort  to  shake 
free  from  the  absorption  of  their  sorrowful  thoughts  and  met 
in  Madame  Jeannin's  room, — the  family  room,  with  a  great 
recess  at  the  back,  where,  in  old  days,  they  always  used  to  fore- 
gather in  the  evening,  after  dinner,  when  there  were  no  visitors. 
In  old  days!  .  .  .  How  far  off  they  seemed  now! — They 
sat  silently  round  the  meager  fire:  then  they  all  knelt  by  the  bed 
and  said  their  prayers:  and  they  \vent  to  bed  very  early,  for 
they  had  to  be  up  before  dawn.  But  it  was  long  before  they 
slept. 

About  four  o'clock  in  the  morning  Madame  Jeannin.  who 
had  looked  at  her  watch  every  hour  or  so  to  see  whether  it 
was  not  time  to  get  readv.  lit  her  candle  and  got  up.  An- 
toinette, who  had  liardlv  slept  at  all,  heard  her  and  got  up  too. 
Olivier  was  fast  asleep.  Madame  Jeannin  gaxed  at  him  tenderly 
and  could  not  bring  herself  to  wake.  him.  She  stole  away  on 
tiptoe  and  said  to  Antoinette: 


AXTOIXETTE  220 

"  Don't  make  any  noise :  let  the  poor  boy  enjoy  his  last  mo- 
ments here !  " 

The  two  women  dressed  and  finished  their  packing.  About 
the  house  hovered  the  profound  silence  of  the  cold  night,  such 
a  night  as  makes  all  living  things,  men  and  beasts,  cower  away 
for  warmth  into  the  depths  of  sleep.  Antoinette's  teeth  were 
chattering :  she  was  frozen  body  and  soul. 

The  front  door  creaked  upon  the  frozen  air.  The  old  nurse, 
who  had  the  key  of  the  house,  came  for  the  last  time  to  serve 
her  employers.  She  was  short  and  fat,  short-winded,  and  slow- 
moving  from  her  portliness,  but  she  was  remarkably  active  for 
her  age :  she  appeared  with  her  jolly  face  muffled  up,  and  her 
nose  was  red,  and  her  eyes  were  wet  with  tears.  She  was 
heart-broken  when  she  saw  that  Madame  Jeannin  had  got  up 
without  waiting  for  her,  and  had  herself  lit  the  kitchen  fire. — 
Olivier  woke  up  as  she  came  in.  His  first  impulse  was  to  close 
his  eyes,  turn  over,  and  go  to  sleep  again.  Antoinette  came  and 
laid  her  hand  gently  on  her  brother's  shoulder,  and  she  said  in  a 
low  voice : 

"  Olivier,  dear,  it  is  time  to  get  up." 

He  sighed,  opened  his  eyes,  saw  his  sister's  face  leaning 
over  him :  she  smiled  sadly  and  caressed  his  face  with  her  hand. 
She  said : 

"  Come !  " 

He  got  up. 

They  crept  out  of  the  house,  noiselessly,  like  thieves.  They 
all  had  parcels  in  their  hands.  The  old  nurse  went  in  front 
of  them  trundling  their  boxes  in  a.  wheelbarrow.'  They  left 
behind  almost  all  their  possessions,  and  took  away,  so  to  speak, 
only  what  they  had  on  their  backs  and  a  change  of  clothes.  A 
few  things  for  remembrance  were  to  be  sent  after  them  by 
goods-train:  a  few  books,  portraits,  the  old  grandfather's  clock. 
whose  tick-tock  seemed  to  them  to  be  the  Wat  ing  of  their 
hearts. — The  air  was  keen.  Xo  one  was  stirring  in  tin1  town: 
the  shutters  were  closed  and  the  streets  cmptv.  They  said 
nothing:  only  the  old  servant  spoke.  Madame  Jeannin  was 


230  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

striving  to  fix  in  her  memory  all  the  images  which  told  her  of 
all  her  past  life. 

At  the  station,  out  of  vanity,  Madame  Jeannin  took  second- 
class  tickets,  although  she  had  vowed  to  travel  third :  but  she 
had  not  the  courage  to  face  the  humiliation  in  the  presence  otr 
the  railway  clerks  who  knew  her.  She  hurried  into  an  empty 
compartment  with  her  two  children  and  shut  the  door.  Hiding 
behind  the  curtains  they  trembled  lest  they  should  see  any  one 
they  knew.  But  no  one  appeared :  the  town  was  hardly  awake 
by  the  time  they  left :  the  train  was  empty :  there  were  only  a 
few  peasants  traveling  by  it,  and  some  oxen,  who  hung  their 
heads  out  of  their  trucks  and  bellowed  mournfully.  After  a 
long  wait  the  engine  gave  a  slow  whistle,  and  the  train  moved 
on  through  the  mist.  The  fugitives  drew  the  curtains  and 
pressed  their  faces  against  the  windows  to  take  a  last  long 
look  at  the  little  town,  with  its  Gothic  tower  just  appearing 
through  the  mist,  and  the  hill  covered  with  stubby  fields,  and 
the  meadows  white  and  steaming  with  the  frost;  already  it  was 
a  distant  dream-landscape,  fading  out  of  existence.  And  when 
the  train  turned  a  bend  and  passed  into  a  cutting,  and  they 
could  no  longer  see  it,  and  were  sure  there  was  no  one  to  see 
them,  they  gave  way  to  their  emotion.  With  her  handkerchief 
pressed  to  her  lips  Madame  Jeannin  sobbed.  Olivier  flung  him- 
self into  her  arms  and  with  his  head  on  her  knees  he  covered 
her  hands  with  tears  and  kisses.  Antoinette  pat  at  the  other 
end  of  the  compartment  and  looked  out  of  the  window  and 
wept  in  silence.  They  did  not  all  weep  for  the  same  reason. 
Madame  Jeannin  and  Olivier  were  thinking  only  of  what  they 
had  left  behind  them.  Antoinette  was  thinking  rather  of  what 
they  were  going  to  meet:  she  was  angry  with  herself:  she.  too. 
would  gladly  have  been  absorbed  in  her  memories.  .  .  .—She 
was  right  to  think  of  the  future:  she  had  a  truer  vision  of  the 
world  than  her  mother  and  brother.  Thev  were  weaving  dreams 
about  Paris.  Antoinette  herself  bad  little  notion  of  what 
awaited  them  there.  They  had  never  been  there.  Madame 
Teannin  imagined  that,  though  their  position  would  be  sad 


ANTOINETTE  231 

enough,  there  would  be  no  reason  for  anxiety.  She  had  a  sister 
in  Paris,  the  wife  of  a  wealthy  magistrate :  and  she  counted  on 
her  assistance.  She  was  convinced  also  that  with  the  education 
her  children  had  received  and  their  natural  gifts,  which,  like 
all  mothers,  she  overestimated,  they  would  have  no  difh'culty  in 
earning  an  honest  living. 

Their  first  impressions  were  gloomy  enough.  As  they  left  the 
station  they  were  bewildered  by  the  jostling  crowd  of  people 
in  the  luggage-room  and  the  confused  uproar  of  the  carriages 
outside.  It  was  raining.  They  could  not  find  a  cab,  and  had 
to  walk  a  long  way  with  their  arms  aching  with  their  heavy 
parcels,  so  that  they  had  to  stop  every  now  and  then  in  the 
middle  of  the  street  at  the  risk  of  being  run  over  or  splashed 
by  the  carriages.  They  could  not  make  a  single  driver  pay  an}' 
attention  to  them.  At  last  they  managed  to  stop  a  man  who 
was  driving  an  old  and  disgustingly  dirty  barouche.  As  they 
were  handing  in  the  parcels  they  let  a  bundle  of  rugs  fall  into 
the  mud.  The  porter  who  carried  the  trunk  and  the  cabman 
traded  on  their  ignorance,  and  made  them  pay  double.  Madame 
Jeannin  gave  the  address  of  one  of  those  second-rate  expensive 
hotels  patronized  by  provincials  who  go  on  going  to  them,  in 
spite  of  their  discomfort,  because  their  grandfathers  went  to 
them  thirty  years  ago.  TJiey  were  fleeced  there.  They  were 
told  that  the  hotel  was  full,  and  they  were  accommodated  with 
one  small  room  for  which  they  were  charged  the  price  of 
three.  For  dinner  they  tried  to  economize  by  avoiding  the 
table  d'hote:  they  ordered  a  modest  meal,  which  cost  them  just 
as  much  and  left  them  famishing.  Their  illusions  concerning 
Paris  had  come  toppling  down  as  soon  as  they  arrived.  And. 
during  that  first  night  in  the  hotel,  when  they  were  squec/ed 
into  one  little,  ill-ventilated  room,  they  could  not  sleep:  they 
were  hot  and  cold  by  turns,  and  could  not  breathe,  and  started 
at  every  footstep  in  the  corridor,  and  the  banging  of  tin-  doors, 
and  the  furious  ringing  of  the  electric  hells:  and  their  heads 
throbbed  with  the  incessant  roar  of  the  carriages  and  heavy 


232  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

drays:  and  altogether  they  felt  terrified  of  the  monstrous  city 
into  which  they  had  plunged  to  their  utter  bewilderment. 

Next  day  Madame  Jeannin  went  to  see  her  sister,  who  lived 
in  a  luxurious  flat  in  the  Boulevard  Hausmann.  She  hoped, 
though  she  did  not  say  so,  that  they  would  be  invited  to  stay 
there  until  they  had  found  their  feet.  The  welcome  she  re- 
ceived was  enough  to  undeceive  her.  The  Poyet-Delormes 
were  furious  at  their  relative's  failure :  especially  Madame 
Delorme,  who  was  afraid  that  it  would  be  set  against  her,  and 
might  injure  her  husband's  career,  and  she  thought  it  shame- 
less of  the  ruined  family  to  come  and  cling  to  them,  and  com- 
promise them  even  more.  The  magistrate  was  of  the  same 
opinion:  but  he  was  a  kindly  man:  he  would  have  been  more 
inclined  to  help,  but  for  his  wife's  intervention — to  which  he 
knuckled  under.  Madame  Poyet-Delorme  received  her  sister 
with  icy  coldness.  It  cut  Madame  Jeannin  to  the  heart :  but 
she  swallowed  down  her  pride :  she  hinted  at  the  difficulty  of 
her  position  and  the  assistance  she  hoped  to  receive  from  the 
Poyets.  Her  sister  pretended  not  to  understand,  and  did  not 
even  ask  her  to  stay  to  dinner :  they  were  ceremoniously  invited 
to  dine  at  the  end  of  the  week.  The  invitation  did  not  come 
from  Madame  Poyet  either,  but  from  the  magistrate,  who  was  a 
little  put  out  at  his  wife's  treatment  of  her  sister,  and  tried  to 
make  amends  for  her  curtness:  he,  posed  as  the  good-natured 
man:  but  it  was  obvious  that  it  did  not  come  easily  to  him 
and  that  he  was  really  very  selfish.  The  unhappy  Jeannins  re- 
turned to  their  hotel  without  daring  to  say  what  they  thought 
of  their  first  visit. 

They  spent  the  following  days  in  wandering  about  Paris, 
looking  for  a  fiat:  they  were  worn  out  with  going  up  stairs. 
and  disheartened  by  the  sight  of  the  great  barracks  crammed 
full  of  people,  an(l  the  dirty  stairs,  and  the  dark  rooms,  that 
seemed  so  depressing  to  them  after  their  own  big  house  in  the 
country.  They  grew  more  and  more  depressed.  And  they  were 
always  shy  and  timid  in  the  streets,  and  shops,  and  restaurants, 
so  that  they  were  cheated  at  every  turn.  Everything  they  asked 


ANTOINETTE  233 

for  cost  an  exorbitant  sum :  it  was  as  though  they  had  the 
faculty  of  turning  everything  they  touched  into  gold :  only,  it 
was  they  who  had  to  pay  out  the  gold.  They  were  incred- 
ibly simple  and  absolutely  incapable  of  looking  after  them- 
selves. 

Though  there  was  little  left  to  hope  for  from  Madame  Jean- 
nin's  sister,  the  poor  lady  wove  illusions  about  the  dinner  to 
which  they  were  invited.  They  dressed  for  it  with  fluttering 
hearts.  They  were  received  as  guests,  and  not  as  relations — 
though  nothing  more  was  expended  on  the  dinner  than  the 
ceremonious  manner.  The  children  met  their  cousins,  who 
were  almost  the  same  age  as  themselves,  but  the}r  were  not  much 
more  cordial  than  their  father  and  mother.  The  girl  was  very 
smart  and  coquettish,  and  spoke  to  them  with  a  lisp  and  a  po- 
litely superior  air,  with  affectedly  honeyed  manners  which  dis- 
concerted them.  The  boy  was  bored  by  this  duty-dinner  with 
their  poor  relations :  and  he  was  as  surly  as  could  be.  Madame 
Poyet-Delorme  sat  up  stiffly  in  her  chair,  and.  even  when  she 
handed  her  a  dish,  seemed  to  be  reading  her  sister  a  lesson. 
Madame  Poyet-Delorme  talked  trivialities  to  keep  the  conversa- 
tion from  becoming  serious.  They  never  got  beyond  talking  of 
what  they  were  eating  for  fear  of  touching  upon  any  intimate 
and  dangerous  topic.  Madame  Jeannin  made  an  effort  to  bring 
them  round  to  the  subject  next  her  heart:  Madame  Poyet- 
Delorme  cut  her  short  with  some  pointless  remark,  and  she 
had  not  the  courage  to  try  again. 

After  dinner  she  made  her  daughter  play  the  piano  by  way 
of  showing  off  her  talents.  The  poor  girl  was  embarrassed  and 
unhappy  and  played  execrably.  The  Poyets  were  bored  and 
anxious  for  her  to  finish.  Madame  Poyet  exchanged  glances 
with  her  daughter,  with  an  ironic  curl  of  her  lips:  and  as  the 
music  went  on  too  long  she  began  to  talk  to  Madame  Jeannin 
about  nothing  in  particular.  At  last  Antoinette,  who  had  quite 
lost  her  place,  and  saw  to  her  horror  that,  instead  of  going 
on,  she  had  begun  again  at  the  beginning,  and  that  there  was 
no  reason  why  she  should  ever  stop,  broke  off  suddenly,  and 


234  JEAN-CHEISTOPHE  JX  PAWS 

ended  wiili  two  inaccurate  chords  and  a  third  which  was  ab- 
solutely dissonant.     Monsieur  Poyet  said  : 

"  Bravo ! "' 

And  he  asked  for  coffee. 

Madame  Poyet  said  that  her  daughter  was  taking  lessons 
with  Pugno :  and  the  young  lady  "  who  was  taking  lessons  with 
Pugno  "  said : 

"Charming,  rny  dear   ..." 

And  asked  where  Antoinette  had  studied. 

The  conversation  dropped.  They  had  exhausted  the  knick- 
knacks  in  the  drawing-room  and  the  dresses  of  Madame  and 
Mademoiselle  Poyet.  Madame  Jeannin  said  to  herself : 

"I  must  speak  now.     I  must    .    .    ." 

And  she  fidgeted.  Just  as  she  had  pulled  herself  together  to 
begin,  Madame  Poyet  mentioned  casually,  without  any  attempt 
at  an  apology,  that  they  were  very  sorry  but  they  had  to  go 
out  at  half-past  nine:  they  had  an  invitation  which  they  had 
been  unable  to  decline.  The  Jeanriins  were  at  a  loss,  and  got 
up  at  once  to  go.  The  Poyets  made  some  show  of  detaining 
them.  But  a  quarter  of  an  hour  later  there  was  a  ring  at  the 
door:  the  footman  announced  some  friends  of  the  Poyets, 
neighbors  of  theirs,  Avho  lived  in  the  flat  below.  Poyet  and 
his  wife  exchanged  glances,  and  there  were  hurried  whisperings 
with  the  servants.  Poyet  stammered  some  excuse,  and  hur- 
ried the  Jeannins  into  the  next  room.  (lie  was  trying  to  hide 
from  his  friends  the  existence,  and  the  presence  in  his  house. 
of  the  compromising  family.)  The  Jeannins  were  left  alone  in 
a  room  without  a  fire.  The  children  were  furious  at  the  affront. 
Antoinette  had  tears  in  her  eyes  and  insisted  on  their  going. 
Her  mother  resisted  for  a  little:  but  then,  after  they  had  waited 
for  some  time,  she  agreed.  They  went  out.  'In  the  hall  they 
were  caught  by  Poyet,  who  had  been  told  by  a  servant,  and 
he  muttered  excuses:  he  pretended  that  he  wanted  them  to 
stay:  but  it  was  obvious  that  he  was  only  eager  for  them  to  go. 
Tie  helped  them  on  with  their  cloaks,  and  hurried  them  to  the 
door  with  smiles  and  handshakes  and  whispered  pleasantries,  and 


ANTOINETTE  235 

closed  the  door  on  them.  When  they  reached  their  hotel  the 
children  burst  into  angry  tears.  Antoinette  stamped  her 
foot,  and  swore  that  she  would  never  enter  their  house 
again. 

Madame  Jeannin  took  a  flat  on  the  fourth  floor  near  the 
Jardin  des  Plantes.  The  bedrooms  looked  on  to  the  filthy 
walls  of  a  gloomy  courtyard  :  the  dining-room  and  the  drawing- 
room— (for  Madame  Jeannin  insisted  on  having  a  drawing- 
room) — on  to  a  busy  street.  All  day  long  steam-trams  went 
by  and  hearses  crawling  along  to  the  Ivry  Cemetery.  Filthy 
Italians,  with  a  horde  of  children,  loafed  about  on  the  seats, 
or  spent  their  time  in  shrill  argument.  The  noise  made  it  im- 
possible to  have  the  windows  open:  and  in  the  evening,  on  their 
way  home,  they  had  to  force  their  way  through  crowds  of 
bustling,  evil-smelling  people,  cross  the  thronged  and  muddy 
streets,  pass  a  horrible  pothouse,  that  was  on  the  ground  floor 
of  the  next  house,  in  the  door  of  which  there  were  always  fat, 
frowsy  women  with  yellow  hair  and  painted  faces,  eying  the 
passers-by. 

Their  small  supply  of  money  soon  gave  out.  Every  evening 
with  sinking  hearts  they  took  stock  of  the  widening  hole  in  their 
purse.  They  tried  to  stint  themselves:  hut  they  did  not  know 
how  to  set  about  it:  that  is  a  science  which  can  only  be  learned 
by  years  of  experimenting,  unless  it  has  been  practised  from 
childhood.  Those  who  are  not  naturally  economical  merely 
waste  their  time  in  trying  to  be  so:  as  soon  as  a  fresh  oppor- 
tunity of  spending  money  crops  up,  they  succumb  to  the  tempta- 
tion:  they  are  always  going  to  economize  next  time:  and  when 
they  do  happen  to  make  a  little  money,  or  to  think  they  have 
made  it,  they  rush  out  and  spend  ten  times  the  amount  on  the 
strength  of  it. 

At  the  end  of  a  few  weeks  the  Jeannins'  resources  were  ex- 
hausted. Madame  Jeannin  had  to  gulp  down  what  was  left 
of  her  pride,  and,  unknown  to  her  children,  she  went  and  asked 
Poyet  for  money.  She  contrived  to  see  him  alone  at  his  office, 
and  begged  him  to  advance  her  a  small  sum  until  they  had 


236  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

found  work  to  keep  them  alive.  Poyet,  who  was  weak  and 
human  enough,  tried  at  first  to  postpone  the  matter,  but 
finally  acceded  to  her  request.  He  gave  her  two  hundred  francs 
in  a  moment  of  emotion,  which  mastered  him,  and  he  repented 
of  it  immediately  afterwards, — when  he  had  to  make  his  peace 
with  Madame  Poyet,  who  was  furious  with  her  husband's  weak- 
ness, and  her  sister's  slyness. 

All  day  and  every  day  the  Jeannins  were  out  and  about 
in  Paris,  looking  for  work.  Madame  Jeannin,  true  to  the 
prejudices  of  her  class,  would  not  hear  of  their  engaging  in  any 
other  profession  than  those  which  are  called  "  liberal  " — no 
doubt  because  they  leave  their  devotees  free  to  starve.  She 
would  even  have  gone  so  far  as  to  forbid  her  daughter  to  take  a 
post  as  a  family  governess.  Only  the  official  professions,  in  the 
service  of  the  State,  were  not  degrading  in  her  eyes.  They 
had  to  discover  a  means  of  letting  Olivier  finish  his  educa- 
tion so  that  he  might  become  a  teacher.  As  for  Antoinette, 
Madame  Jeannin's  idea  was  that  she  should  go  to  a  school  to 
teach,  or  to  the  Conservatoire  to  win  the  prize  for  piano  playing. 
But  the  schools  at  which  she  applied  already  had  teachers 
enough,  who  were  much  better  qualified  than  her  daughter  with 
her  poor  little  elementary  certificate :  and,  as  for  music,  she 
had  to  recognize  that  Antoinette's  talent  was  quite  ordinary 
compared  with  that  of  so  many  others  who  did  not  get  on  at  all. 
They  came  face  to  face  with  the  terrible  struggle  for  life,  and 
the  blind  waste  of  talent,  great  and  small,  for  which  Paris  can 
find  no  use. 

The  two  children  lost  heart  and  exaggerated  their  useless- 
ness:  they  believed  that  they  were  mediocre,  and  did  their  best 
to  convince  themselves  and  their  mother  that  it  was  so.  Olivier, 
who  had  had  no  difficulty  in  shining  at  his  provincial  school, 
was  crushed  by  his  various  rebuff's:  he  seemed  to  have  lost  pos- 
session of  all  his  gifts.  At  the  school  for  which  he  won  a 
scholarship,  the  results  of  his  first  examinations  were  so  dis- 
astrous that  his  scholarship  was  taken  away  from  him.  lie 


ANTOINETTE  237 

thought  himself  utterly  stupid.  At  the  same  time  he  had  a 
horror  of  Paris,  and  its  swarming  inhabitants,  and  the  disgust- 
ing immorality  of  his  schoolfellows,  and  their  shameful  con- 
versation, and  the  bestiality  of  a  few  of  them  who  did  not  spare 
him  from  their  abominable  proposals.  He  was  not  even  strong 
enough  to  show  his  contempt  for  them.  He  felt  degraded  by 
the  mere  thought  of  their  degradation.  With  his  mother  and 
sister,  he  took  refuge  in  the  heartfelt  prayers  which  they  used 
to  say  every  evening  after  the  day  of  deceptions  and  private 
humiliations,  which  to  their  innocence  seemed  to  be  a  taint,  of 
which  they  dared  not  tell  each  other.  But,  in  contact  with  the 
latent  spirit  of  atheism  which  is  in  the  air  of  Paris,  Olivier's 
faith  was  beginning  to  crumble  away,  without  his  knowledge, 
like  whitewash  trickling  down  a  wall  under  the  beating  of  the 
rain.  He  went  on  believing:  but  all  about  him  God  was 
dying. 

His  mother  and  sister  pursued  their  futile  quest.  Madame 
Jeannin  turned  once  more  to  the  Poyets,  who  were  anxious  to 
be  quit  of  them,  and  offered  them  work.  Madame  Jeannin  was 
to  go  as  reader  to  an  old  lady  who  was  spending  the  winter  in 
the  South  of  France.  A  post  was  found  for  Antoinette  as  gov- 
erness in  a  family  in  the  West,  who  lived  all  the  year  round  in 
the  country.  The  terms  were  not  bad,  but  Madame  Jeannin 
refused.  It  was  not  so  much  for  herself  that  she  objected  to  a 
menial  position,  but  she  was  determined  that  Antoinette  should 
not  be  reduced  to  it,  and  unwilling  to  part  with  her.  However 
unhappy  they  might  be,  just  because  they  were  unhappy,  they 
wished  to  be  together. — Madame  Poyet  took  it  very -badly. 
She  said  that  people  who  had  no  means  of  living  had  no  busi- 
ness to  be  proud.  Madame  Jeannin  could  not  refrain  from 
crying  out  upon  her  heartlessness.  Madame  Poyet  spoke  bit- 
terly of  the  bankruptcy  and  of  the  money  that  Madame  Jeannin 
owed  her.  They  parted,  and  the  breach  between  them  was 
final.  All  relationship  between  them  was  broken  off.  Madame 
Jeannin  had  only  one  desire  left:  to  pay  back  the  money  she 
had  borrowed  But  she  was  unable  to  do  that. 


238  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN    PARIS 

They  resumed  their  vain  search  for  work.  Madame  Jeannin 
vent  to  see  the  deputy  and  the  senator  of  her  department,  men 
whom  Monsieur  Jeannin  had  often  helped.  Everywhere  she  was 
brought  face  to  face  with  ingratitude  and  selfishness.  The 
deputy  did  not  even  answer  her  letters,  and  when  she  called 
on  him  he  sent  down  word  that  he  was  out.  The  senator  com- 
miserated her  ponderously  on  her  unhappy  position,  which  he 
attributed  to  "the  wretched  Jeannin."  whose  suicide  he  stig- 
matized harshly.  Madame  Jeannin  defended  her  husband. 
The  senator  said  that  of  course  he  knew  that  the  hanker  had 
acted,  not  from  dishonesty,  but  from  stupidity,  and  that  he 
was  a  fool,  a  poor  gull,  who  knew  nothing,  and  would  go  his 
own  way  without  asking  amrbody's  advice  or  taking  a  warning 
from  any  one.  If  he  had  only  ruined  himself,  there  would 
have  been  nothing  to  say:  that  would  have  been  his  own  affair. 
But — not  to  mention  the  ruin  that  he  had  brought  on  others, — 
that  he  should  have  reduced  his  wife  and  children  to  poverty 
and  deserted  them  and  left  them  to  get  out  of  it  as  best  they 
could  ...  it  was  Madame  Jeannin's  own  business  if  she  chose 
to  forgive  him,  if  she  were  a  saint,  but  for  his  part.  he.  the 
senator,  not  being  a  saint — (s,  a,  i.  n.  t), — but,  he  flattered  him- 
self, just  a  plain  man — (s,  a,  i,  n), — a  plain,  sensible,  rea- 
sonable human  being, — he  could  find  no  reason  for  forgiveness: 
a  man  who,  in  such  circumstances,  could  kill  himself,  was  a 
wretch.  The  only  extenuating  circumstance  he  could  find  in 
Jeannin's  case  was  that  lie  was  not  responsible  for  his  actions. 
With  that  he  begged  Madame  .Teannin's  pardon  for  having  ex- 
pressed himself  a  little  emphatically  about  her  husband:  he 
pleaded  the  sympathy  that  he  felt  for  her:  and  he  opened  his 
drawer  and  offered  her  a  fifty-franc  note. — charity — which  she 
refused. 

She  applied  for  a  post  in  the  ofTices  of  a  great  novernment 
department.  She  set  about  if  clumsily  and  ineonsequently.  and 
all  her  courage  ooxed  out  at  the  first  attempt.  She  retuined 
home  so  demoralized  that  for  several  days  she  could  not  stir. 
.\nd,  when  she  resumed  her  efforts,  it  was  too  late,  She  did 


ANTOINETTE  239 

not  find  help  either  with  the  church-people,  either  because  they 
saw  there  was  nothing  to  gain  by  it,  or  because  they  took  no 
interest  in  a  ruined  family,  the  head  of  which  had  been  notori- 
ously anti-clerical.  After  days  and  days  of  hunting  for  work 
Madame  Jeannin  could  find  nothing  better  than  a  post  as  music- 
teacher  in  a  convent — an  ungrateful  task,  ridiculously  ill-paid. 
To  eke  out  her  earnings  she  copied  music  in  the  evenings  for 
an  agency.  They  were  very  hard  on  her.  She  was  severely 
called  to  task  for  omitting  words  and  whole  lines,  as  she  did 
in  spite  of  her  application,  for  she  was  always  thinking  of  so 
many  other  things  and  her  wits  were  wool-gathering.  And  so, 
after  she  had  stayed  up  through  the  night  till  her  eyes  and  her 
back  ached,  her  copy  was  rejected.  She  would  return  home  ut- 
terly downcast.  She  would  spend  days  together  moaning,  un- 
able to  stir  a  finger.  For  a  long  time  she  had  been  suffering 
from  heart  trouble,  which  had  been  aggravated  by  her  hard 
struggles,  and  filled  her  with  dark  forebodings.  Sometimes 
she  would  have  pains,  and  difficulty  in  breathing  as  though  she 
were  on  the  point  of  death.  She  never  went  out  without  her 
name  and  address  written  on  a  piece  of  paper  in  her  pocket 
in  case  she  should  collapse  in  the  street.  What  would  happen 
if  she  were  to  disappear?  Antoinette  comforted  her  as  best  she 
could  by  affecting  a  confidence  which  she  did  not  possess :  she 
begged  her  to  be  careful  and  to  let  her  go  and  work  in  her 
stead.  But  the  little  that  was  left  of  Madame  Jeannin's  pride 
stirred  in  her,  and  she  vowed  that  at  least  her  daughter  should 
not  know  the  humiliation  she  had  to  undergo. 

In  vain  did  she  wear  herself  out  and  cut  down  their  ex- 
penses: what  she  earned  was  not  enough  to  keep  them  alive.. 
They  had  to  sell  the  few  jewels  which  they  had  kept.  And 
the  worst  blow  of  all  came  when  the  money,  of  which  they  were 
in  such  sore  need,  was  stolen  from  Madame  Jeanniu  the  very 
day  it  came  into  her  hands.  The  poor  Clustered  creature  took 
it  into  her  head  while  she  was  out  to  go  into  the  ]-ion  Marrhp, 
which  was  on  her  way:  it  was  Antoinette's  birthday  next  day, 
and  she  wanted  to  give  her  a  little  present.  She  was  carrying 


240  JEAX-CHRISTOPHE  IX  PARIS 

her  purse  in  her  hand  so  as  not  to  lose  it.  She  put  it  down 
mechanically  on  the  counter  for  a  moment  while  she  looked 
at  something.  When  she  put  out  her  hand  for  it  the  purse  was 
gone.  It  was  the  last  blow  for  her. 

A  few  days  later.,  on  a  stifling  evening  at  the  end  of  August, 
— a  hot  steaming  mist  hung  over  the  town, — Madame  Jeannin 
came  in  from  her  copying  agency,  whither  she  had  been  to 
deliver  a  piece  of  work  that  was  wanted  in  a  hurry.  She  was 
late  for  dinner,  and  had  saved  her  three  sous'  bus  fare  by  hur- 
rying home  on  foot  to  prevent  her  children  being  anxious. 
When  she  reached  the  fourth  floor  she  could  neither  speak  nor 
breathe.  It  was  not  the  first  time  she  had  returned  home  in 
that  condition :  the  children  took  no  notice  of  it.  She  forced 
herself  to  sit  down  at  table  with  them.  They  were  both  suf- 
fering from  the  heat  and  did  not  eat  anything :  they  had  to 
make  an  effort  to  gulp  down  a  few  morsels  of  food,  and  a  sip 
or  two  of  stale  water.  To  give  their  mother  time  to  recover 
they  did  not  talk — (they  had  no  desire  to  talk) — and  looked  out 
of  the  window.  - 

Suddenly  Madame  Jeannin  waved  her  hands  in  the  air, 
clutched  at  the  table,  looked  at  her  children,  moaned,  and  col- 
lapsed. Antoinette  and  Olivier  sprang  to  their  feet  just  in  time 
to  catch  her  in  their  arms.  They  were  beside  themselves,  and 
screamed  and  cried  to  her : 

"  Mother !     Mother  !     Dear,  dear  mother  !  " 

But  she  made  no  sound.  They  were  at  their  wit's  end.  An- 
toinette clung  wildly  to  her  mother's  body,  kissed  her,  called 
to  her.  Olivier  ran  to  the  door  of  the  flat  and  yelled: 

"Help!     Help!" 

The  housekeeper  came  running  upstairs,  and  when  she  saw 
what  had  happened  she  ran  for  a  doctor.  But  when  the  doctor 
arrived,  he  could  only  say  that  the  end  had  come.  Death  had 
been  instantaneous — happily  for  Madame  Jeannin — although  it 
was  impossible  to  know  what  thoughts  might  have  been  hers 
during  the  last  moments  when  she  knew  that  she  was  dying 
and  leaving  her  children  alone  in  such  misery. 


ANTOINETTE  241 

They  were  alone  to  bear  the  horror  of  the  catastrophe,  alone 
to  weep,  alone  to  perform  the  dreadful  duties  that  follow 
upon  death.  The  porter's  wife,  a  kindly  soul,  helped  them  a 
little:  and  people  came  from  the  convent  where  Madame  Jean- 
nin  had  taught :  hut  they  were  given  no  real  sympathy. 

The  first  moments  brought  inexpressible  despair.  The  only 
thing  that  saved  them  was  the  very  excess  of  that  despair,  which 
made  Olivier  really  ill.  Antoinette's  thoughts  were  distracted 
from  her  own  suffering,  and  her  one  idea  was  to  save  her 
brother:  and  her  great,  deep  love  filled  Olivier  and  plucked 
him  back  from  the  violent  torment  of  his  grief.  Locked  in 
her  arms  near  the  bed  where  their  mother  was  lying  in  the 
glimmer  of  a  candle,  Olivier  said  over  and  over  again  that  they 
must  die,  that  they  must  botli  die,  at  once :  and  he  pointed  to 
the  window.  In  Antoinette,  too,  there  was  the  dark  desire :  but 
she  fought  it  down :  she  wished  to  live.  .  .  . 

"  Why  ?     Why  ?  " 

"For  her  sake,"  said  Antoinette — (she  pointed  to  her 
mother). — "She  is  still  with  us.  Think  .  .  .  after  all  that 
she  has  suffered  for  our  sake,  we  must  spare  her  the  crowning 
sorrow,  that  of  seeing  us  die  in  misery.  .  .  .  Ah!"  (she  went 
on  emphatically).  .  .  .  "And  then,  we  must  not  give  way. 
I  will  not !  I  refuse  to  give  in.  You  must,  you  shall  be  happy, 
some  day !  " 

"  Never !  " 

"  Yes.  You  shall  be  happy.  We  have  had  too  much  un- 
happiness.  A  change  will  come:  it  must.  You  shall  live  your 
life.  Y"ou  shall  have  children,  you  shall  be  happy,  you  shall, 
you  shall !  " 

"  How  are  we  to  live?     We  cannot  do  it.    ..." 

"We  can.  What  is  it,  after  all?  We  have  to  live  somehow 
until  you  can  earn  your  living.  1  will  see  to  that.  You  will 
see:  Til  do  it.  Ah!  If  only  mother  had  let  me  do  it,  as  I 
could  have  clone.  ..." 

"What  will  you  do?  I  will  not  have  you  degrading  your- 
self. You  could  not  do  it." 


242  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IX   PA1MS 

"I  can.  .  .  .  And  there  is  nothing  humiliating  in  working 
for  one's  living — provided  it  be  honest  work.  Don't  you  worry 
about  it,  please.  You  will  see,  everything  will  come  right. 
You  shall  be  happy,  we  shall  be  happy:  dear  Olivier,  site  will 
be  happy  through  us.  ..." 

The  two  children  were  the  only  mourners  at  their  mother's 
grave.  By  common  consent  they  agreed  not  to  toll  the  Foyots: 
the  Foyets  had  ceased  to  exist  for  them :  they  had  been  too 
cruel  to  their  mother:  they  had  helped  her  to  her  death.  And, 
when  the  housekeeper  asked  them  if  they  had  no  other  rela- 
tions, they  replied : 

"No.     Nobody." 

By  the  bare  grave  they  prayed  hand  in  hand.  They  set 
their  teeth  in  desperate  resolve  and  pride  and  preferred  their 
solitude  to  the  presence  of  their  callous  and  hypocritical  rela- 
tions.— They  returned  on  foot  through  the  throng  of  people 
who  were  strangers  to  their  grief,  strangers  to  their  thoughts, 
strangers  to  their  lives,  and  shared  nothing  with  them  but  their 
common  language.  Antoinette  had  to  support  Olivier. 

They  took  a  tiny  flat  in  the  same  house;  on  the  top  floor- 
two  little  attics,  a  narrow  hall,  which  had  to  serve  as  a  dining- 
room,  and  a  kitchen  that  was  more  like  a  cupboard.  They  could 
have  found  better  rooms  in  another  neighborhood :  but  it  seemed 
to  them  that  they  were  still  with  their  mother  in  that  bouse. 
The  housekeeper  took  an  interest  in  them  for  a  time:  but  she 
was  soon  absorbed  in  her  own  affairs  and  nobody  bothered  about 
them.  They  did  not  know  a  single  one  of  the  other  tenants: 
and  they  did  not  even  know  who  lived  next  door. 

Antoinette  obtained  her  mother's  post  as  music-teacher  at 
the  convent.  She  procured  other  pupils.  She  had  only  one 
idea :  to  educate  her  brother  until  lie  was  ready  for  the  Ecolo 
Nor  male.  It  was  her  own  idea,  and  she  had  decided  upon  it 
after  mature  reflection:  she  had  studied  the  syllabus  and  asked 
about  it,  and  had  also  tried  to  find  out  what  Olivier  thought: — 
but  he  had  no  ideas,  and  she  chose  for  him.  Once  at  the  Ecolc 
Nurmale  he  would  be  sure  of  a  living  for  the  rest  of  his  life, 


ANTOINETTE  243 

and  his  future  would  be  assured.  He  must  get  in,  somehow; 
whatever  it  cost,  they  would  have  to  keep  alive  till  then.  It 
meant  five  or  six  terrible  years:  they  would  win  through.  The 
idea  possessed  Antoinette,  absorbed  her  whole  life.  The  poor 
solitary  existence  which  she  must  lead,  which  she  saw  clearly 
mapped  out  in  front  of  her,  was  only  made  bearable  through 
the  passionate  exaltation  which  filled  her,  her  determination,  by 
all  means  in  her  power,  to  save  her  brother  and  make  him 
happy.  The  light-hearted,  gentle  girl  of  seventeen  or  eighteen 
was  transfigured  by  her  heroic  resolution:  there  was  in  her  an 
ardent  quality  of  devotion,  a  pride  of  battle,  which  no  one  had 
suspected,  herself  least  of  all.  In  that  critical  period  of  a 
woman's  life,  during  the  first  fevered  days  of  spring,  when  lo\e 
fills  all  her  being,  and  like  a  hidden  stream  murmuring  beneath 
the  earth,  laves  her  soul,  envelops  it,  floods  it  with  tenderness, 
and  fills  it  with  sweet  obsessions,  love  appears  in  divers  shapes: 
demanding  that  she  should  give  herself,  and  yield  herself  up 
to  be  its  prey :  for  love  the  least  excuse  is  enough,  and  for  its 
profound  yet  innocent  sensuality  any  sacrifice  is  easy.  Love 
made  Antoinette  the  prey  of  sisterly  devotion. 

Her  brother  was  less  passionate  and  had  no  such  stay.  Be- 
sides, the  sacrifice  was  made  for  him.  it  was  not  he  who  was 
sacrificed — which  is  so  much  easier  and  sweeter  when  one  loves. 
He  was  weighed  down  with  remorse  at  seeing  his  sister  wearing 
herself  out  for  him.  He  would  tell  her  so,  and  she  would  reply: 

"Ah!  My  dear!  .  .  .  But  don't  you  see  that  that  is  what 
keeps  me  going?  Without  you  to  trouble  rue,  what  should  1 
have  to  live  for?  " 

He  understood.  He,  too.  in  Antoinette's  position,  would 
have  been  jealous  of  the  trouble  lie  caused  her:  bur  to  be  the 
cause  of  it !  .  .  .  That  hurt  his  pride  and  his  arl'eetion. 
And  what  a  burden  it  was  for  so  weak  a  creature  to  bear  such 
a  responsibility,  to  be  bound  to  succeed,  since  on  his  success 
his  sister  had  staked  her  whole  life!  The  thought  of  it  was  in- 
tolerable to  him,  and,  instead  of  spurring  him  on,  there  were 
times  when  it  robbed  him  of  all  energy.  And  vet  she  forced 


244  JEAH-CHRISTOPHE  IX  PARIS 

him  to  struggle  on,  to  work.,  to  live,  as  he  never  would  have 
done  without  her  aid  and  insistence.  He  had  a  natural  pre- 
disposition towards  depression, — perhaps  even  towards  suicide : 
— perhaps  he  would  have  succumbed  to  it  had  not  his  sister 
wished  him  to  be  ambitious  and  happy.  He  suffered  from  the 
contradiction  of  his  nature :  and  yet  it  worked  his  salvation. 
He,  too,  was  passing  through  a  critical  age,  that  fearful  period 
when  thousands  of  young  men  succumb,  and  give  themselves 
up  to  the  aberrations  of  their  minds  and  senses,  and  for  two  or 
three  years'  folly  spoil  their  lives  beyond  repair.  If  he  had 
had  time  to  yield  to  his  thoughts  he  would  have  fallen  into  dis- 
couragement or  perhaps  taken  to  dissipation :  always  when  he 
turned  in  upon  himself  he  became  a  prey  to  his  morbid  dreams, 
and  disgust  with  life,  and  Paris,  and  the  impure  fermentation 
of  all  those  millions  of  human  beings  mingling  and  rotting  to- 
gether. But  the  sight  of  his  sister's  face  was  enough  to  dispel 
the  nightmare :  and  since  she  was  living  only  that  he  might 
live,  he  would  live,  yes,  he  would  be  happy,  in  spite  of  himself. 

So  their  lives  were  built  on  an  ardent  faith  fashioned  of 
stoicism,  religion,  and  noble  ambition.  All  their  endeavor  was 
directed  towards  the  one  end:  Olivier's  success.  Antoinette 
accepted  every  kind  of  work,  every  humiliation  that  was  offered 
her :  she  went  as  a  governess  to  houses  where  she  was  treated 
almost  as  a  servant :  she  had  to  take  her  pupils  out  for  walks, 
like  a  nurse,  wandering  about  the  streets  witli  them  for  hours 
together  under  pretext  of  teaching  them  German.  In  her  love 
for  her  brother  and  her  pride  she  found  pleasure  even  in  such 
moral  suffering  and  weariness. 

She  would  return  home  worn  out  to  look  after  Olivier,  who 
was  a  day-boarder  at  his  school  and  only  came  home  in  the 
evening.  She  would  cook  their  dinner — a  wretched  dinner — 
on  the  gas-stove  or  over  a  spirit-lamp.  Olivier  had  never  any 
appetite  and  everything  disgusted  him,  and  his  gorge  would 
rise  at  the  food:  and  she  would  have  to  force  him  to  eat,  or 
cudgel  her  brains  to  invent  some  dish  that. would  catch  his  fancy, 
and  poor  Antoinette  was  by  no  means  a  good  cook.  And  when 


ANTOINETTE  245 

she  had  taken  a  great  deal  of  trouble  she  would  have  the  morti- 
fication of  hearing  him  declare  that  her  cooking  was  uneatable. 
It  was  only  after  moments  of  despair  at  her  cooking-stove, — 
those  moments  of  silent  despair  which  come  to  inexperienced 
young  housekeepers  and  poison  their  lives  and  sometimes  their 
sleep,  unknown  to  everybody — that  she  began  to  understand  it 
a  little. 

After  dinner,  when  she  had  washed  up  the  dishes — (he  would 
offer  to  help  her,  but  she  would  never  let  him), — she  would 
take  a  motherly  interest  in  her  brother's  work.  She  would  hear 
him  his  lessons,  read  his  exercises,  and  even  look  up  certain 
words  in  the  dictionary  for  him,  always  taking  care  not  to  ruffle 
up  his  sensitive  little  soul.  They  would  spend  the  evening  at 
their  one  table  at  which  they  had  both  to  eat  and  write.  He 
would  do  his  homework,  she  would  sew  or  do  some  copying. 
When  he  had  gone  to  bed  she  would  sit  mending  his  clothes 
or  doing  some  work  of  her  own. 

Although  they  had  difficulty  in  making  both  ends  meet, 
they  were  both  agreed  that  every  penny  they  could  put  by  should 
be  used  in  the  first  place  to  settle  the  debt  which  their  mother 
owed  to  the  Poyets.  It  was  not  that  the  Poyets  were  impor- 
tunate creditors:  they  had  given  no  sign  of  life:  they  never  gave 
a  thought  to  the  mono}',  which  they  counted  as  lost :  they 
thought  themselves  very  lucky  to  have  got  rid  of  their  un- 
desirable relatives  so  cheaply.  But  it  hurt  the  pride  and  filial 
piety  of  the  young  Jeannins  to  think  that  their  mother  should 
have  owed  anything  to  these  people  whom  they  despised.  They 
pinched  and  scraped:  they  economized  on  their  amusements,  on 
their  clothes,  on  their  food,  in  order  to  amass  the  two  hundred 
francs — an  enormous  sum  for  them.  Antoinette  would  have 
liked  to  have  done  the  saving  by  herself.  But  when  her  brother 
found  out  what  she  was  up  to,  nothing  could  keep  him  from 
doing  likewise.  They  wore  themselves  out  in  the  effort,  and 
were  delighted  when  they  could  set  aside  a  few  sous  a  day. 

In  three  years,  by  screwing  and  scraping,  sou  by  sou,  they 
had  succeeded  in  getting  the  sum  together.  It  was  a  great  joy 


246  JEAN-CHRTSTOPHE  IX  PARTS 

to  them.  Antoinette  went  to  the  Poyets  one  evening.  She 
was  coldly  received,  for  they  thought  she  had  come  to  ask  for 
help.  They  thought  it  advisable  to  take  the  initiative:  and 
reproached  her  for  not  letting  them  have  any  news  of  them  :  and 
not  having  even  told  them  of  the  death  of  her  mother,  and  not 
coming  to  them  when  she  wanted  help.  She  cut  them  short 
calmly  by  telling  them  that  she  had  no  intention  of  incommod- 
ing them:  she  had  come  merely  to  return  the  money  which  had 
been  borrowed  from  them  :  and  she  laid  two  banknotes  on  the 
table  and  asked  for  a  receipt.  They  changed  their  tone  at  once, 
and  pretended  to  be  unwilling  to  accept  it:  they  were  feeling 
for  her  that  sudden  affection  which  comes  to  the  creditor  for 
the  debtor,  who,  after  many  years,  returns  the  loan  which  he 
had  ceased  to  reckon  upon.  They  inquired  where  she  was  liv- 
ing with  her  brother,  and  how  they  lived.  She  did  not  reply, 
asked  once  more  for  the  receipt,  said  that  she  was  in  a  hurry, 
bowed  coldly,  and  went  away.  The  Poyets  were  horrified  at 
the  girl's  ingratitude. 

Then,  when  she  was  rid  of  that  obsession,  Antoinette  went  on 
with  the  same  sparing  existence,  but  now  it  was  entirely  for  her 
brother's  sake.  Only  she  concealed  it  more  to  prevent  his 
knowing  it:  she  economized  on  her  clothes  and  sometimes  on 
her  food,  to  keep  her  brother  well-dressed  and- amused,  and  to 
make  his  life  pleasanter  and  gayer,  and  to  let  him  go  every  now 
and  then  to  a  concert,  or  to  the  opera,  which  was  Olivior's 
greatest  joy.  lie  was  unwilling  to  go  without  her.  but  she 
would  always  make  excuses  for  not  going  so  that  he  should 
feel  no  remorse:  she  would  pretend  that  she  was  too  tired  and 
did  not  want  to  go  out:  she  would  even  go  so  far  as  to  say 
that  music-  bored  her.  Her  fond  ((nibbles  would  not  deceive 
him :  but  his  boyish  selfishness  would  be  too  strong  for  him. 
lie  would  go  to  the  theater:  once;  inside,  he  would  be  filled 
with  remorse,  and  il  would  haunt  him  all  through  the  piece, 
and  spoil  his  pleasure.  One  Sundav,  when  she  had  packed 
him  off  to  the  Chdtclet  concert,  he  returned  half  an  hour  later, 
and  told  Antoinette  that  when  he  reached  the  Saint  Michel 


ANTOINETTE  247 

Bridge  he  had  not  the  heart  to  go  any  farther:  the  concert  did 
not  interest  him :  it  hurt  him  too  much  to  have  an}'  pleasure 
without  her.  Nothing  was  sweeter  to  Antoinette,  although 
she  was  sorry  that  her  brother  should  be  deprived  oi'  his  Sunday 
entertainment  because  of  her.  But  Olivier  never  regretted  it : 
when  he  saw  the  joy  that  lit  up  his  sister's  face  as  he  came  in,  a 
joy  that  she  tried  in  vain  to  conceal,  he  felt  happier  than  the 
most  lovely  music  in  the  world  could  ever  have  made  him. 
They  spent  the  afternoon  sitting  together  by  the  window,  he 
with  a  book  in  his  hand,  she  with  her  work,  hardly  reading  at  all, 
hardly  sewing  at  all,  talking  idly  of  things  that  interested 
neither  of  them.  Never  had  they  had  so  delightful  a  Sunday. 
They  agreed  that  they  would  never  go  alone  to  a  concert  again : 
they  could  never  enjoy  anything  alone. 

She  managed  secretly  to  save  enough  money  to  surprise 
and  delight  Olivier  with  a  hired  piano,  which,  on  the  hire- 
purchase  system  became  their  property  at  the  end  of  a  certain 
number  of  months.  The  payments  for  it  were  a  heavy  burden 
for  her  to  shoulder!  It  often  haunted  her  dreams,  and  she 
ruined  her  health  in  screwing  together  the  necessary  money. 
But,  folly  as  it  was,  it  did  assure  them  both  so  much  happiness. 
Music  was  their  Paradise  in  their  hard  life.  Tt  filled  an 
enormous  place  in  their  existence.  They  steeped  themselves 
in  music  so  as  to  forget  the  rest  of  the  world.  There  was  danger 
in  it  too.  Music  is  one  of  the  great  modern  dissolvents.  Its 
languorous  warmth,  like  the  heat  of  a  stove,  or  the  enervating 
air  of  autumn,  excites  the  senses  and  destroys  the  will.  But  it 
was  a  relaxation  for  a  creature  forced  into  excessive,  joyless 
activity  as  was  Antoinette.  The  Sunday  concert  was  the  only 
ray  of  light  that  shone  through  the  week  of  unceasing  toil. 
They  lived  in  the  memory  of  the  last  concert  and  the  eager 
anticipation  of  the  next,  in  those  few  hours  spent  outside  Paris 
and  out  of  the  vile  weather.  After  a  long  wait  outside  in  the 
rain,  or  the  snow,  or  the  wind  and  the  cold,  clinging  together, 
and  trembling  lest  all  the  places  should  be  taken,  they  would 
pass  into  the  theater,  where  they  were  lost  in  the  throng,  and 


248  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  TX  PARTS 

sit  on  dark  uncomfortable  benches.  They  were  crushed  and 
stifling,  and  often  on  the  point  of  fainting  from  the  heat  and 
discomfort  of  it  all: — but  they  were  happy,  happy  in  their 
own  and  in  each  other's  pleasure,  happy  to  feel  coursing  tli rough 
their  veins  the  flood  of  kindness,  light,  and  strength,  that  surged 
forth  from  the  great  souls  of  Beethoven  and  Wagner,  happy, 
each  of  them,  to  see  the  dear,  dear  face  light  up — the  poor, 
pale  face  worn  by  suffering  and  premature  anxieties.  An- 
toinette would  feel  so  tired  and  as  though  loving  arms  were 
about  her,  holding  her  to  a  motherly  breast!  She  would  nestle 
in  its  softness  and  warmth:  and  she  would  weep  quietly. 
Olivier  would  press  her  hand.  Xo  one  noticed  them  in  the 
dimness  of  the  vast  hall,  where  they  were  not  the  only  suffer- 
ing souls  taking  refuge  under  the  motherly  wing  of  Music. 

Antoinette  had  her  religion  to  support  her.  She  was  very 
pious,  and  every  day  never  missed  saying  her  prayers  fervently 
and  at  length,  and  every  Sunday  she  never  missed  going  to 
Mass.  Even  in  the  injustice  of  her  wretched  life  she  could 
not  help  believing  in  the  love  of  the  divine  Friend,  who  suffers 
with  you,  and,  some  day,  will  console  you.  Even  more  than 
with  God,  she  was  in  close  communion  with  the  beloved  dead. 
and  she  used  secretly  to  share  all  her  trials  with  them.  But  she 
was  of  an  independent  spirit  and  a  clear  intelligence :  she  stood 
apart  from  other  Catholics,  who  did  not  regard  her  altogether 
favorably:  they  thought  her  possessed  of  an  evil  spirit:  they  were 
not  far  from  regarding  her  as  a  Free  Thinker,  or  on  the  way  to 
it,  because,  like  the  honest  little  Frenchwoman  she  was,  she 
had  no  intention  of  renouncing  her  own  independent  judgment: 
she  believed  not  from  obedience,  like  the  base  rabble,  but  from 
love. 

Olivier  no  longer  believed.  The  slow  disintegration  of  his 
faith,  which  had  set  in  during  his  first  months  in  Paris,  had 
ended  in  its  complete  destruction.  He  had  suffered  cruelly: 
for  he  was  not  of  those  who  are  strong  enough  or  commonplace 
enough  to  dispense  with  faith:  and  so  he  had  passed  through 
crises  of  mental  agony.  But  he  was  at  heart  a  mystic :  and, 


ANTOINETTE  249 

though  he  had  lost  his  belief,  yet  no  ideas  could  be  closer  to  his 
own  than  those  of  his  sister.  They  both  lived  in  a  religious 
atmosphere.  Wlien  they  came  home  in  the  evening  after  the 
day's  parting  their  little  flat  was  to  them  a  haven,  an  in- 
violable refuge,  poor,  bitterly  cold,  but  pure.  How  far  re- 
moved they  felt  there  from  the  noise  and  the  corrupt  thoughts 
of  Paris !  .  .  . 

They  never  talked  much  of  their  doings :  for  when  one 
comes  home  tired  one  has  hardly  the  heart  to  revive  the  memory 
of  a  painful  day  by  the  tale  of  its  happenings.  Instinctively 
they  set  themselves  to  forget  it.  Especially  during  the  first 
hour  when  they  met  again  for  dinner  they  avoided  questions 
of  all  kinds.  They  would  greet  each  other  with  their  eyes: 
and  sometimes  they  would  not  speak  a  word  all  through  the 
meal.  Antoinette  would  look  at  her  brother  as  he  sat  dream- 
ing, just  as  he  used  to  do  when  he  was  a  little  boy.  She  would 
gently  touch  his  hand : 

"  Come  !  "  she  would  say,  with  a  smile.     "  Courage !  " 

He  would  smile  too  and  go  on  eating.  So  dinner  would  pass 
•without  their  trying  to  talk.  They  were  hungry  for  silence. 
Only  when  they  had  done  would  their  tongues  be  loosed  a 
little,  when  they  felt  rested,  and  when  each  of  them  in  the 
comfort  of  the  understanding  love  of  the  other  had  wiped 
out  the  impure  traces  of  the  day. 

Olivier  would  sit  down  at  the  piano.  Antoinette  was  out  of 
practice  from  letting  him  play  always:  for  it  was  the  only  re- 
laxation that  he  had:  and  he  would  give  himself  up  to  it  whole- 
heartedly. He  had  a  fine  temperament  for  music:  his  feminine 
nature,  more  suited  to  love  than  to  action,  with  loving  sym- 
pathy could  catch  the  thoughts  of  the  musicians  whose  works 
he  played,  and  merge  itself  in  them  and  with  passionate  fidelity 
render  the  finest  shades, — at  least,  within  the  limitations  of  his 
physical  strength,  which  gave  out  before  the  Titanic  effort  of 
Tristan,  or  the  later  sonatas  of  Beethoven,  lie  loved  best  to 
take  refuge  in  Moxart  or  Gluck,  and  theirs  was  the  music  that 
Antoinette  preferred. 


250  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PAIUS 

Sometimes  she  would  sing  too,  but  only  very  simple  songs, 
old  melodies.  She  had  a  light  me/xo  voice,  plaintive  and  del- 
icate. She  was  so  shy  that  she  could  never  sing  in  company, 
and  hardly  even  before  Olivier:  her  throat  used  to  contract. 
There  was  an  air  of  Beethoven  set  to  some  Scotch  words,  of 
which  she  was  particularly  fond:  Failliful  Johnnie:  it  was 
calm,  so  calm  .  .  .  and  with  what  a  depth  of  tenderness! 
...  It  was  like  herself.  Olivier  could  never  hear  her  sing 
it  without  the  tears  coming  to  his  eyes. 

But  she  preferred  listening  to  her  brother.  She  would  hurry 
through  her  housework  and  leave  the  door  of  the  kitchen  open 
the  better  to  hear  Olivier:  but  in  spite  of  all  her  care  he  would 
complain  impatiently  of  the  noise  she  made  with  her  pots  and 
pans.  Then  she  would  close  the  door;  and,  when  she  had  fin- 
ished, she  would  come  and  sit  in  a  low  chair,  not  near  the  piano 
• — (for  he  could  not  bear  any  one  near  him  when  he  was  play- 
ing).— but  near  the  fireplace:  and  there  she  would  sit  curled 
up  like  a  cat,  with  her  back  to  the  piano,  and  her  eyes  fixed  on 
the  golden  eyes  of  the  fire,  in  which  a  lump  of  coal  was 
smoldering,  and  muse  over  her  memories  of  the  past.  When 
nine  o'clock  rang  she  would  have  to  pull  herself  together  to 
remind  Olivier  that  it  was  time  io  stop.  It  would  be 'hard  to 
drag  him.  and  to  drag  herself,  away  from  dreams:  but  Olivier 
would  still  have  some  work  to  do.  And  he  must  not  go  to  lied 
too  late.  lie  would  not  obey  her  at  once:  he  always  needed 
a  certain  time  in  which  to  shake  free  of  the  music  before  he 
could  apply  himself  seriously  to  his  work.  His  thoughts  would 
be  off  wandering.  Often  it  would  be  half-past  nine  before  he 
could  shake  free  of  his  misty  dreams.  Antoinette,  bending  over 
her  work  at  the  other  side  of  the  table,  would  know  that  he  was 
doing  nothing:  but  she  dared  not  look  in  his  direction  too  often 
for  fear  of  irritating  him  by  seeming  {o  be  watching  him. 

He  was  at  the  ungrateful  age — the  happy  age — when  a  boy 
saunters  dreamily  through  his  days.  lie  had  a  clear  forehead. 
girlish  eyes,  deep  and  trustful,  often  with  dark  circles  round 
them,  a  wide  mouth  with  rather  thick  pouting  lips,  a  rather 


ANTOINETTE  251 

crooked  smile,  vague,  absent,  taking:  he  wore  his  hair  long 
so  that  it  hung  down  almost  to  his  eyes,  and  made  a  great  bunch 
at  the 'back  of  his  neck,  while  one  rebellious  lock  stuck  up  at 
the  back:  a  neckerchief  loosely  tied  round  his  neck — (his  sister 
used  to  tie  it  carefully  in  a  bow  every  morning)  : — a  waistcoat 
which  was  always  buttouless,  although  she  was  for  ever  sewing 
them  on :  no  cuffs :  large  hands  with  bony  wrists.  He  had  a 
heavy,  sleepy,  bantering  expression,  and  he  was  always  wool- 
gathering. His  eyes  would  blink  and  wander  round  An- 
toinette's room: — (his  work-table  was  in  her  room): — they 
would  light  on  the  little  iron  bed,  above  which  hung  an  ivory 
crucifix,  with  a  sprig  of  box, — on  the  portraits  of  his  father 
and  mother, — on  an  old  photograph  of  the  little  provincial  town 
witli  its  tower  mirrored  in  its  waters.  And  when  they  reached 
his  sister's  pallid  face,  bending  in  silence  over  her  work,  he 
would  be  filled  with  an  immense  pity  for  her  and  anger  with 
himself:  then  he  would  shake  himself  in  annoyance  at  his  own 
indolence :  and  he  would  work  furiously  to  make  up  for  lost 
time. 

He  spent  his  holidays  in  reading.  They  would  read  together 
each  with  a  separate  book.  In  spite  of  their  love  for  each 
other  they  could  not  read  aloud.  That  hurt  them  as  an  olTense 
against  modesty.  A  fine  book  was  to  them  as  a  secret  which 
should  only  be  murmured  in  the  silence  of  the  heart.  When 
a  passage  delighted  them,  instead  of  reading  it  aloud,  they 
would  hand  the  book  over,  with  a  linger  marking  the  place:  and 
they  would  say : 

"  Bead  that." 

Then,  while  the  other  was  reading,  the  one  who  had  already 
read  would  with  shining  eyes  gaze  into  the  dear  face  to  sec 
what  emotions  were  roused  and  to  share  the  enjoyment  of  it. 

But  often  with  their  books  open  in  front  of  them  they  would 
not  read:  they  would  talk.  Especially  towards  the  end  of  the 
evening  they  would  feel  the  need  of  opening  their  hearts,  and 
they  would  have  less  difficulty  in  talking.  Olivier  had  sad 
thoughts:  and  in  his  weakness  he  had  to  rid  himself  of  all  that 


252  JEAN-CHEISTOPHE  IN  PAEIS 

tortured  him  by  pouring  out  his  troubles  to  some  one  else.  He 
was  a  prey  to  doubt.  Antoinette  had  to  give  him  courage,  to 
defend  him  against  himself:  it  was  an  unceasing  struggle, 
which  began  anew  each  day.  Olivier  would  say  bitter,  gloomy 
things :  and  when  he  had  said  them  lie  would  be  relieved :  but 
he  never  troubled  to  think  how  they  might  hurt  his  sister. 
Only  very  late  in  the  day  did  he  see  how  he  was  exhausting  her : 
he  was  sapping  her  strength  and  infecting  her  with  his  own 
doubts.  Antoinette  never  let  it  appear  how  she  suffered.  She 
was  by  nature  valiant  and  gay,  and  she  forced  herself  to  main- 
tain a  show  of  gaiety,  even  when  that  gracious  quality  was  long 
since  dead  in  her.  She  had  moments  of  utter  weariness,  and 
revolt  against  the  life  of  perpetual  sacrifice  to  which  she  had 
pledged  herself.  But  she  condemned  such  thoughts  and  would 
not  analyze  them :  they  came  to  her  in  spite  of  herself,  and 
she  would  not  accept  them.  She  found  help  in  prayer,  except 
when  her  heart  could  not  pray — (as  sometimes  happens) — when 
it  was,  as  it  were,  withered  and  dry.  Then  she  could  only 
wait  in  silence,  feverish  and  ashamed,  for  the  return  of  grace. 
Olivier  never  had  the  least  suspicion  of  the  agony  she  suffered. 
At  such  times  Antoinette  would  make  some  excuse  and  go 
away  and  lock  herself  in  her  room :  and  she  would  not  appeal- 
again  until  the  crisis  was  over:  then  she  would  be  smiling, 
sorrowful,  more  tender  than  ever,  and,  as  it  were,  remorseful  for 
having  suffered. 

Their  rooms  were  adjoining.  Their  beds  were  placed  on. 
either  side  of  the  same  wall:  they  could  talk  to  each  other 
through  it  in  whispers:  and  when  they  could  not  sleep  they 
would  tap  gently  on  the  wall  to  say: 

"Are  you  asleep?     I  can't  sleep.'' 

The  partition  was  so  thin  that  it  was  almost  as  though 
they  shared  the  same  room.  But  the  door  between  their  rooms 
was  always  locked  at  night,  in  obedience  to  an  instinctive  and 
profound  modesty, — a  sacred  feeling: — it  was  only  left  open 
when  Olivier  was  ill,  as  too  often  happened. 

He    did   not   gain    in    health.     Kather    he    seemed    to    grow 


ANTOINETTE  253 

weaker.  He  was  always  ailing:  throat,  chest,  head  or  heart:  if 
he  caught  the  slightest  cold  there  was  always  the  danger  of  its 
turning  to  bronchitis:  he  caught  scarlatina  and  almost  died  of 
it :  but  even  when  he  was  not  ill  he  would  betray  strange  symp- 
toms of  serious  illnesses,  which  fortunately  did  not  come  to  any- 
thing: he  would  have  pains  in  his  lungs  or  his  heart.  One  day 
the  doctor  who  examined  him  diagnosed  pericarditis,  or 
peripneumonia,  and  the  great  specialist  who  was  then  consulted 
confirmed  his  fears.  But  it  came  to  nothing.  It  was  his 
nerves  that  were  wrong,  and  it  is  common  knowledge  that  dis- 
orders of  the  nerves  take  the  most  unaccountable  shapes :  they 
are  got  rid  of  at  the  cost  of  days  of  anxiety.  But  such  days 
were  terrible  for  Antoinette,  and  they  gave  her  sleepless  nights. 
She  would  lie  in  a  state  of  terror  in  her  bed,  getting  up  every 
now  and  then  to  listen  to  her  .brother's  breathing.  She  would 
think  that  perhaps  he  was  dying,  she  would  feel  sure,  convinced 
of  it:  she  would  get  up,  trembling,  and  clasp  her  hands,  and 
hold  them  fast  against  her  lips  to  keep  herself  from  crying  out. 

"  Oh  !  God  !  Oh  !  God  !  "  she  would  moan.  "  Take'  him  not 
from  me !  Xot  that  .  .  .  not  that.  You  have  no  right ! 
.  .  .  Xot  that,  oh!  God,  I  beg!  .  .  .  Oh,  mother,  mother! 
Come  to  my  aid!  Save  him  :  let  him  live!  .  .  ." 

She  would  lie  at  full  stretch. 

"Ah!  To  die  by  the  way,  when  so  much  has  been  done, 
when  we  were  nearly  there,  when  he  was  going  to  be  happy  .  .  . 
no :  that  could  not  be :  it  would  be  too  cruel !  .  .  . " 

It  was  not  long  before  Olivier  gave  her  other  reasons  for 
anxiety. 

He  was  profoundly  honest,  like  herself,  but  he  was  weak 
of  will  and  too  open-minded  and  too  complex  not  to  he  uneasy, 
skeptical,  indulgent  towards  what  he  knew  to  be  evil,  and  at- 
tracted by  pleasure.  Antoinette  was  so  pure  that  it  was  some 
time  before  she  understood  what  was  going  on  in  her  brother's 
mind.  She  discovered  it  suddenly,  one  dav. 

Olivier  thought  she  was  out.     She  usuallv  had  a  lesson   at 


254  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IX  PARIS 

that  hour:  but  at  the  last  moment  she  had  received  word  from 
her  pupil,  telling  her  that  she  could  not  have  her  that  day. 
She  was  secretly  pleased,  although  it  meant  a  few  francs  less  in 
that  week's  earnings:  hut  she  was  very  tired  and  she  lay  down 
on  her  hH  :  she  was  very  glad  to  he  ahle  to  rest  for  once  without 
reproaching  herself.  Olivier  came  in  from  school  bringing 
another  boy  with  him.  They  sat  down  in  the  next  room  and 
began  to  talk.  She  could  hear  everything  they  '  said :  they 
thought  they  were  alone  and  did  not  restrain  themselves.  An- 
toinette smiled  as  she  heard  her  brother's  merry  voice.  But 
soon  she  ceased  to  smile,  and  her  blood  ran  cold.  They  were 
talking  of  dirty  things  with  an  abominable  crudity  of  ex- 
pression: they  seemed  to  revel  in  it.  She  heard  Olivier,  her 
boy  Olivier,  laughing:  and  from  his  lips,  which  she  had 
thought  so  innocent,  there  came  words  so  obscene  that  the 
horror  of  it  chilled  her.  Keen  anguish  stabbed  her  to  the  heart. 
It  went  on  and  on:  they  could  not  stop  talking,  and  she  could 
not  help  listening.  At  last  they  went  out,  and  Antoinette  was 
left  alone.  Then  she  wept:  something  had  died  in  her:  the 
ideal  image  that  she  had  fashioned  of  her  brother — of  her  boy — • 
was  plastered  with  mud :  it  was  a  mortal  agony  to  her.  She 
did  not  say  anything  to  him  when  they  met  again  in  the  even- 
ing, .lie  saw  that  she  had  been  weeping  and  he  could  not  think 
why.  He  could  not  understand  why  she  had  changed  her 
manner  towards  him.  It  was  some  time  before  she  was  able 
to  recover  herself. 

But  the  worst  blow  of  all  for  her  was  one  evening  when  he 
did  not  come  home.  She  did  not  go  to  bed.  but  sat  up  waiting 
for  him.  It  was  not  only  her  moral  purity  that  was  hurt: 
her  suffering  went  down  to  the  most  mysterious  inner  depths 
of  her  heart — those  same  depths  where  there1  lurked  the  most 
awful  feelings  of  the  human  heart,  feelings  over  which  she;  cast 
a  veil,  to  hide  them  from  her  sight. 

Olivier's  first  aim  had  been  the  declaration  of  his  independ- 
ence, lie  returned  in  the  morning,  casting  about  for  the  proper 
attitude  and  quite  prepared  to  tling  some  insolent  remark  at  his 


ANTOINETTE  255 

sister  if  she  had  said  anything  to  him.  He  stole  into  the  flat 
on  tiptoe  so  as  not  to  waken  her.  But  when  he  saw  her  stand- 
ing there,  waiting  for  him,  pale,  red-eyed  from  weeping,  when 
he  saw  that,  instead  of  making  any  effort  to  reproach  him,  she 
only  set  about  silently  cooking  his  breakfast,  before  he  left 
for  school,  and  that  she  had  nothing  to  say  to  him,  but  was 
overwhelmed,  so  that  she  was,  in  herself,  a  living  reproach,  he 
could  hold  out  no  longer:  he  flung  himself  down  before  her, 
buried  his  face  in  her  lap,  and  they  both  wept.  He  was 
ashamed  of  himself,  sick  at  the  thought  of  what  he  had  done: 
he  felt  degraded.  He  tried  to  speak,  but  she  would  not  let  him 
and  laid  her  hand  on  his  lips :  and  he  kissed  her  hand.  They 
said  no  more:  they  understood  each  other.  Olivier  vowed  that 
he  would  never  again  do  anything  to  hurt  Antoinette,  and  that 
he  would  be  in  all  things  what  she  wanted  him  to  be.  But 
though  she  tried  bravely  she  could  not  so  easily  forget  so  sharp 
a  wound :  she  recovered  from  it  slowly.  There  was  a  certain 
awkwardness  between  them.  Her  love  for  him  was  just  the 
same:  but  in  her  brother's  soul  she  had  seen  something  that 
was  foreign  to  herself,  and  she  was  fearful  of  it. 

She  was  the  more  overwhelmed  by  the  glimpse  she  had  had 
into  Olivier's  inmost  heart,  in  that,  about  the  same  time,  she 
had  to  put  up  with  the  unwelcome  attentions  of  certain  men. 
When  she  came  home  in  the  evening  at  nightfall,  and  especially 
when  she  had  to  go  out  after  dinner  to  take  or  fetch  her  copy- 
ing, she  suffered  agonies  from  her  fear  of  being  accosted,  and 
followed  (as  sometimes  happened)  and  forced  to  listen  to  in- 
sulting advances.  She  took  her  brother  with  her  whenever 
she  could  under  pretext  of  making  him  take  a  walk:  but  he  only 
consented  grudgingly  and  she  dared  not  insist:  she  did  not  like 
to  interrupt  his  work.  She  was  so  provincial  and  so  pure  that 
she  could  not  get  used  to  such  ways.  Paris  at  night  was  to  her 
like  a  dark  forest  in  which  she  felt  that  she  was  being  tracked 
by  dreadful,  savage  beasts:  and  she  was  afraid  to  leave  the 
house.  But  she  had  to  go  out.  She  would  put  oil'  going  out 


256  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

as  long  as  possible:  slic  was  always  fearful.  And  when  she 
thought  that  her  Olivier  would  he — was  perhaps — like  one  of 
those  men  who  pursued  her,  she  could  hardly  hold  out  her 
hand  to  him  when  she  came  in.  He  could  not  think  what  he 
had  done  to  change  her  so,  and  she  was  angry  with  herself. 

She  was  not  very  pretty,  but  she  had  charm,  and  attracted 
attention  though  she  did  nothing  to  do  so.  She  was  always 
very  simply  dressed,  almost  always  in  black :  she  was  not  very 
tall,  graceful,  frail-looking;  she  rarely  spoke:,  she  tripped  quietly 
through  the  crowded  streets,  avoiding  attention,  which,  how- 
ever, she  attracted  in  spite  of  herself  by  the  sweetness  of  the 
expression  of  her  tired  eyes  and  her  pure  young  lips.  Some- 
times she  saw  that  she  had  attracted  notice:  and  though  it  put 
her  to  confusion  she  was  pleased  all  the  same.  Who  can  say 
what  gentle  and  chaste  pleasure  in  itself  there  may  be  in  so  in- 
nocent a  creature  at  feeling  herself  in  sympathy  with  others? 
All  that  she  felt  was  shown  in  a  slight  awkwardness  in  her 
movements,  a  timid,  sidelong  glance:  and  it  was  sweet  to  see 
and  very  touching.  And  her  uneasiness  added  to  her  attrac- 
tion. She  excited  interest,  and,  as  she  was  a  poor  girl,  with 
none  to  protect  her,  men  did  not  hesitate  to  tell  her  so. 

Sometimes  she  used  to  go  to  the  house  of  some  rich  Jews, 
the  Nathans,  who  took  an  interest  in  her  because  they  had  met 
her  at  the  house  of  some  friends  of  theirs  where  she  gave  les- 
sons: and,  in  spite  of  her  shyness,  she  had  not  been  able  to 
avoid  accepting  invitations  to  their  parties.  M.  Alfred  Nathan 
was  a  well-known  professor  in  Paris,  a  distinguished  scientist, 
and  at  the  same  time  he  was  very  fond  of  societv,  with  that 
strange  mixture  of  learning  and  frivolity  which  is  so  common 
among  the  Jews.  Madame  Nathan  was  a  mixture  in  equal  pro- 
portions of  real  kindliness  and  excessive  worldliness.  They 
were  both  generous,  with  loud-voiced,  sincere,  but  intermittent 
sympathy  for  Antoinette. — Generally  speaking  Antoinette!  had 
found  more  kindness  among  the  Jews  than  among  the  members 
of  her  own  sect.  They  have  many  faults:  but  they  have  one 
great  quality — perhaps  the  greatest  of  all:  they  are  alive,  and 


ANTOINETTE  257 

human :  nothing  human  is  foreign  to  thorn  and  they  arc  inter- 
ested in  every  living  being.  Even  when  they  lack  real,  warm 
sympathy  they  feel  a  perpetual  curiosity  which  makes  them  seek 
out  men  and  ideas  that  are  of  worth,  however  different  from 
themselves  they  may  be.  Not  that,  generally  speaking,  they  do 
anything  much  to  help  them,  for  they  are  interested  in  too 
many  things  at  once  and  much  more  a  prey  to  the  vanities  of 
the  world  than  other  people,  while  they  pretend  to  be  immune 
from  them.  But  at  least  they  do  something:. and  that  is  saying 
a  great  deal  in  the  present  apathetic  condition  of  society.  They 
are  an  active  balm  in  society,  the  very  leaven  of  life. — An- 
toinette who,  among  the  Catholics,  had  been  brought  sharp 
up  against  a  wall  of  icy  indifference,  was  keenly  alive  to  the 
worth  of  the  interest,  however  superficial  it  might  be,  which  the 
Nathans  took  in  her.  Madame  Nathan  had  marked  Antoinette's 
life  of  devoted  sacrifice:  she  was  sensible  of  her  physical  and 
moral  charm :  and  she  made  a  show  of  taking  her  under  her 
protection.  She  had  no  children:  but  she  loved  young  people 
and  often  had  gatherings  of  them  in  her  house:  and  she  insisted 
on  Antoinette's  coming  also,  and  breaking  away  from  her  soli- 
tude, and  having  some  amusement  in  her  life.  And  as  she 
had  no  difficulty  in  guessing  that  Antoinette's  shyness  was  in 
part  the  result  of  her  poverty,  she  even  went  so  far  as  to  offer 
to  give  her  a  pretty  frock  or  two,  which  Antoinette  refused 
proudly :  but  her  kindly  patroness  found  a  way  of  forcing  her 
to  accept  a  few  of  those  little  presents  which  are  so  dear  to  a 
woman's  innocent  vanity.  Antoinette  was  both  grateful  and 
embarrassed.  She  forced  herself  to  go  to  Madame  Nathan's 
parties  from  time  to  time:  and  being  young  she  managed  to 
enjoy  herself  in  spite  of  everything. 

But  in  that  rather  mixed  society  of  all  sorts  of  young 
people  Madame  Nathan's  protegee,  being  poor  and  pretty,  be- 
came at  once  the  mark  of  two  or  three  young  gentlemen,  who 
with  perfect  confidence  in  themselves  picked  her  out  for  their 
attentions.  They  calculated  how  far  her  timidity  would  go: 
they  even  made  bets  about  her. 


258  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IX  PARIS 

One  day  she  received  certain  anonymous  letters — or  rather 
letters  signed  with  a  noble  pseudonym — which  conveyed  a 
declaration  of  love :  at  first  they  were  love-letters,  nattering, 
ardent,  appointing  a  rendezvous:  then  they  quickly  became 
bolder,  threatening,  and  soon  insulting  and  basely  slanderous : 
they  stripped  her,  exposed  her,  besmirched  her  with  their  coarse 
expressions  of  desire:  they  tried  to  play  upon  Antoinette's 
simplicity  by  making  her  fearful  of  a  public  insult  if  she 
did  not  go  to  the  appointed  rendezvous.  She  wept  bitterly  at 
the  thought  of  having  called  down  on  herself  such  base  pro- 
posals: and  these  insults  scorched  her  pride.  She  did  not  know 
what  to  do.  She  did  not  like  to  speak  to  her  brother  about 
it :  she  knew  that  he  would  feel  it  too  keenly  and  that  he  would 
make  the  affair  even  more  serious  than  it  was.  She  had  no 
friends.  The  police?  She  would  not  do  that  for  fsar  of 
scandal.  But  somehow  she  had  to  make  an  end  of  it.  She 
felt  that  her  silence  would  not  sufficiently  defend  her,  that  the 
blackguard  who  was  pursuing  her  would  hold  to  the  chase  and 
that  he  would  go  on  until  to  go  farther  would  be  dangerous. 

He  had  just  sent  her  a  sort  of  ultimatum  commanding  her 
to  meet  him  next  day  at  the  Luxembourg.  She  went. — By 
racking  her  brains  she  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that  her 
persecutor  must  have  met  her  at  Madame  Nathan's.  In  one 
of  his  letters  he  had  alluded  to  Something  which  could  only 
have  happened  there.  She  begged  Madame  Xathan  to  do  her  a 
great  favor  and  to  drive  her  to  the  door  of  the  gallery  and  to 
wait  for  her  outside.  She  went  in.  In  front  of  the  appointed 
picture  her  tormentor  accosted  her  triumphantly  and  began 
to  talk  to  her  with  affected  politeness.  She  stared  straight  at 
him  without  a  word.  When  he  had  finished  his  remark  he 
asked  her  jokingly  why  she  was  staring  at  him.  She  replied: 

"  You  are  a  cowa-rd." 

He  was  not  put  out  by  such  a  i rifle  as  that,  and  became 
familiar  in  his  manner.  She  said: 

"  You  have  tried  to  threaten  me  with  a  scandal.  Very  well, 
I  have  come  to  give  you  your  scandal.  You  have  asked  for  it ! ?> 


ANTOINETTE  259 

She  was  trembling  all  over,  and  she  spoke  in  a  loud  voice 
to  show  him  that  she  was  quite  equal  to  attracting  attention  to 
themselves.  People  had  already  begun  to  watch  them.  He  felt 
that  she  would  stick  at  nothing.  He  lowered  his  voice.  She 
said  once  more,  for  the  last  time : 

"  You  arc  a  coward,"  and  turned  her  back  on  him. 

Not  wishing  to  seem  to  have  given  in  lie  followed  her.  She 
left  the  gallery  with  the  fellow  following  hard  on  her  heels. 
She  walked  straight  to  the  carriage  waiting  there,  wrenched  the 
door  open,  and  her  pursuer  found  himself  face  to  face  with 
Madame  Nathan,  who  recognized  him  and  greeted  him  by  name. 
His  face  fell  and  he  bolted. 

Antoinette  had  to  tell  the  whole  story  to  her  companion. 
She  was  unwilling  to  do  so,  and  only  hinted  roughly  at  the 
facts.  It  was  painful  to  her  to  reveal  to  a  stranger  the  intimate 
secrets  of  her  life,  and  the  sufferings  of  her  injured  modesty. 
Madame  Nathan  scolded  her  for  not  having  told  her  before. 
Antoinette  begged  her  not  to  tell  anybody.  That  was  the  end 
of  it:  and  Madame  Nathan  did  not  even  need  to  strike  the  fel- 
low off  her  visiting  list:  for  he  was  careful  not  to  appear  again. 

About  the  same  time  another  sorrow  of  a  very  different  kind 
came  to  Antoinette. 

At  the  Nathans'  she  met  a  man  of  forty,  a  very  good  fel- 
low, who  was  in  the  Consular  service  in  the  Far  East,  and  had 
come  home  on  a  few  months'  leave.  He  fell  in  love  with  her. 
The  meeting  had  been  planned  unknown  to  Antoinette,  by 
Madame  Nathan,  who  had  taken  it  into  her  head  that  she 
roust  find  a  husband  for  her  little  friend.  He  was  a  Jew.  1  It- 
was  not  good-looking  and  he  was  no  longer  young.  lie  was 
rather  bald  and  round-shouldered:  but  he  had  kind  eyes,  an 
affectionate  way  with  him,  and  he  could  feel  for  and  understand 
suffering,  for  he  had  suffered  himself.  Antoinette  was  no 
longer  the  romantic  girl,  the  spoiled  child,  dreaming  of  life  as 
a  lovely  day's  walk  on  her  lover's  arm  :  now  she  saw  the  hard 
struggle  of  life,  which  began  again  every  day.  allowing  no  time, 
for  rest,  or,  if  rest  were  taken,  it  might  be  to  lose  in  one  mo- 


2GO  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PAPJS 

mcnt  all  the  ground  that  liad  been  gained,  inch  by  inch,  through 
years  of  striving:  and  she  thought  it  would  he  very  sweet  to  be 
able  to  lean  on  the  arm  of  a  friend,  and  share  his  sorrows 
with  him,  and  be  able  to  close  her  eyes  for  a  little,  while  lie 
watched  over  her.  She  knew  that  it  was  a  dream  :  but  she  had 
not  had  the  courage  to  renounce  her  dream  altogether.  In  her 
heart  she  knew  quite  well  that  a  dowerless  girl  had  nothing  to 
hope  for  in  the  world  in  which  she  lived.  The  old  French  mid- 
dle-classes arc  known  throughout  the  world  for  the  spirit  of 
sordid  interest  in  which  they  conduct  their  marriages.  The 
Jews  are  far  less  grasping  with  money.  Among  the  Jews  it  is 
no  uncommon  thing  for  a  rich  young  man  -to  choose  a  poor 
girl,  or  a  young  woman  of  fortune  to  set  herself  passionately 
to  win  a  man  of  intellect.  But  in  the  French  middle-classes, 
Catholic  and  provincial  in  their  outlook,  almost  always  money 
woos  money.  And  to  what  end?  Poor  wretches,  they  have 
none  but  dull  commonplace  desires:  they  can  do  nothing  but 
eat,  yawn,  sleep — save.  Antoinette  knew  them.  She  had  ob- 
served their  ways  from  her  childhood  on.  She  had  seen  them 
with  the  eyes  of  wealth  and  the  eyes  of  poverty.  She  had  no 
illusions  left  about  them,  nor  about  the  treatment  she  had  to 
expect  from  them.  An;l  so  the  attentions  of  this  man  who 
had  asked  her  to  marry  him  came  as  an  unhoped  for  treasure  in 
her  life.  At  first  she  did  not  think  of  him  as  a  lover,  but 
gradually  she  was  filled  with  gratitude  and  tenderness  towards 
him.  She  would  have  accepted  his  proposal  if  it  had  not  meant 
following  him  to  the  colonies  and  consequently  leaving  .her 
brother.  She  refused  :  and  though  her  lover  understood  the 
magnanimity  of  her  reason  for  doing  so,  he  could  not  forgive 
her:  love  is  so  selfish,  that  the  lover  will  not  hear  of  being 
sacrificed  even  to  those  virtue's  which  are  dearest  to  him  in  the 
beloved.  lie  gave  up  seeing  her:  when  he  went  away  he  never 
wrote:  she  had  no  news  of  him  at  all  until,  live  or  six  months 
later,  she  received  a  printed  intimation,  addressed  in  his  hand, 
that  he  had  married  another  woman. 

Antoinette  felt  it  deeply.     She  was  broken-hearted,  and  she 


ANTOINETTE  261 

offered  up  her  suffering  to  God:  she  tried  to  persuade  herself 
that  she  was  justly  punished  for  having  for  one  moment  lost 
sight  of  her  one  duty,  to  devote  herself  to  her  brother:  and  she 
grew  more  and  more  wrapped  up  in  it. 

She  withdrew  from  the  world  altogether.  She  even  dropped 
going  to  the  Nathans',  for  they  were  a  little  cold  towards  her 
after  she  refused  the  marriage  which  they  had  arranged  for  her: 
they  too  refused  to  see  any  justification  for  her.  Madame 
Nathan  had  decided  that  the  marriage  should  take  place,  and 
her  vanity  was  hurt  at  its  missing  fire  through  Antoinette's 
fault.  She  thought  her  scruples  certainly  quite  praiseworthy, 
but  exaggerated  and  sentimental :  and  thereafter  she  lost  interest 
in  the  silly  little  goose.  It  was  necessary  for  her  always  to  he 
helping  people,  with  or  without  their  consent,  and  she  quickly 
found  another  protegee  to  absorb,  for  the  time  being,  all  the  in- 
terest and  devotion  which  she  had  to  expend. 

Olivier  knew  nothing  of  his  sister's  sad  little  romance.  He 
was  a  sentimental,  irresponsible  hoy,  living  in  his  dreams  and 
fancies.  It  was  impossible  to  depend  on  him  in  spite  of  his 
intelligence  and  charm  and  his  very  real  tenderheartedness. 
Often  he  would  fling  away  the  results  of  months  of  work  by  his 
irresponsibility,  or  in  a  fit  of  discouragement,  or  by  some  boyish 
freak,  or  some  fancied  love  affair,  in  which  he  would  waste  all 
his  t.ime  and  energy.  He  would  fall  in  love  with  a  pretty  face. 
that  he  had  seen  once,  with  coquettish  little  girls,  whom  perhaps 
he  once  met  out  somewhere,  though  they  never  paid  any  atten- 
tion to  him.  He  would  be  infatuated  with  something  lie  had 
read,  a  poet,  or  a  musician:  he  would  steep  himself  in  their 
works  for  months  together,  to  the  exclusion  of  everything  else 
and  the  detriment  of  his  studies.  He  had  to  be  watched  always, 
though  great  care  had  to  be  taken  that  he  did  not  know  it.  for  he 
was  easily  wounded.  There  was  alwavs  a  danger  of  a  seizure. 
He  had  the  feverish  excitement,  the  want  of  balance,  the  uneasy 
trepidation,  that  are  often  found  in  those  who  have  a  consump- 
tive tendency.  The  doctor  had  not  concealed  the  danger  from 
Antoinette.  The  sickly  plant,  transplanted  from  the  provinces 


262  JEAX-CHRISTOPHE  IX  PARIS 

to  Paris,  needed  fresh  air  and  light.  Antoinette  could  not  pro- 
vide them.  They  had  not  enough  money  to  be  able  to  go  away 
from  Paris  during  the  holidays.  All  the  rest  of  their  year  every 
day  in  the  week  was  full,  and  on  Sundays  they  were  so  tired  that 
they  never  wanted  to  go  out.  except  to  a  concert. 

There  were  Sundays  in  the  summer  when  Antoinette  would 
make  an  effort  and  drag  Olivier  off  to  the  woods  outside  Paris, 
near  Chaville  or  Saint-Cloud.  But  the  woods  were  full  of  noisy 
couples,  singing  music-hall  songs,  and  littering  the  place  with 
greasy  bits  of  paper:  they  did  not  find  the  divine  solitude  which 
purifies  and  gives  rest.  And  in  the  evening  when  they  turned 
homewards  they  had  to  suffer  the  roar  and  clatter  of  the  trains, 
the  dirty,  crowded,  low,  narrow,  dark  carriages  of  the  suburban 
lines,  the  coarseness  of  certain  things  they  saw.  the  noisy,  sing- 
ing, shouting,  smelly  people,  and  the  reek  of  tobacco  smoke. 
Neither  Antoinette  nor  Olivier  could  understand  the  people,  and 
they  would  return  home  disgusted  and  demoralized.  Olivier 
would  beg  Antoinette  not  to  go  for  Sunday  walks  again : 
and  for  some  time  Antoinette  would  not  have  the  heart  to  go 
again.  And  then  she  would  insist,  though  it  was  even  more 
disagreeable  to  her  than  to  Olivier :  but  she  thought  it  necessary 
for  her  brother's  health.  She  would  force  him  to  go  out  once 
more.  But  their  new  experience  would  be  no  better  than  the 
last,  and  Olivier  would  protest  bitterly.  So  they  stayed  shut 
up  in  the  stifling  town,  and,  in  their  prison-yard,  they  sighed 
for  the  open  fields. 

Olivier  had  reached  the  end  of  his  schooldays.  The  exam- 
inations for  the  Ecole  Nor  in  ale  were  over.  It  was  quite  time. 
Antoinette  was  very  tired.  She  was  counting  on  his  success: 
her  brother  had  everything  in  his  favor.  At  school  he  was 
regarded  as  one  of  the  best  pupils:  and  all  his  masters  were 
agreed  in  praising  his  industry  and  intelligence,  except  for  a 
certain  want  of  mental  discipline  which  made  it  difficult  for  him 
to  bend  to  any  sort  of  plan.  But  the  responsibility  of  it 
weighed  on  Olivier  so  heavily  that  he  lost  his  head  as  the  exam- 


ANTOINETTE  203 

ination  came  near.  He  was  worn  out,  and  paralyzed  by  the 
fear  of  failure,  and  a  morbid  shyness  that  crept  over  him.  He 
trembled  at  the  thought  of  appearing  before  the  examiners  in 
public.  He  had  always  suffered  from  shyness :  in  class  he  would 
blush  and  choke  when  he  had  to  speak :  at  first  he  could  hardly 
do  more  than  answer  his  name.  And  it  was  much  more  easy 
for  him  to  reply  impromptu  than  when  he  knew  that  he  was 
going  to  be  questioned :  the  thought  of  it  made  him  ill :  his 
mind  rushed  ahead  picturing  every  detail  of  the  ordeal  as  it 
would  happen :  and  the  longer  he  had  to  wait,  the  more  he  was 
obsessed  by  it.  It  might  be  said  that  he  passed  every  exam- 
ination at  least  twice :  for  he  passed  it  in  his  dreams  on  the 
night  before  and  expended  all  his  energy,  so  that  he  had  none 
left  for  the  real  examination. 

But  he  did  not  even  reach  the  rira  voce,  the  very  thought 
of  which  had  sent  him  into  a  cold  sweat  the  night  before.  In 
the  written  examination  on  a  philosophical  subject,  which  at 
any  ordinary  time  would  have  sent  him  flying  off,  he  could  not 
even  manage  to  squeeze  out  a  couple  of  pages  in  six  hours.  For 
the  first  few  hours  his  brain  was  empty;  he  could  think  of 
nothing,  nothing.  It  was  like  a  blank  wall  against  which  he 
hurled  himself  in  vain.  Then,  an  hour  before  the  end,  the 
wall  was  rent  and  a  few  rays  of  light  shone  through  the  crevices. 
He  wrote  an  excellent  short  essay,  but  it  was  not  enough  to 
place  him.  When  Antoinette  saw  the  despair  on  his  face  as  he 
came  out,  she  foresaw  the  inevitable  blow,  and  she  was  as 
despairing  as  he:  but  she  did  not  show  it.  Even  in  the  most 
desperate  situations  she  had  always  an  inexhaustible  capacity 
for  hope. 

Olivier  was  rejected. 

He  was  crushed  by  it.  Antoinette  pretended  to  smile  as 
though  it  were  nothing  of  any  importance:  but  her  lips 
trembled.  She  consoled  her  brother,  and  told  him  that  it  was 
an  easily  remedied  misfortune,  and  that  he  would  be  certain  to 
pass  next  year,  and  win  a  better  place.  She  did  not  tell  him 
how  vital  it  was  to  her  that  he  should  have  passed,  that  year, 


264  JEAX-CHRISTOPHE  IX  PARIS 

or  how  utterly  worn  out  she  felt  in  soul  and  body,  or  how  un- 
easy she  felt  about  lighting  through  another  year  like  that. 
But  she  had  to  go  on.  If  she  were  to  go  away  before  Olivier 
had  passed  he  would  never  have  the  courage  to  go  on  fighting 
alone:  he  would  succumb. 

She  concealed  her  weariness  from  him,  and  even  redoubled 
her  efforts.  She  wore  herself  to  skin  and  bone  to  let  him  have 
amusement  and  change  during  the  holidays  so  that  he  might 
resume  work  with  greater  energy  and  confidence.  But  at  the 
very  outset  her  small  savings  had  to  be  broken  into,  and,  to 
make  matters  worse,  she  lost  some  of  her  most  profitable  pupils. 

Another  year!  .  .  .  Within  sight  of  the  filial  ordeal  they 
were  almost  at  breaking-point.  Above  all,  they  had  to  live,  and 
discover  some  other  means  of  scraping  along.  Antoinette  ac- 
cepted a  situation  as  a  governess  in  Germany  which  had  been 
offered  her  through  the  Xathans.  It  was  the  very  last  thing  she 
would  have  thought  of,  but  nothing  else  offered  at  the  time,  and 
she  could  not  wait.  She  had  never  left  her  brother  for  a  single 
day  during  the  last  six  years:  and  she  could  not  imagine  what 
life  would  be  like  without  seeing  and  hearing  him  from  day  to 
day.  Olivier  was  terrified  when  he  thought  of  it:  but  be  dared 
not  say  anything:  it  was  he  who  had  brought  it  about:  if  he 
had  passed  Antoinette  would  not  have  been  reduced  to  such 
an  extremity:  he  had  no  right  to  say  anything,  or  to  take 
into  account  his  own  grief  at  the  parting:  it  was  for  her  to 
decide. 

They  spent  the  last  days  together  in  dumb  anguish,  as 
though  one  of  them  were  about  to  die:  they  hid  away  from  each 
other  when  their  sorrow  was  too  much  for  them.  Antoinette 
gazed  into  Olivier's  eyes  for  counsel.  If  he  had  said  to  her: 
"Don't  go!"  she  would  have  stayed,  although  she  had  to  go. 
Up  to  the  very  last  moment,  in  the  cab  in  which  they  drove  to 
the  station,  she  was  prepared  to  break  her  resolution:  she  felt 
that  she  could  never  go  through  with  it.  At  a  word  from  him. 
one  word!  .  .  .  But  he  said  nothing.  Like  her.  he  set  his 
teeth  and  would  not  budge. — She  made  him  promise  to  write  to 


ANTOINETTE  2(J5 

her  every  day,  and  to  conceal  nothing  from  her,  and  to  send  for 
her  if  he  were  ever  in  the  least  danger. 

They  parted.  While  Olivier  returned  with  a  heavy  heart  to 
his  school,  where  it  had  heen  agreed  that  he  should  board,  the 
train  carried  Antoinette,  crushed  and  sorrowful,  towards  Ger- 
many. Lying  awake  and  staring  through  the  night  they  felt 
the  minutes  dragging  them  farther  and  farther  apart,  and 
they  called  to  each  other  in  whispering  voices. 

Antoinette  was  fearful  of  the  new  world  to  which  she  was 
going.  She  had  changed  much  in  six  years.  She  who  had 
once  been  so  bold  and  afraid  of  nothing  had  grown  so  used  to 
silence  and  isolation  that  it  hurt  her  to  go  out  into  the  world 
again.  The  laughing,  gay,  chattering  Antoinette  of  the  old 
happy  times  had  passed  away  with  them.  Unhappiness  had 
made  her  sensitive  and  shy.  Xo  doubt  living  with  Olivier  had 
infected  her  with  his  timidity.  She  had  had  hardly  anybody 
to  talk  to  except  her  brother.  She  was  scared  by  the  least 
little  thing,  and  was  really  in  a  panic  when  she  had  to  pay  a 
call.  And  so  it  was  a  nervous  torture  to  her  to  think  that  she 
was  now  going  to  live  among  strangers,  to  have  to  talk  to  them, 
to  be  always  with  them.  The  poor  girl  had  no  more  real  voca- 
tion for  teaching  than  her  brother:  she  did  her  work  conscien- 
tiously, but  her  heart  was  not  in  it,  and  she  had  not  the  support 
of  feeling  that  there  was  any  use  in  it.  She  was  made  to  love 
and  not  to  teach.  And  no  one  cared  for  her  love. 

Nowhere  was  her  capacity  for  love  less  in  demand  than  in 
her  new  situation  in  Germany .  The  Griinebaums,  whose  chil- 
dren she  was  engaged  to  teach  French,  took  not  the  slightest 
interest  in  her.  They  were  haughtv  and  familiar,  indifferent 
and  indiscreet:  they  paid  fairly  well:  and.  as  a  result,  they 
regarded  everybody  in  their  payment  as  being  under  an  obliga- 
tion to  them,  and  thought  they  could  do  just  as  they  liked. 
They  treated  Antoinette  as  a  superior  sort  of  servant  and  al- 
lowed her  hardly  any  liberty.  She  did  not  even  have  a  room 


266  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PAEIS 

to  herself:  she  slept  in  a  room  adjoining  that  of  the  children 
and  had  to  leave  the  door  open  all  night.  She  was  never  alone. 
They  had  no  respect  for  her  need  of  taking  refuge  every  now 
and  then  within  herself — the  sacred  right  of  every  human  being 
to  preserve  an  inner  sanctuary  of  solitude.  The  only  happiness 
she  had  lay  in  correspondence  and  communion  with  her  brother : 
she  made  use  of  every  moment  of  liberty  she  could  snatch.  But 
even  that  was  encroached  upon.  As  soon  as  she  began  to  write 
they  would  prowl  about  in  her  room  and  ask  her  what  she  was 
writing,  ^lien  she  was  reading  a  letter  they  would  ask  her 
what  was  in  it:  by  their  persistent  impertinent  curiosity  they 
found  out  about  her  "  little  brother."  She  had  to  hide  from 
them.  Too  shameful  sometimes  were  the  expedients  to  which 
she  had  to  resort,  and  the  holes  and  crannies  in  which  she  had 
to  hide,  in  order  to  be  able  to  read  Olivier's  letters  unobserved. 
If  she  left-  a  letter  lying  in  her  room  she  was  sure  it  would  be 
read :  and  as  she  had  nothing  she  could  lock  except  her  box,  she 
had  to  carry  any  papers  she  did  not  want  to  have  read  about 
with  her :  they  were  always  prying  into  her  business  and  her  in- 
timate affairs,  and  they  were  always  fishing  for  her  secret 
thoughts.  It  was  not  that  the  Griinebaums  were  really  inter- 
ested in  her,  only  they  thought  that,  as  they  paid  her,  she  was 
their  property.  They  were  not  malicious  about  it:  indiscretion 
was  with  them  an  incurable  habit :  they  were  never  offended 
with  each  other. 

Nothing  could  have  been  more  intolerable  to  Antoinette  than 
such  espionage,  such  a  lack  of  moral  modesty,  which  made  it 
impossible  for  her  to  escape  even  for  an  hour  a  day  from  their 
curiosity.  The  Griinebaums  were  hurt  by  the  haughty  reserve 
with  which  she  treated  them.  Naturally  they  found  highly 
moral  reasons  to  justify  their  vulgar  curiosity,  and  to  condemn 
Antoinette's  desire  to  be  immune  from  it. 

"  It  was  their  duty,"  they  thought,  "  to  know  the  private 
life  of  a  girl  living  under  their  roof,  as  a  member  of  their 
household,  to  whom  they  had  intrusted  the  education  of  their 
children:  they  were  responsible  for  her." — (That  is  the  sort  of 


ANTOINETTE  267 

thing  that  so  many  mistresses  say  of  their  servants,  mistresses 
whose  "responsibility"  does  not  go  so  far  as  to  spare  the  un- 
happy girls  any  fatigue  or  work  that  must  revolt  them,  but 
is  entirely  limited  to  denying  them  every  sort  of  pleasure.)  — 
"  And  that  Antoinette  should  refuse  to  acknowledge  that  duty, 
imposed  on  them  by  conscience,  could  only  show,"  they  con- 
cluded, "  that  she  was  conscious  of  being  not  altogether  beyond 
reproach :  an  honest  girl  has  nothing  to  conceal." 

So  Antoinette  lived  under  a  perpetual  persecution,  against 
which  she  was  always  on  her  guard,  so  that  it  made  her  seem 
even  more  cold  and  reserved  than  she  was. 

Every  day  her  brother  wrote  her  a  twelve-page  letter:  and  she 
contrived  to  write  to  him  every  day  even  if  it  were  only  a  few 
lines.  Olivier  tried  hard  to  be  brave  and  not  to  show  his  grief 
too  clearly.  But  he  was  bored  and  dull.  His  life  had  always 
been  so  bound  up  with  his  sister's  that,  now  that  she  was  torn 
from  him,  he  seemed  to  have  lost  part  of  himself:  he  could  not 
use  his  arms,  or  his  legs,  or  his  brains,  he  could  not  walk,  or  play 
the  piano,  or  work,  or  do  anything,  not  even  dream — except 
through  her.  He  slaved  away  at  his  books  from  morning  to 
night:  but  it  was  no  good:  his  thoughts  were  elsewhere:  he 
would  be  suffering,  or  thinking  of  her,  or  of  the  morrow's  let- 
ter: he  would  sit  staring  at  the  clock,  waiting  for  the  day's 
letter:  and  when  it  arrived  his  fingers  would  tremble  with  joy— 
with  fear,  too — as  he  tore  open  the  envelope.  Never  did  lover 
tremble  with  more  tenderness  and  anxiety  at  a  letter  from  his 
mistress.  He  would  hide  away,  like  Antoinette,  to  read  his 
letters:  he  would  carry  them  about  with  him:  and  at  night  he 
always  had  the  last  letter  under  his  pillow,  and  he  would  touch 
it  from  time  to  time  to  make  sure  that  it  was  still  there,  during 
the  long,  sleepless  nights  when  he  lay  awake  dreaming  of  his 
dear  sister.  How  far  removed  from  her  he  felt!  He  felt  that 
most  dreadfully  when  Antoinette's  letters  were  delayed  by  the 
post  and  came  a  day  late.  Two  days,  two  nights,  between  them  ! 
.  .  .  He  exaggerated  the  time  and  the  distance  because  he 
had  never  traveled.  His  imagination  would  take  lire: 


2G8  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PATHS 

"  Heavens !  If  she  were  to  fall  ill !  There  would  be  time 
for  her  to  die  before  he  could  see  her.  .  .  .  Why  had  she 
not  written  to  him,  just  a  line  or  two,  the  day  before?  .  .  . 
Was  she  ill  ?  .  .  .  Yes.  She  was  surely  ill.  .  .  ."  He 
would  choke. — More  often  still  he  would  be  terrified  of  dying 
away  from  her,  dying  alone,  among  people  who  did  not  care, 
in  the  horrible  school,  in  grim,  gray  Paris.  He  would  make 
himself' ill  with  the  thought  of  it.  .  .  .  "Should  he  write 
and  tell  her  to  come  back?" — But  then  he  would  be  ashamed 
of  his  cowardice.  Besides,  as  soon  as  he  began  to  write  to 
her  it  gave  him  such  joy  to  be  in  communion  with  her  that 
for  a  moment  he  would  forget  his  suffering.  It  seemed  to  him 
that  he  could  see  her.  hear  her  voice :  he  would  tell  her  every- 
thing: never  had  he  spoken  to  her  so  intimately,  so  passionately, 
when  they  had  been  together:  he  woidd  call  her  "  my  true,  brave, 
dear,  kind,  beloved,  little  sister,"  and  say,  "  I  love  you  so." 
Indeed  they  were  real  love-letters. 

Their  tenderness  was  sweet  and  comforting  to  Antoinette: 
they  were  all  the  air  she  had  to  breathe.  If  they  did  not  come 
in  the  morning  at  the  usual  time  she  would  be  miserable.  Once 
or  twice  it  happened  that  the  Grimebaums,  from  carelessness,  or 
— who  knows? — from  a  wicked  desire  to  tease,  forgot  to  give 
them  to  her  until  the  evening,  and  once  even  until  the  next 
morning:  and  she  worked  herself  into  a  fever. — On  New  Year's 
Day  they  had  the  same  idea,  without  telling  each  other:  they 
planned  a  surprise,  and  each  sent  a  long  telegram-—  (at  vast  ex- 
pense)— and  their  messages  arrived  at-  the  same  time. — Olivier 
always  consulted  Antoinette  about  his  work  and  his  troubles: 
Antoinette  gave  him  advice,  and  encouragement,  and  fortified, 
him  with  her  strength,  though  indeed  she  had  not  really  enough 
for  herself. 

She  was  stifled  in  the  foreign  country,  where  she  knew  no- 
body, and  nobody  was  interested  in  her.  except  the  wife  of  a 
professor,  lately  come  to  the  town,  who  also  felt  out  of  her 
element.  The  good  creature  was  kind  and  motherly,  and  sym- 
pathetic with  the  brother  and  sister  who  loved  each  other  so 


ANTOINETTE  269 

and  had  to  live  apart — (for  she  had  draped  part  of  her  story 
out  of  Antoinette)  : — hut  she  was  so  noisy,  so  commonplace,  she 
was  so  lacking — though  quite  innocently- — in  tact  and  discre- 
tion that  aristocratic  little  Antoinette  was  irritated  and  drew 
back.  She  had  no  one  in  whom  she  could  confide  and  so  all 
her  troubles  were  pent  up,  and  weighed  heavily  upon  her:  some- 
times she  thought  she  must  give  way  under  them  :  but  she  set 
her  teeth  and  struggled  on.  Her  health  suffered:  she  grew 
very  thin.  Her  brother's  letters  became  more  and  more  down- 
hearted. Tn  a  fit  of  depression  he  wrote: 

"Come  back,  come  back,  come  back!    ..." 

But  he  had  hardly  sent  the  letter  off  than  he  was  ashamed 
of  it  and  wrote  another  begging  Antoinette  to  tear  up  the  first 
and  give  no  further  thought  to  it.  He  even  pretended  to  be  in 
good  spirits  and  not  to  be  wanting  his  sister.  It  hurt  his  um- 
brageous vanity  to  think  that  he  might  seem  incapable  of  doing 
without  her. 

Antoinette  was  not  deceived:  she  read  his  every  thought:  but 
she  did  not  know  what  to  do.  One  day  she  almost  went  to  him  : 
she  went  to  the  station  to  find  out  what  time  the  train  left  for 
Paris.  And  then  she  said  to  herself  that  it  was  madness:  the 
money  she  was  earning  was  enough  to  pay  for  Oliviers  board: 
they  must  hold  on  as  long  ar  they  could.  She  was  not  strong 
enough  to  make  up  her  mind  :  in  the  morning  her  courage  would 
spring  forth  again:  but  as  the  day  dragged  towards  evening  her 
strength  would  fail  her  and  she  would  think  of  living  to  him. 
She  was  homesick. — longing  for  the  country  that  had  treated 
her  so  hardly,  the  country  that  enshrined  all  the  relics  of  her 
past  life. — and  she  was  aching  to  hear  the  language  that 
brother  spoke,  the  language  in  which  she  told  her  love 
him. 

Then  it  was  that  a  companv  of  French  actors  passed  through 
the  little  Herman  town.  Antoinette,  who  rarelv  visited  the 
theater — (she  had  neither  time  nor  taste  for  it) — -was  sei/.ed 
with  an  irresistible  longing  to  hear  her  own  language,  spoken, 
to  take  refuge  in  France. 


270  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PAEIS 

The  rest  is  known.1 

There  were  no  seats  left  in  the  theater:  she  met  the  young 
musician,  Jean-Christophe,  whom  she  did  not  know,  and  he, 
seeing  her  disappointment,  offered  to  share  with  her  a  box  which 
he  had  to  give  away :  in  her  confusion  she  accepted.  Her  pres- 
ence with  Christophe  set  tongues  wagging  in  the  little  town :  and 
the  malicious  rumors  came  at  once  to  the  ears  of  the  Griine- 
haums,  who,  being  already  inclined  to  believe  anything  ill  of 
the  young  Frenchwoman,  and  furious  with  Christophe  as  a  re- 
sult of  certain  events  which  have  been  narrated  elsewhere,  dis- 
missed Antoinette  without  more  ado. 

She,  who  was  so  chaste  and  modest,  she,  whose  whole  life 
had  been  absorbed  by  her  love  for  her  brother  and  never  yet 
had  been  besmirched  with  one  thought  of  evil,  nearly  died  of 
shame,  when  she  understood  the  nature  of  the  charge  against 
her.  Not  for  one  moment  was  she  resentful  against  Chris- 
tophe. She  knew  that  he  was  as  innocent  as  she.  and  that,  if  he 
had  injured  her,  he  had  meant  only  to  be  kind :  she  was  grateful 
to  him.  She  knew  nothing  of  him,  save  that  he  was  a  musi- 
cian, and  that  he  was  much  maligned  :  but,  in  her  ignorance 
of  life  and  men,  she  had  a  natural  intuition  about  people,  which 
unhappiness  had  sharpened,  and  in  her  queer,  boorish  companion 
she  had  recognized  a  quality  of  candor  equal  to  her  own,  and  a 
sturdy  kindness,  the  mere  memory  of  which  was  comforting  and 
good  to  think  on.  The  evil  she  had  heard  of  him  did  not  at  all 
affect  the  confidence  which  Christophe  had  inspired  in  her. 
Being  herself  a  victim  she  had  no  doubt  that  he  was  in  the 
same  plight,  suffering,  as  she  did,  though  for  a  longer  time, 
from  the  malevolence  of  the  townspeople  who  insulted  him. 
And  as  she  always  forgot  herself  in  the  thought  of  others  the 
idea  of  what  Christophe  must  have  suffered  distracted  her  mind 
a  little  from  her  own  torment.  Nothing  in  the  world  could 
have  induced  her  to  try  to  see  him  again,  or  to  write  to  him : 
her  modesty  and  pride  forbade  it.  She  told  herself  that  he  did 

1  See  Jean-C/iristophe — I,  "  Revolt." 


ANTOINETTE  271 

not  know  the  harm  he  had  done,  and,  in  her  gentleness,  she 
hoped  that  he  would  never  know  it. 

She  left  Germany.  An  hour  away  from  the  town  it  chanced 
that  the  train  in  which  she  was  traveling  passed  the  train  by 
which  Christophe  was  returning  from  a  neighboring  town  where 
he  had  been  spending  the  day. 

For  a  few  minutes  their  carriages  stopped  opposite  each 
other,  and  in  the  silence  of  the  night  they  saw  each  other,  but 
did  not  speak.  What  could  they  have  said  save  a  few  trivial 
words?  That  would  have  been  a  profanation  of  the  indefinable 
feeling  of  common  pity  and  mysterious  sympathy  which  had 
sprung  up  in  them,  and  was  based  on  nothing  save  the  sure- 
ness  of  their  inward  vision.  During  those  last  moments,  when, 
still  strangers,  they  gazed  into  each  other's  eyes,  they  saw  in 
each  other  things  which  never  had  appeared  to  any  other  soul 
among  the  people  with  whom  they  lived.  Everything  must  pass: 
the  memory  of  words,  kisses,  passionate  embraces :  but  the  con- 
tact of  souls,  which  have  once  met  and  hailed  each  other  amid 
the  throng  of  passing  shapes,  that  never  can  be  blotted  out. 
Antoinette  bore  it  with  her  in  the  innermost  recesses  of  her 
heart — that  poor  heart,  so  swathed  about  with  sorrow  and  sad 
thoughts,  from  out  the  midst  of  which  there  smiled  a  misty 
light,  which  seemed  to  steal  sweetly  from  the  earth,  a  pale  and 
tender  light  like  that  which  floods  the  Elysian  Shades  of  Gluck. 

She  returned  to  Olivier.  It  was  high  time  she  returned  to 
him.  He  had  just  fallen  ill :  and  the  poor,  nervous,  unhappy 
little  creature  who  trembled  at  the  thought  of  illness  before  it 
came — now  that  he  was  really  ill,  refused  to  write  to  his  sister 
for  fear  of  upsetting  her.  But  he  called  to  her,  prayed  for  her 
coming  as  for  a  miracle. 

When  the  miracle  happened  he  was  lying  in  the  school  in- 
firmary, feverish  and  wandering.  When  he  saw  her  he  made 
no  sound.  How  often  had  he  seen  her  enter  in  his  fevered 
fancy!  -  .  ,  lie  sat  up  in  bed.  gaping,  and  trembling  lest  it 
should  be  once  more  only  an  illusion.  And  when  she  sat  down 


JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARTS 

on  the  bod  by  his  side,  when  she  took  him  in  her  arms  and  lie 
had  taken  her  in  his,  when  he  felt  her  soft  cheek  against  his 
lips,  and  her  hands  still  cold  from  traveling  by  night  in  his, 
when  he  was  quite,  quite  sure  that  it  was  his  dear  sister  lie  be- 
gan to  weep.  He  could  do  nothing  else:  lie  was  still  the  ''  little 
cry-baby"  that  he  had  been  when  he  was  a  child,  lie  clung 
to  her  and  held  her  close  for  fear  she  should  go  away  from 
him  again.  How  changed  they  were !  How  sad  they  looked  ! 
.  .  .  No  matter!  They  were  together  once  more:  everything 
was  lit  up,  the  infirmary,  the  school,  the  gloomy  day:  they  clung 
to  each  other,  they  would  never  let  each  other  go.  Before  she 
had  said  a  word  he  made  her  swear  that  she  would  not  go 
away  again.  He  had  no  need  to  make  her  swear:  no.  she  would 
never  go  away  again:  they  had  been  too  unhappy  away  from 
each  other:  their  mother  was  right:  anything  was  better  than 
being  parted.  Even  poverty,  even  death,  so  only  they  were 
together. 

They  took  rooms.  They  wanted  to  take  their  old  little  flat, 
horrible  though  it  was:  but  it  was  occupied.  Their  new  rooms 
also  looked  out  on  to  a  yard:  but  above  a  wall  they  could  see 
the  top  of  a  little  acacia  and  grew  fond  of  it  at  once,  as  a 
friend  from  the  country,  a  prisoner  like  themselves,  in  the 
paved  wilderness  of  the  city.  Olivier  quickly  recovered  his 
health,  or  rather,  what  he  was  pleased  to  call  his  health : — 
(for  what  was  health  to  him  would  have  been  illness  to  a 
stronger  boy). — Antoinette's  unhappy  stay  in  (Jermany  bad 
helped  her  to  save  a  little  money:  and  sin1  made  some  more  bv 
the  translation  of  a  Herman  book  which  a  publisher  accepted. 
For  a  time.  then,  they  were  free  of  financial  anxiety:  and  all 
would  be  well  if  Olivier  passed  his  examination  at  the  end  of  the 
year. — But  if  he  did  not  pass? 

]STo  sooner  had  they  settled  down  to  the  happiness  of  being 
together  again  than  thev  were  once  more  obsessed  bv  the  pros- 
pect of  the  examination.  They  tried  hard  not  to  think  about 
it.  but  in-  vain,  they  were  always  coming  back  to  it.  The  fixed 
idea  haunted  them,  even  when  they  were  seeking  distraction 


ANTOINETTE  273 

from  their  thoughts:  at  concerts  it  would  suddenly  leap  out 
at  them  in  the  middle  of  the  performance:  at  night  when  they 
woke  up  it  would  lie  there  like  a  yawning  gulf  before  them.  In 
addition  to  his  eagerness  to  please  his  sister  and  repay  her  for 
the  sacrifice  of  her  youth  that  she  had  made  for  his  sake, 
Olivier  lived  in  terror  of  his  military  service  which  he  could 
not  escape  if  he  were  rejected: — (at  that  time  admission  to  the 
great  schools  was  still  admitted  as  an  exemption  from  service). — 
He  had  an  invincible  disgust  for  the  physical  and  moral 
promiscuity,  the  kind  of  intellectual  degradation,  which,  rightly 
or  wrongly,  he  saw  in  barrack-life.  Every  pure  and  aristocratic 
quality  in  him  revolted  from  such  compulsion,  and  it  seemed 
to  him  that  death  would  be  preferable.  In  these  days  it  is  per- 
mitted to  make  light  of  such  feelings,  and  even  to  decry  them 
in  the  name  of  a  social  morality  which,  for  the  moment,  has 
become  a  religion:  but  they  are  blind  who  deny  it:  there  is  no 
more  profound  suffering  than  that  of  the  violation  of  moral 
solitude  by  the  coarse  liberal  Communism  of  the  present 
day. 

The  examinations  began.  Olivier  was  almost  incapable  of 
going  in:  he  was  unwell,  and  he  was  so  fearful  of  the  torment 
he  would  have  to  undergo,  whether  he  passed  or  not.  that  he 
almost  longed  to  be  taken  seriously  ill.  lie  did  quite  well  in 
the  written  examination.  Hut  he  had  a  cruel  time  waiting  to 
hear  the  results.  Following  the  immemorial  custom  of  the 
country  of  Revolutions,  which  is  the  worst  country  in  the  world 
for  red-tape  and  routine,  the  examinations  were  held  in  July 
during  the  hottest  days  of  the  year,  as  though  it  were  delib- 
erately intended  to  finish  off  the  luckless  candidates,  who  were 
already  staggering  under  the  weight  of  cramming  a  monstrous 
list  of  subjects,  of  which  even  the  examiners  did  not  know  a 
tenth  part.  The  written  examinations  were  held  on  the  day 
after  the  holiday  of  the  14th  July,  when  the  whole  city  was 
upside  down,  and  making  merry,  to  the  undoing  of  the  young 
men  who  were  by  no  means  inclined  to  be  merry,  anil  asked  for 
nothing  but  silence.  In  the  square  outside  the  house  booths 


274  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IX  PARTS 

were  set  up,  rifles  cracked  at  the  miniature  ranges,  merry-go- 
rounds  creaked  and  grunted,  and  hideous  steam  organs  roared 
from  morning  till  night.  The  idiotic  noise  went  on  for  a  week. 
Then  a  President  of  the  Republic,  by  way  of  maintaining  his 
popularity,  granted  the  rowdy  merry-makers  another  three  days' 
holiday.  It  cost  him  nothing :  he  did  not  hear  the  row.  But 
Olivier  and  Antoinette  were  distracted  and  appalled  by  the 
noise,  and  had  to  keep  their  windows  shut,  so  that  their  rooms 
were  stifling,  and  stop  their  ears,  trying  vainly  to  escape  the 
shrill,  insistent,  idiotic  tunes  which  were  ground  out  from 
morning  till  night  and  stabbed  through  their  brains  like  daggers, 
so  that  they  were  reduced  to  a  pitiful  condition. 

The  viva  voce  examination  began  immediately  after  the  pub- 
lication of  the  first  results.  Olivier  begged  Antoinette  not  to 
go.  She  waited  at  the  door, — much  more  anxious  than  he.  Of 
course  he  never  told  her  what  he  thought  of  his  performance. 
He  tormented  her  by  telling  her  what  lie  had  said  and  what  he 
had  not  said. 

At  last  the  final  results  were  published.  The  names  of  the 
candidates  were  posted  in  the  courtyard  of  the  Sorbonne.  An- 
toinette would  not  let  Olivier  go  alone.  As  they  left  the  house, 
they  thought,  though  they  did  not  say  it,  that  when  they  came 
back  they  would  know,  and  perhaps  they  would  regret  their 
present  fears,  when  at  least  there  was  still  hope.  When  they 
came  in  sight  of  the  Sorbonne  they  felt  their  legs  give  way  un- 
der them.  Brave  little  Antoinette  said  to  her  brother: 

"  Please  not  so  fast.    ..." 

Olivier  looked  at  his  sister,  and  she  forced  a  smile.     He  said: 

"  Shall  we  sit  down  for  a  moment  on  the  seat  here?  " 

He  would  gladly  have  gone  no  further.  But,  after  a  mo- 
ment, she  pressed  his  hand  and  said: 

"  It's  nothing,  dear.     Let  us  go  on." 

They  could  not  find  the  list  at  first,  They  read  several  others 
in  which  the  name  of  Jeannin  did  not  appear.  When  at  last 
they  saw  it,  they  did  not  take  it  in  at  first:  they  read  it  several 
times  and  could  not  believe  it.  Then  when  they  were  quite  sure 


ANTOINETTE  2?5 

that  it  was  true  that  Jeannin  was  Olivier,  that  Jcannin  had 
passed,  they  could  say  nothing :  they  hurried  home :  she  took 
his  arm,  and  held  his  wrist,  and  leaned  her  weight  on  him : 
they  almost  ran,  and  saw  nothing  of  what  was  going  on  about 
them :  as  they  crossed  the  boulevard  they  were  almost  run  over. 
They  said  over  and  over  again : 

"Dear.   .    .    .     Darling.   .    .    .     Dear.   .    .    .     Dear.   .    .    ." 

They  tore  upstairs  to  their  rooms  and  then  they  flung  their 
arms  round  each  other.  Antoinette  took  her  brother's  hand  and 
led  him  to  the  photographs  of  their  father  and  mother,  which 
hung  on  the  wall  near  her  bed,  in  a  corner  of  her  room,  which 
was  a  sort  of  sanctuary  to  her :  they  knelt  down  before  them : 
and  with  tears  in  their  eyes  they  prayed. 

Antoinette  ordered  a  jolly  little  dinner :  but  they  could  not 
eat  a  morsel :  they  were  not  hungry.  They  spent  the  evening, 
Olivier  kneeling  by  his  sister's  side  while  she  petted  him  like  a 
child.  They  hardly  spoke  at  all.  They  could  not  even  be 
happy,  for  they  were  too  worn  out.  They  went  to  bed  before 
nine  o'clock  and  slept  the  sleep  of  the  just. 

Next  day  Antoinette  had  a  frightful  headache,  but  there 
was  such  a  load  taken  from  her  heart!  Olivier  felt,  for  the 
first  time  in  his  life,  that  he  could  breathe  freely.  He  was 
saved,  she  was  saved,  she  had  accomplished  her  task :  and  he  had 
shown  himself  to  be  not  unworthy  of  his  sister's  expectations ! 
.  .  .  For  the  first  time  for  years  and  years  they  allowed 
themselves  a  little  laziness.  They  stayed  in  bed  till  twelve 
talking  through  the  wall,  with  the  door  between  their  rooms 
open:  when  they  looked  in  the  mirror  they  saw  their  faces 
happy  and  tired-looking:  they  smiled,  and  threw  kisses  to  each 
other,  and  dozed  off  again,  and  watched  each  other's  sleep,  and 
lay  weary  and  worn  with  hardly  the  strength  to  do  more  than 
mutter  tender  little  scraps  of  words. 

Antoinette  had  always  put  by  a  little  money,  sou  by  sou, 
so  as  to  have  some  small  reserve  in  case  of  illness.  She  did  not 
tell  her  brother  the  surprise  she  had  in  store  for  him.  The  day 


276  JKAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

after  his  success  she  told  him  that  they  were  going  to  -•  "d  a 
month  in  Switzerland  to  make  up  for  all  their  years  of  :;;>ublc 
and  hardship.  Now  that  Olivier  was  assured  of  three  years  at 
the  Ecole  Norm  ale  at  the  expense  of  the  State,  and  then,  when 
he  left  the  Ecole,  of  finding  a  post,  they  could  he  extravagant 
and  spend  all  their  savings.  Olivier  shouted  for  joy  when  she 
told  him.  Antoinette  was  even  more  happy  than  he, — happy 
in  her  brother's  happiness, — happy  to  think  that  she  was  going 
to  see  the  country  once  more:  she  had  so  longed  for  it. 

It  took  them  some  time  to  get  ready  for  the  journey,  but  the 
work  of  preparation  was  an  unending  joy.  It  was  well  on  in 
August  when  they  set  out.  They  were  not  used  to  traveling. 
Olivier  did  not  sleep  the  night  before.  And  he  did  not  sleep  in 
the  train.  The  whole  day  they  had  heen  fearful  of  missing  the 
train.  They  were  in  a  feverish  hurry,  they  had  been  jostled 
about  at  the  station,  and  finally  huddled  into  a  second-class  car- 
riage, where  they  could  not  even  lean  back  to  go  to  sleep : — 
(that  is  one  of  the  privileges  of  which  the  eminently  demo- 
cratic French  companies  deprive  poor  travelers,  so  that  rich 
travelers  may  have  the  pleasure  of  thinking  that  they  have  a 
monopoly  of  it). — Olivier  did  not  sleep  a  wink  :  he  was  not  sure 
that  they  were  in  the  right  train,  and  he  looked  out  for  the  name 
of  every  station.  Antoinette  slept  lightly  and  woke  up  very 
frequently:  the  jolting  of  the  train  made  her  head  bob.  Olivier 
watched  her  by  the  light  of  the  funereal  lamp,  which  shone  at 
the  top  of  the  moving  sarcophagus:  and  he  was  suddenly  struck 
by  the  change  in  her  Tare.  Her  eyes  were  hollow:  her  childish 
lips  were  half-open  from  sheer  weariness:  her  skin  was  sallow, 
and  there  were;  little  wrinkles  on  her  cheeks,  the  marks  of  the 
sad  years  of  sorrow  and  disillusion.  She  looked  old  and  ill. — 
And,  indeed,  she  was  so  tired  !  II'  she  had  dared  she  would  have 
postponed  their  journey.  But  she  did  not  like  to  spoil  her 
brother's  pleasure:  she  tried  to  persuade  herself  that  she  was  onlv 
tired,  and  that  the  country  would  make  her  well  again.  She 
was  fear  nil  lest  she.  should  fall  ill  on  the  way. — She  felt  that  he 
was  looking  at  her:  and  she  suddenly  Hung  oil'  the  drowsiness 


ANTOINETTE  277 

that  was  creeping  over  her.  and  opened  her  eyes. — eyes  still 
young,  still  clear  nnd  limpid,  across  which,  from  time  to  time, 
there  passed  an  involuntary  look  of  pain,  like  shadows  on  a 
little  lake.  He  asked  her  in  a  whisper,  anxiously  and  tenderly, 
how  she  was :  she  pressed  his  hand  and  assured  him  that  she  was 
well.  A  word  of  love  revived  her. 

Then,  when  the  rosy  dawn  tinged  the  pale  country  between 
Dole  and  Pontarlier,  the  sight  of  the  waking  fields,  and  the 
gay  sun  rising  from  the  earth, — the  sun,  who,  like  themselves, 
had  escaped  from  the  prison  of  the  streets,  and  the  grimy  houses, 
and  the  thick  smoke  of  Paris: — the  waving  h'elds  wrapped  in  the 
light  mist  of  their  milk-white  breath:  the  little  things  they 
passed:  a  little  village  belfry,  a  glimpse  of  a  winding  stream,  a 
blue  line  of  hills  hovering  on  the  far  horizon:  the  tinkling, 
moving  sound  of  the  angelus  borne  from  afar  on  the  wind, 
when  the  train  stopped  in  the  midst  of  the  sleeping  country:  the 
solemn  shapes  of  a  herd  of  cows  browsing  on  a  slope  above  the 
railway, — all  absorbed  Antoinette  and  her  brother,  to  whom  it  all 
seemed  new.  They  were  like  parched  trees,  drinking  in  ecstasy 
the  rain  from  heaven. 

Then,  in  the  early  morning,  they  reached  the  Swiss  Customs, 
where  they  had  to  get  out.  A  little  station  in  a  bare  country- 
side. They  weie  almost  worn  out  by  their  sleepless  night,  and' 
the  cold,  dewy  freshness  of  the  dawn  made  them  shiver:  but  it. 
was  calm,  and  the  sky  was  clear,  and  the  fragrant  air  of  the 
fields  was  about  them,  upon  their  lips,  on  their  tongues,  down 
their  throats,  flowing  down  into  their  lungs  like  a  cooling 
stream:  and  they  stood  .by  a  table,  out  in  the  open  air,  and 
drank  comforting  hot  coffee  with  creamy  milk,  heavenly  sweet. 
and  tasting  of  the  grass  and  the  flowers  of  the  fields. 

They  climbed  up  into  the  Swiss  carriage,  the  novel  arrange- 
ment of  which  gave  them  a  childish  pleasure.  Hut  Antoinette 
was  so  tired!  She  could  not  understand  why  she  should  feel  so 
ill.  Why  was  everything  about  her  so  beautiful,  so  absorbing. 
when  she  could  take  so  little  pleasure  in  it  V  Was  it  not  all  just 
what  she  had  been  dreaming  for  vears:  a  journev  with  her 

O  */  v  *- 


278  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

brother,  with  all  anxiety  for  the  future  left  behind,  dear  mother 
Nature?  .  .  .  What  was  the  matter  with  her?  She  was  an- 
noyed with  herself,  and  forced  herself  to  admire  and  share  her 
brother's  naive  delight. 

They  stopped  at  Thun.  They  were  to  go  up  into  the 
mountains  next  day.  But  that  night  in  the  hotel,  Antoinette 
was  stricken  with  a  fever,  and  violent  illness,  and  pains  in  her 
head.  Olivier  was  at  his  wits'  ends,  and  spent  a  night  of 
frightful  anxiety.  He  had  to  send  for  a  doctor  in  the  morning 
—  (an  unforeseen  expense  which  was  no  light  tax  on  their 
slender  purse). — The  doctor  could  find  nothing  immediately 
serious,  but  said  that  she  was  run  down,  and  that  her  constitu- 
tion was  undermined.  There  could  be  no  question  of  their  go- 
ing on.  The  doctor  forbade  Antoinette  to  get  up  all  day :  and 
he  thought  they  would  perhaps  have  to  stay  at  Thun  for  some 
time.  They  were  very  downcast — though  very  glad  to  have  got 
off  so  cheaply  after  all  their  fears.  But  it  was  hard  to  have 
come  so  far  to  be  shut  up  in  a  nasty  hotel-room  into  which  the 
sunlight  poured  so  that  it  was  like  a  hothouse.  Antoinette  in- 
sisted on  her  brother  going  out.  He  went  a  few  yards  from  the 
hotel,  saw  the  beautiful  green  Aar,  and,  hovering  in  the  distance 
against  the  sky,  a  white  peak:  he  bubbled  over  with  joy:  but  he 
could  not  keep  it  to  himself.  He  rushed  back  to  his  sister's 
room,  and  told  her  excitedly  what  he  had  just  seen:  and  when 
she  expressed  her  surprise  at  his  coming  back  so  soon  and  made 
him  promise  to  go  out  again,  he  said,  as  once  before  he  had  said 
when  he  came  back  from  the  Chdtclei  concert: 

"  No,  no.  It  is  too  beautiful :  it  hurts  me  to  see  it  without 
you." 

That  feeling  was  not  new  to  them :  they  knew  that  they 
had  to  be  together  to  enjoy  anything  wholly.  But  they  always 
loved  to  hear  it  said.  His  tender  words  did  Antoinette  more 
good  than  any  medicine.  She  smiled  now.  languidly,  happily. 
• — And  after  a  good  night,  although  it  was  not  very  wise  to  go  on 
so  soon,  she  decided  that  they  would  get  away  very  early,  with- 
out telling  the  doctor.,  who  would  only  want  to  keep  them  back. 


ANTOINETTE  279 

The  pure  air  and  the  joy  of  seeing  so  much  beauty  made  her 
stronger,  so  that  she  did  not  have  to  pay  for  her  rashness, 
and  without  any  further  misadventure  they  reached  the  end 
of  their  journey — a  mountain  village,  high  above  the  lake,  some 
distance  away  from  Spiez. 

There  they  spent  three  or  four  weeks  in  a  little  hotel.  An- 
toinette did  not  have  any  further  attack  of  fever,  but  she  never 
got  really  well.  She  still  felt  a  heaviness,  an  intolerable  weight, 
in  her  head,  and  she  was  always  unwell.  Olivier  often  asked 
her  about  her  health :  he  longed  to  see  her  grow  less  pale :  but  he 
was  intoxicated  by  the  beauty  of  the  country,  and  instinctively 
avoided  all  melancholy  thoughts :  when  she  assured  him  that 
she  was  really  quite  well,  he  tried  to  believe  that  it  was  true, — 
although  he  knew  perfectly  well  that  it  was  not  so.  And  she 
enjoyed  to  the  full  her  brother's  exuberance  and  the  fine  air,  and 
the  all-pervading  peace.  How  good  it  was  to  rest  at  last  after 
those  terrible  years ! 

Olivier  tried  to  induce  her  to  go  for  walks  with  him  :  she 
would  have  been  happy  to  join  him  :  but  on  several  occasions 
when  she  had  bravely  set  out,  she  had  been  forced  to  stop  after 
twenty  minutes,  to  regain  her  breath,  and  rest  her  heart.  So 
he  went  out  alone, — climbing  the  safe  peaks,  though  they  filled 
her  with  terror  until  he  came  home  again.  Or  they  would  go 
for  little  walks  together:  she  would  lean  on  his  arm,  and  walk 
slowly,  and  they  would  talk,  and  he  would  suddenly  begin  to 
chatter,  and  laugh,  and  discuss  his  plans,  and  make  quips  and 
jests.  From  the  road  on  the  hillside  above  the  valley  they  would 
watch  the  white  clouds  reflected  in  the  still  lake,  and  the  boats 
moving  like  insects  on  the  surface  of  a  pond  :  they  would  drink 
in  the  warm  air  and  the  music  of  the  goat-bells,  borne  on  the 
gusty  wind,  and  the  smell  of  the  new-mown  hay  and  the  warm 
resin.  And  they  would  dream  together  of  the  past  and  the 
future,  and  the  present  which  seemed  to  them  to  be  the  most 
unreal  and  intoxicating  of  dreams.  Sometimes  Antoinette  would 
be  infected  with  her  brother's  jolly  childlike  humor:  they 
would  chase  each  other  and  roll  about  on  the  <rrass.  And  ono 


280  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE   fX  PARTS 

day  IIP  ?a\v  her  laughing  as  she  used  to  do  when  they  were 
children,  madly,  carelessly,  laughter  clear  and  bubbling  as  a 
spring,  such  as  he  had  not  heard  for  many  years. 

But,  most  often.  Olivier  could  not  resist  the  pleasure  of 
going  for  long  walks.  He  would  he  sorry  for  it  at  once,  and 
later  he  had  bitterly  1o  regret  that  he  had  not  made  enough 
of  those  dear  days  with  his  sister.  Even  in  the  hotel  he  would 
often  leave  her  alone.  There  was  a  party  of  young  men  and 
girls  in  the  hotel,  from  whom  they  had  at  first  kept  apart. 
Then  Olivier  was  attracted  by  them,  and  shyly  joined  their 
circle.  He  had  been  starved  of  friendship:  outside  his  sister 
he  had  hardly  known  any  one  but  his  rough  schoolfellows  and 
their  girls,  who  repelled  him.  It  was  very  sweet  to  him  to 
be  among  well-mannered,  charming,  merry  boys  and  girls  of 
his  own  age.  Although  he  was  very  shy,  he  was  naively  curious, 
sentimental,  and  affectionate,  and  easily  bewitched  by  the  little 
burning,  flickering  fires  that  shine  in  a  woman's  eves.  And  in 
spite  of  his  shyness,  women  liked  him.  His  frank  longing  to 
love  and  be  loved  gave  him.  unknown  to  himself,  a  youthful 
charm,  and  made  him  find  words  and  gestures  and  affectionate 
little  attentions,  the  very  awkwardness  of  which  made  them  all 
the  more  attractive.  He  had  the  gift  of  sympathy.  Although 
in  his  isolation  his  intelligence  had  taken  on  an  ironieal  tinge 
which  made  him  see  the  vulgarity  of  people  and  their  defects, 
which  he  often  loathed, — yet  in  their  presence  he  saw  nothing 
but  their  eyes,  in  which  he  would  see  the  expression  of  a  liv- 
ing being,  who  one  day  would  die.  a  being  who  had  onlv  one 
life,  even  as  he,  and,  even  as  he,  would  lose  it  all  too  soon: 
then  of  that  creature  he  would  involuntarily  be  fond:  in  that 
moment  nothing  in  the  world  could  make  him  do  anything  to 
hurt:  whether  he  liked  it  or  not,  he  had  to  be  kind  and  amiable. 
He  was  weak:  and.  in  being  so,  lie  was  sure  to  please  the 
"world*'  which  pardons  every  vice,  and  even  every  virtue. — 
except  one:  force,  on  whieh  all  the  rest  depend. 

Antoinette  did  not  join  them.  Her  health,  her  tiredness  her 
apparently  causeless  moral  collapse,  paraly/ed  her.  Through 


ANTOINETTE  281 

the  long  years  of  anxiety  and  ceaseless  toil,  exhausting  body  and 
soul,  the  positions  of  the  brother  and  mister  had  been  inverted: 
now  it  was  she  who  felt  far  removed  from  the  world,  far 
from  everything  and  everybody,  so  far!  .  .  .  She  could  not 
break  down  the  wall  between  them:  all  their  chatter,  their 
noise,  their  laughter,  their  little  interests,  bored  her,  wearied 
her,  almost  hurt  her.  It  hurt  her  to  he  so:  she  would  have  loved 
to  go  with  the  other  girls,  to  share  their  interests  and  laugh 
with  them.  .  .  .  But  she  could  not!  .  .  .  Her  heart 
ached;  she  seemed  to  be  as  one  dead.  In  the  evening  she  would 
shut  herself  up  in  her  room  ;  and  often  she  would  not  even 
turn  on  the  light:  she  would  sit  there  in  the  dark,  while  down- 
stairs Olivier  would  be  amusing  himself,  surrendering  to  the 
current  of  one  of  those  romantic  little  love  affairs  to  which  he 
so  easily  succumbed.  She  would  only  shake  off  her  torpor  when 
she  heard  him  coming  upstairs,  laughing  and  talking  to  the 
girls,  hanging  about  saying  good-night  outside1  their  rooms,  be- 
ing unable  to  tear  himself  away.  Then  in  the  darkness  An- 
toinette would  smile,  and  get  up  to  turn  on  the  light.  The 
sound  of  her  brother's  laughter  revived  her. 

Aiitumn  was  setting  in.  The  sun  was  dying  down.  Nature 
was  a-weary.  Tender  the  thick  mists  and  clouds  of  October 
the  colors  were  fading  fast:  snow  fell  on  the  mountains:  mists 
descended  upon  the  plains.  The  visitors  went  away  one  In- 
one,  and  then  several  at  a  time.  And  it  was  sad  to  see  even 
the  friends  of  a  little  while  going  away,  but  sadder  still  to  see 
the  passing  of  the  summer,  the  time  of  peace  and  happiness 
which  had  been  an  oasis  in  their  lives.  They  went  for  a  last 
walk  together,  on  a  cloudv  autumn  dav.  through  the  forest  on 
the  mountain-side.  They  did  not  speak:  they  mused  sadly,  as 
they  walked  along  with  the  collars  of  their  cloaks  turned  up. 
clinging  close1  together:  their  hands  were  locked.  There  was 
silence  in  the  wet  woods,  and  in  silence  the  trees  wept.  From 
the  depths  there  came  the  sweet  plaintive  crv  of  a  solitarv  bird 
who  felt  the  coming  of  winter.  Through  the  mist  came  the 
clear  tinkling  of  the  iroat-bells.  far  awav.  so  faint  thev  could 


283  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IX  PARIS 

hardly  hear  it,  so  faint  it  was  as  though  it  came  up  from  their 
inmost  hearts.   .    .    . 

They  returned  to  Paris.  They  were  both  sad.  Antoinette 
was  no  better. 

They  had  to  set  to  work  to  prepare  Olivier's  wardrobe  for 
the  Ecole.  Antoinette  spent  the  last  of  her  little  store  of 
money,  and  even  sold  some  of  her  jewels.  What  did  it  matter? 
He  would  repay  her  later  on.  And  then,  she  would  need  so 
little  when  he  was  gone  from  her !  .  .  .  She  tried  not  to 
think  of  what  it  would  be  like  when  he  was  gone :  she  worked 
away  at  his  clothes,  and  put  into  the  work  all  the  tenderness 
she  had  for  her  brother,  and  she  had  a  presentiment  that  it 
would  be  the  last  thing  she  would  do  for  him. 

During  the  last  days  together  they  were  never  apart :  they 
were  fearful  of  wasting  the  tiniest  moment.  On  their  last 
evening  they  sat  up  very  late  by  the  fireside.  Antoinette  occu- 
pying the  only  armchair,  and  Olivier  a  stool  at  her  fcot,  and 
she  made  a  fuss  of  him  like  the  spoiled  child  he  was.  He  was 
dreading — though  he  was  curious  about  it,  too — the  new  life 
upon  which  he  was  to  enter.  Antoinette  thought  only  that  it 
was  the  end  of  their  dear  life  together,  and  wondered  fearfully 
what  would  become  of  her.  As  though  he  were  trying  to  make 
the  thought  even  more  bitter  for  her,  he  was  more  tender  than 
ever  he  had  been,  with  the  innocent  instinctive  coquetry  of 
those  who  always  wait  until  they  are  just  going  to  show  them- 
selves at  their  best  and  most  charming.  lie  went  to  the  piano 
and  played  her  their  favorite  passages  from  Mozart  and  ({luck — 
those  visions  of  tender  happiness  and  serene  sorrow  with  which 
so  much  of  their  past  life  was  bound  up. 

When  the  time  came  for  them  to  part.  Antoinette  accom- 
panied Olivier  as  far  as  the  gates  of  the  Ecole.  Then  she  re- 
turned. Once  more  she  was  alone.  But  now  it  was  not,  as 
when  she  had  gone  away  to  Germany,  a  separation  which  she 
could  bring  to  an  end  at  will  when  she  could  bear  it  no  longer. 
Xow  it  was  she  who  remained  behind,  he  who  went  away :  it  was 


ANTOINETTE  283 

he  who  had  gone  away,  for  a  long,  long  time — perhaps  for  life. 
And  yet  her  love  for  him  was  so  maternal  that  at  first  she 
thought  less  of  herself  than  of  him :  she  thought  only  of  how 
different  the  first  few  days  would  be  for  him,  of  the  strict  rules 
of  the  Ecolc,  and  was  preoccupied  with  those  harmless  little 
worries  which  so  easily  assume  alarming  proportions  in  the 
minds  of  people  who  live  alone  and  are  always  tormenting 
themselves  ahout  those  whom  they  love.  Her  anxiety  did  at 
least  have  this  advantage,  that  it  distracted  her  thoughts  from 
her  own  loneliness.  She  had  already  begun  to  think  of  the  half- 
hour  when  she  would  be  able  to  see  him  next  day  in  the  vis- 
itors' room.  She  arrived  a  quarter  of  an  hour  too  soon.  He 
was  very  nice  to  her,  but  he  was  altogether  taken  up  with  all 
the  new  things  he  had  seen.  And  during  the  following  days, 
when  she  went  to  see  him,  full  of  the  most  tender  anxiety,  the 
contrast  between  what  those  meetings  meant  for  her  and  what 
they  meant  for  him  was  more  and  more  marked.  For  her  they 
were  her  whole  life.  For  Olivier — no  doubt  he  loved  Antoinette 
dearly:  but  it  was  too  much  to  expect  him  to  think  only  of  her, 
as  she  thought  of  him.  Once  or  twice  he  came  down  late  to  the 
visitors'  room.  One  day,  when  she  asked  him  if  he  were  at  all 
unhappy,  he  said  that  he  was  nothing  of  the  kind.  Such  little 
things  as  that  stabbed  Antoinette  to  the  heart. — She  was  angry 
with  herself  for  being  so  sensitive,  and  accused  herself  of 
selfishness :  she  knew  quite  well  that  it  would  be  absurd,  even 
wrong  and  unnatural,  for  him  to  be  unable  to  do  without  her. 
and  for  her  to  be  unable  to  do  without  him,  and  to  have  nc 
other  object  in  life.  Yes :  she  knew  all  that.  But  what  was 
the  good  of  her  knowing  it?  She  could  not  help  it  if  for  the 
last  ten  years  her  whole  life  had  been  bound  up  in  that  one  idea  : 
her  brother.  Now  that  the  one  interest  of  her  life  had  been  torn 
from  her,  she  had  nothing  left. 

She  tried  bravely  to  keep  herself  occupied  and  to  take  up 
her  music  and  read  her  beloved  books.  .  .  .  But  alas ! 
how  empty  were  Shakespeare  and  Beethoven  without  Olivier! 
.  .  . — Yes:  no  doubt  they  were  beautiful.  .  .  .  But  Olivier 


284  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

was  not  there.  What  is  the  good  of  beautiful  things  if  the  eyes 
of  the  beloved  are  not  there  to  see  them?  What  is  the  use  of 
beauty,  what  is  the  use  even  of  joy,  if  they  cannot  be  won 
through  the  heart  of  the  beloved? 

If  she  had  been  stronger  she  would  have  tried  to  build  up 
her  life  anew,  and  give  it  another  object.  But  she  was  at  the 
end  of  her  tether.  Now  that  there  was  nothing  to  force  her  to 
hold  on,  at  all  costs,  the  ell'ort  of  will  to  which  she  had  sub- 
jected herself  snapped:  she  collapsed.  The  ilhr'ss,  which  had 
been  gaining  grip  on  her  for  over  a  year,  during  which  she 
had  fought  it  down  by  force  of  will,  was  now  left  to  take  its 
course. 

She  spent  her  evenings  alone  in  her  room,  by  the  spent  fire, 
a  prey  to  her  thoughts :  she  had  neither  the  courage  to  light 
the  fire  again,  nor  the  strength  to  go  to  bed :  she  would  sit  there 
far  into  the  night,  dozing,  dreaming,  shivering.  She  would  live 
through  her  life  again,  and  summon  up  the  beloved  dead  and 
her  lost  illusions:  and  she  would  be  terribly  sad  at  the  thought 
of  her  lost  youth,  without  love  or  hope  of  love.  A  dumb,  aching 
sorrow,  obscure,  unconfessed.  ...  A  child  laughed  in  the 
street:  its  little  feet  pattered  up  to  the  floor  below.  .  .  .  Its 
little  feet  trampled  on  her  heart.  .  .  .  She  would  be  beset 
with  doubts  and  evil  thoughts;  her  soul  in  its  weakness  would 
be  contaminated  by  the  soul  of  that  city  of  selfish  pleasure. — 
She  would  fight  down  her  regrets,  and  burn  with  shame  at 
certain  longings  which  she  thought  evil  and  wicked:  she  could 
not  understand  what  it  was  that  hurt  her  so,  and  attributed 
it  to  her  evil  instincts.  Poor  little  Ophelia,  devoured  by  a 
mysterious  evil,  she  felt  with  horror  dark  and  uneasy  desires 
mounting  from  the  depths  of  her  being,  from  the  very  pit  of  life. 
She  could  not  work,  and  she  had  given  up  most  of  her  pupils: 
she,  who  was  so  plucky,  and  bad  always  risen  so  early,  now  lay 
in  bed  sometimes  until  the  afternoon:  she  bad  no  more  reason 
for  getting  up  than  for  going  to  bed:  she  ate  little  or  nothing. 
Only  on  her  brothers  holidays — Thursday  afternoons  and  Sun- 
davs — she  would  make  an  effort  to  be  her  old  self  with  him. 


ANTOINETTE  285 

He -saw  nothing.  He  was  too  much  taken  up  with  his  now 
life  to  notice  his  .sister  much.  lie  was  at  that  period  of  boy- 
hood when  it  was  difficult  for  him  to  he  communicative,  and 
he  always  seemed  to  be  indifferent  to  things  outside  himself 
which  would  only  be  his  concern  in  later  days. — People  of  riper 
years  sometimes  seem  to  be  more  open  to  impressions,  and 
to  take  a  simpler  delight  in  life  and  Nature,  than  young  people 
between  twenty  and  thirty.  And  so  it  is  often  said  that  young 
people  are  not  so  voung  in  heart  as  they  were,  and  have  lost  all 
sense  of  enjoyment.  That  is  often  a  mistaken  idea.  It  is  not 
because  they  have  no  sense  of  enjoyment  that  they  seem  less 
sensitive.  It  is  because  their  whole  being  is  often  absorbed  by 
passion,  ambition,  desire,  some  fixed  idea.  When  the  body  is 
worn  and  has  no  more  to  expect  from  life,  then  the  emotions 
become  disinterested  and  fall  into  their  place;  and  then  once 
more  the  source  of  childish  tears  is  reopened. — Olivier  was  pre- 
occupied with  a  thousand  little  things,  the  most  outstanding  of 
which  was  an  absurd  little  passion,— (he  was  always  a  victim 
to  them),— which  so  obsessed  him  as  to  make  him  blind  and  in- 
different to  everything  else. — Antoinette  did  not  know  what  was 
happening  to  her  brother:  she  only  saw  that  he  was  drawing 
away  from  her.  That  was  not  altogether  Olivier's  fault.  Some- 
times when  he  came  he  would  he  glad  to  see  her  and  start  talk- 
ing. He  would  come  in.  Then  all  of  a  sudden  he  would  drv 
up.  Her  affectionate  anxiety,  the  eagerness  with  which  she  clung 
to  him,  and  drank  in  his  words,  and  overwhelmed  him  with  lit- 
tle attentions. — all  her  excess  of  tenderness  and  querulous  de- 
votion would  deprive  him  utterly  of  anv  desire  to  1>"  warm  and 
open  with  her.  He  might  have  seen  that  Antoinette  was  not  in 
a  normal  condition.  Nothing  could  be  farther  from  her  usual 
tact  and  discretion.  Kut  he  never  gave  a  thought  to  it.  He 
would  reply  to  her  questions  with  a  curt  "  Yes"  or  "  No."  He 
would  grow  more  still'  and  surlv.  the  more  she  tried  to  win  him 
over:  sometimes  even  he  would  hurt  her  bv  some  brusque  replv. 
Then  she  would  be  crushed  and  silent.  Their  dav  together 


286  JEAN-CHKISTOPHE  IX  PAEIS 

would  slip  by,  wasted.  But  hardly  had  he  set  foot  outside  the 
house  on  his  way  back  to  the  Ecole  than  he  would  he  heartily 
ashamed  of  his  treatment  of  her.  He  would  torture  himself 
all  night  as  he  lay  awake  thinking  of  the  pain  he  had  caused 
her.  Sometimes  even,  as  soon  as  he  reached  the  ficole,  he  would 
write  an  effusive  letter  to  his  sister. — But  next  morning,  when 
he  read  it  through,  he  would  tear  it  up.  And  Antoinette  would 
know  nothing  at  all  about  it.  She  would  go  on  thinking  that 
he  had  ceased  to  love  her. 

She  had — if  not  one  last  joy — one  last  flutter  of  tenderness 
and  youth,  when  her  heart  beat  strongly  once  more;  one  last 
awakening  of  love  in  her,  and  hope  of  happiness,  hope  of  life. 
It  was  quite  ridiculous,  so  utterly  unlike  her  tranquil  nature ! 
It  could  never  have  been  but  for  her  abnormal  condition,  the 
state  of  fear  and  over-excitement  which  was  the  precursor  of 
illness. 

She  went  to  a  concert  at  the  Cliatelet  with  her  brother.  As 
he  had  just  been  appointed  musical  critic  to  a  little  Beview, 
they  were  in  better  places  than  those  they  occupied  in  old  days, 
but  the  people  among  whom  they  sat  were  much  more  apathetic. 
They  had  stalls  near  the  stage.  Christophe  Krafft  was  to  play. 
Neither  of  them  had  ever  heard  of  the  German  musician. 
When  she  saw  him  come  on,  the  blood  rushed  to  her  heart. 
Although  her  tired  eyes  could  only  see  him  through  a  mist, 
she  had  no  doubt  when  he  appeared :  he  was  the  unknown  young 
man  of  her  unhappy  days  in  Germany.  She  had  never  men- 
tioned him  to  her  brother :  and  she  had  hardly  even  admitted 
his  existence  to  her  thoughts :  she  had  been  entirely  absorbed 
by  the  anxieties  of  her  life  since  then.  Besides,  she  was  a  rea- 
sonable little  Frenchwoman,  and  refused  to  admit  the  existence 
of  an  obscure  feeling  which  she  could  not  trace  to  its  source, 
while  it  seemed  to  lead  nowhere.  There  was  in  her  a  whole 
region  of  the  soul,  of  unsuspected  depths,  wherein  there  slept 
many  other  feelings  which  she  would  have  been  ashamed  to 
behold :  she  knew  that  they  were  there :  but  she  looked  away 


ANTOINETTE  287 

from  them  in  a  sort  of  religious  terror  of  that  Being  within 
herself  which  lies  beyond  the  mind's  control. 

When  she  had  recovered  a  little,  she  borrowed  her  brother's 
glasses  to  look  at  Christophe:  she  saw  him  in  profile  at  the  con- 
ductor's stand,  and  she  recognized  his  expression  of  forceful 
concentration.  He  was  wearing  a  shabby  old  eoat  which  fitted 
him  very  badly. — -Antoinette  sat  in  silent  agony  tli rough  the 
vagaries  of  that  lamentable  concert  when  Christophe  joined 
issue  with  the  unconcealed  hostility  of  his  audience,  who  were 
at  the  time  ill-disposed  towards  (icrman  artists,  and  actively 
bored  by  his  music.  And  when  he  appeared,  after  a  symphony 
which  had  seemed  unconscionably  long,  to  play  some  piano 
music-,  he  was  received  with  cat-calls  which  left  no  room  for 
doubt  as  to  their  displeasure  at  having  to  put  up  with  him 
again.  However,  he  began  to  {day  in  the  face  of  the  bored 
resignation  of  hi.s  audience:  but  the  uncomplimentary  remarks 
exchanged  in  a  loud  voice  by  two  men  in  the  gallery  went  on. 
to  the  great  delight  of  the  rest  of  the  audience.  Then  he  broke 
ofi':  and  in  a  childish  lit  of  temper -he  played  Malbronck  s'cn  i>a 
t'ai  guerre  with  one  linger,  got  up  from  the  piano,  faced  the 
audience,  and  said : 

"  That  is  all  you  are  fit  for/'' 

The  audience  were  for  a  moment  so  taken  aback  that  thev 
did  not  quite  take  in  what  the  musician  meant.  Then  there 
was  an  outburst  of  angry  protests.  Followed  a  terrible  uproar. 
Tlu^y  hissed  and  shouted: 

'•'Apologize!     Make  him  apologixe  !  " 

They  were  all  red  in  the  face  with  anger,  and  they  blew  out 
their  fury — tried  to  persuade  themselves  that  they  were  really 
enraged:  as  perhaps  they  were,  but  the  chief  thing  was  that 
they  were  delighted  to  have  a  chance  of  making  a  row.  and  Id- 
ting  themselves  go:  they  were  like  schoolboys  after  a  few  hours 
in  school. 

Antoinette  could  not  move:  she  was  petrilird:  she  sal  still 
tugging  at  one  of  her  gloves.  Kver  since  the  last  bars  of 
the  symphony  she  had  had  a  growing  presentiment  of  what 


288  JEAF-CHRISTOPHE  IX  PARIS 

\vould  happen :  she  felt  the  blind  hostility  of  the  audience,  felt  it 
growing:  she  read  Christophe's  thoughts,  and  she  was  sure 
he  would  not  go  through  to  the  end  without  an  explosion :  she  sat 
waiting  for  the  explosion  while  agony  grew  in  her:  she  stretched 
every  nerve  to  try  to  prevent  it;  and  when  at  last  it  came,  it 
was  so  exactly  what  she  had  foreseen  that  she  was  overwhelmed 
by  it,  as  by  some  fatal  catastrophe  against  which  there  was 
nothing  to  be  done.  And  as  she  gazed  at  Christophe,  who  was 
staring  insolently  at  the  howling  audience,  their  eyes  met. 
Christophe's  eyes  recognized  her,  greeted  her,  for  the  space  of 
perhaps  a  second:  but  he  was  in  such  a  state  of  excitement  that 
his  mind  did  not  recognize  her  (he  had  not  thought  of  her  for 
long  enough).  He  disappeared  while  the  audience  yelled  and 
Hissed. 

She  longed  to  cry  out :  to  say  or  do  something :  but  she 
was  bound  hand  and  foot,  and  could  not  stir;  it  was  like  a 
nightmare.  It  was  some  comfort  to  her  to  hear  her  brother 
at  her  side,  and  to  know  that,  without  having  any  idea  of  what 
was  happening  to  her,  he  had  shared  her  agony  and  indignation. 
Olivier  was  a  thorough  musician,  and  he  had  an  independence  of 
taste  which  nothing  could  encroach  upon:  when  he  liked  a 
thing,  he  would  have  maintained  his  liking  in  the  face  of 
the  whole  world.  With  the  very  first  bars  of  the  symphony, 
he  had  felt  that  he  was  in  the  presence  of  something  big, 
something  the  like  of  which  he  had  never  in  his  life  come 
across.  He  went  on  muttering  to  himself  with  heartfelt  en- 
thusiasm : 

"That's  fine!  That's  beautiful!  Beautiful!"  while  his 
sister  instinctively  pressed  close  to  him.  gratefully.  After  the 
symphony  he  applauded  loudly  by  way  of  protest  against  the 
ironic  indifference  of. the  rest  of  the  audience.  When  it  came 
to  the  great  fiasco,  he  was  beside  himself:  he  stood  up,  shouted 
that  Christophe  was  right,  abused  the  booers,  and  offered  to 
fight  them:  it  was  impossible  to  recognize  the  timid  Olivier. 
His  voice  was  drowned  in  the  uproar:  lie  was  told  to  shut  up: 
he  was  called  a  "  snottv  little  kid,''  and  told  to  go  to  bed-  An- 


ANTOINETTE  289 

toinette  saw  the  futility  of  standing  up  to  them,  and  took  his 

arm  and  said: 

"  Stop  !     Stop  !     I  implore  you  !     Stop  !  " 

He  sat  down  in  despair,  and  went  on  muttering : 

"It's   shameful!     Shameful!     The  swine!   ..." 

She  said  nothing  and  bore  her  suffering  in  silence :  he  thought 

she  was  insensible  to  the  music,  and  said : 
"Antoinette,  don't  you  think  it  beautiful?" 
She  nodded.     She  was  frozen,  and  could  not  recover  herself. 

But  when  the  orchestra  began  another  piece,  she  suddenly  got 

up,  and  whispered  to  her  brother  in  a  tone  of  savage  hatred : 
"  Come,  come !  I  can't  bear  the  sight  of  these  people !  " 
They  hurried  out.  They  walked  along  arm-in-arm,  and 

Olivier  went  on  talking  excitedly.     Antoinette  said  nothing. 

All  that  day  and  the  days  following  she  sat  alone  in  her 
room,  and  a  feeling  crept  over  her  which  at  first  she  refused 
to  face :  but  then  it  went  on  and  took  possession  of  her  thoughts. 
like  the  furious  throbbing  of  the  blood  in  her  aching  temples. 

Some  time  afterwards  Olivier  brought  her  Christophe's  col- 
lection of  songs,  which  he  had  just  found  at  a  publisher's.  She 
opened  it  at  random.  On  the  first  page  on  which  her  eyes  fell 
she  read  in  front  of  a  song  this  dedication  in  German: 

"  To  my  poor  dear  little  victim,"  together  with  a  date. 

She  knew  the  date  well. — She  was  so  upset  that  she  could 
read  no  farther.  She  put  the  book  down  and  asked  her  brother 
to  play,  and  went  and  shut  herself  up  in  her  room.  Olivier, 
full  of  his  delight  in  the  new  music,  began  to  play  without  re- 
marking his  sister's  emotion.  Antoinette  sat  in  the  adjoining 
room,  striving  to  repress  the  beating  of  her  heart.  Suddenly 
she  got  up  and  looked  through  a  cupboard  for  a  little  account- 
book  in  which  was  written  the  date  of  her  departure  from  Ger- 
many, and  the  mysterious  date.  She  knew  it  already:  yes.  it 
was  the  evening  of  the  performance  at  the  theater  to  which  she 
had  been  with  Christophe.  She  lay  down  on  her  bed  and  closed 
her  eyes,  blushing,  with  her  hands  folded  on  her  breast,  while 


290  JEAX-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

she  listened  to  the  clear  music.  Tier  heart  was  overflowing 
with  gratitude.  .  .  .  Ah!  Why  did  her  head  hurt  her  so? 

When  Olivier  saw  that  his  sister  had  not  come  hack,  he 
went  into  her  room  after  lie  had  done  playing,  and  found  her 
lying  there.  He  asked  her  if  she  were  ill.  She  said  she  was 
rather  tired,  and  got  up  to  keep  him  company.  They  talked : 
hut  she  did  not  answer  his  questions  at  once:  her  thoughts 
seemed  to  be  far  away:  she  smiled,  and  blushed,  and  said, 
by  way  of  excuse,  that  .her  headache  was  making  her  stupid. 
At  last  Olivier  went  away.  She  had  asked  him  to  leave  the 
book  of  songs.  She  sat  up  late  reading  them  at  the  piano,  with- 
out playing,  just  lightly  touching  a  note  here  and  there,  for 
fear  of  annoying  her  neighbors.  But  for  the  most  part  she 
did  not  even  read:  she  sat  dreaming:  she  was  carried  away  by 
a  feeling  of  tenderness  and  gratitude  towards  the  man  who  had 
pitied  her,  and  had  read  her  mind  and  soul  with  the  mysterious 
intuition  of  true  kindness.  She  could  not  fix  her  thoughts. 
She  was  happy  and  sad — sad !  .  .  .  Ah !  How  her  head 
ached ! 

She  spent  the  night  in  sweet  and  painful  dreams,  a  crush- 
ing melancholy.  During  the  day  she  tried  to  go  out  for  a 
little  to  shake  off  her  drowsiness.  Although  her  head  was  still 
aching,  to  give  herself  something  to  do,  she  went  and  made  a 
few  purchases  at  a  great  shop.  She  hardly  gave  a  thought  to 
what  she  was  doing.  Her  thoughts  were;  always  with  Chris- 
tophe, though  she  did  not  admit  it  to  herself.  As  she  came  out, 
worried  and  mortally  sad,  through  the  crowd  of  people  she  saw 
Christophe  go  by  on  the  other  side  of  the  street,  lie  saw  her, 
too,  at  the  same  moment.  At  once. —  (suddenly  and  without 
thinking),  she  held  out  her  hands  towards  him.  Christophe 
stopped:  this  time  he  recognized  her.  Ife  sprang  forward  to 
cross  the  road  to  Antoinette:  and  Antoinette  tried  to  go  to 
meet  him.  But  the  insensate  current  of  the  passing  throng 
carried  her  along  like  a  windlestraw,  while  the  horse  of  an  omni- 
bus, falling  on  the  slippery  asphalt,  made  a  sort  of  dyke  in  front 
of  Christophe,  by  which  the  opposing  streams  of  carriages  were 


ANTOINETTE  291 

dammed,  so  that  for  a  few  moments  there  was  an  impassable 
barrier.  Christophe  tried  to  force  his  way  through  in  spite  of 
everything:  but  he  was  trapped  in  the  middle  of  the  traffic,  and 
could  not  move  either  way.  When  at  last  he  did  extricate  him- 
self and  managed  to  reach  the  place  where  he  had  seen  An- 
toinette, she  was  gone:  she  had  struggled  vainly  against  the 
human  torrent  that  carried  her  along:  then  she  yielded  to  it- 
gave  up  the  struggle.  She  felt  that  she  was  dogged  by  some 
fatality  which  forbade  the  possibility  of  her  ever  meeting  Chris- 
tophe: against  Fate  there  was  nothing  to  be  done.  And  when 
she  did  succeed  in  escaping  from  the  crowd,  she  made  no  at- 
tempt to  go  back:  she  was  suddenly  ashamed:  what  could  she 
dare  to  say  to  him?  What  had  she  done?  What  must  he  have 
thought  of  her?  She  fled  away  home. 

She  did  not  regain  assurance  until  she  reached  her  room. 
Then  she  sat  by  the  table  in  the  dark,  and  had  not  even  the 
strength  to  take  off  her  hat  or  her  gloves.  She  was  miserable 
at  having  been  unable  to  speak  to  him:  and  at  the  same  time 
there  glowed  a  new  light  in  her  heart:  she  was  unconscious  of 
the  darkness,  and  unconscious  of  the  illness  that  was  upon  her. 
She  went  on  and  on  turning  over  and  over  every  detail  of  the 
scene  in  the  street:  and  she  changed  it  about  and  imagined 
what  would  have  happened  if  certain  things  had  turned  out  dif- 
ferently. She  saw  herself  holding  out  her  arms  to  Christophe, 
and  Christophers  expression  of  joy  as  he  recognized  her.  and  she 
laughed  and  blushed.  She  blushed  :  and  then  in  the  darkness 
of  her  room,  where  there  was  no  one  to  see  her.  and  she  could 
hardly  see  herself,  once  more  she  held  out  her  arms  to  him. 
Jler  need  was  too  strong  for  her:  she  felt  that  she  was  losing 
ground,  and  instinctively  she  sought  to  clutch  at  the  strong 
vivid  life  that  passed  so  near  her.  and  gazed  so  kindly  at  her. 
Her  heart  was  full  of  tenderness  and  anguish,  and  through  the 
night  she  cried  : 

"  If  el])   me  !     Save  me!  " 

All  in  a  fever  she  got  up  and  lit  the  lamp,  and  took  pen 
and  paper.  She  wrote  to  Christophe.  Her  illness  was  full 


292  JEAX-CHRISTOPHE  IX  PARIS 

upon  her,  or  she  would  never  even  have  thought  of  writing 
to  him,  so  proud  she  was  and  timid.  She  did  not  know  what 
she  wrote.  She  was  no  longer  mistress  of  herself.  She  called 
to  him,  and  told  him  that  she  loved  him.  ...  In  the  middle 
of  her  letter  she  stopped,  appalled.  She  tried  to  write  it  all 
over  again:  but  her  impulse  was  gone:  her  mind  was  a  blank, 
and  her  head  was  aching:  she  had  a  horrible  difficulty  in  finding 
words:  she  was  utterly  worn  out.  She  was  ashamed.  .  .  . 
"What  was  the  good  of  it  all?  She  knew  perfectly  well  that 
she  was  trying  to  trick  herself,  and  that  she  would  never 
send  the  letter.  .  .  .  Even  if  she  had  wished  to  do  so,  how 
could  she?  She  did  not  know  Christophe's  address.  .  .  . 
Poor  Christophe !  And  what  could  he  do  for  her  ?  Even  if  he 
knew  all  and  were  kind  to  her,  what  could  he  do?  ...  It 
was  too  late !  Xo,  no :  it  was  all  in  vain,  the  last  dying  struggle 
of  a  bird,  blindly,  desperately  beating  its  wings.  She  must  be 
resigned  to  it.  ... 

So  for  a  long  time  she  sat  there  by  the  table,  lost  in  thought, 
unable  to  move  hand  or  foot.  It  was  past  midnight  when  she 
struggled  to  her  feet — bravely.  Mechanically  she  placed  the 
loose  sheets  of  her  letter  in  one  of  her  few  books,  for  she  had 
the  strength  neither  to  put  them  in  order  nor  to  tear  them  up. 
Then  she  went  to  bed,  shivering  and  shaking  with  fever.  The 
key  to  the  riddle  lay  near  at  hand:  she  felt  that  the  will  of 
God  was  to  be  fulfilled. — And  a  great  peace  came  upon 
her. 

On  Sunday  morning  when  Olivier  came  he  found  Antoinette 
in  bed,  delirious.  A  doctor  was  called  in.  He  said  it  was 
acute  consumption. 

Antoinette  had  known  how  serious  her  condition  was:  she 
had  discovered  the  cause  of  the  moral  turmoil  in  herself 
which  had  so  alarmed  her.  She  had  been  dreadfully  ashamed, 
and  it  was  some  consolation  to  her  to  think  that  not  she  herself 
but  her  illness  was  the  cause  of  it.  She  had  managed  to  take 
a  few  precautions  and  to  burn  her  papers  and  to  write  a  letter 
to  Madame  Xathan :  .she  appealed  to  her  kindness  to  look  after 


ANTOINETTE  293 

her  brother  during  the  first  few  weeks  after  her  "  death  " — 
(she  dared  not  write  the  word).  .  .  . 

The  doctor  could  do  nothing :  the  disease  was  too  far  gone, 
and  Antoinette's  constitution  had  been  wrecked  by  the  years  of 
hardship  and  unceasing  toil. 

Antoinette  was  quite  calm.  Since  she  had  known  that  there 
was  no  hope  her  agony  and  torment  had  left  her.  She  lay 
turning  over  in  her  mind  all  the  trials  and  tribulations  through 
which  she  had  passed :  she  saw  that  her  work  was  done  and  her 
dear  Olivier  saved:  and  she  was  filled  with  unutterable  joy. 
She  said  to  herself : 

"I  have  achieved  that." 

And  then  she  turned  in  shame  from  her  pride  and  said : 

"  I  could  have  done  nothing  alone.  God  has  given  me  His 
aid." 

And  she  thanked  Cod  that  He  had  granted  her  life  until  she 
had  accomplished  her  task.  There  was  a  catch  at  her  heart  as 
she  thought  that  now  she  had  to  lay  down  her  life:  but  she 
dared  not  complain :  that  would  have  been  to  feel  ingratitude 
towards  God,  who  might  have  called  her  away  sooner.  And 
what  would  have  happened  if  she  had  passed  away  a  year 
sooner? — She  sighed,  and  humbled  herself  in  gratitude. 

In  spite  of  her  weakness  and  oppression  she  did  not  com- 
plain,— except  when  she  was  sleeping  heavily,  when  every  now 
and  then  she  moaned  like  a  little  child.  She  watched  things  and 
people  with  a  calm  smile  of  resignation.  It  was  always  a  joy 
to  her  to  see  Olivier.  She  would  move  her  lips  to  call  him, 
though  she  made  no  sound  :  she  would  want  to  hold  his  hand  in 
hers:  she  would  bid  him  lay  his  head  on  the  pillow  near  hers, 
and  then,  gazing  into  his  eyes,  she  would  go  on  looking  at  him 
in  silence.  At  last  she  would  raise  herself  up  and  hold  his  face 
in  her  hands  and  sav : 

"Ah!    Olivier!    .    .    .    Olivier!    .    .    ." 

She  took  the  medal  that  she  wore  round  her  neck,  and  hung 
it  on  her  brother's.  She  commended  her  beloved  Olivier  to 
the  care  of  her  confessor,  her  doctor,  everybody.  It  seemed  as 


294  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARTS 

though  she  was  to  live  henceforth  in  him,  that,  on  the  point  of 
death,  she  was  taking  refuge  in  his  life,  as  upon  some  island 
in  uncharted  seas.  Sometimes  she  seemed  to  he  uplifted  by 
a  mystic  exaltation  of  tenderness  and  faith,  and  she  forgot  her 
illness,  and  sadness  changed  to  joy  in  her, — a  joy  divine  indeed 
that  shone  upon  her  lips  and  in  her  eyas.  Over  and  over  again 
she  said : 

"  I  am  happy.    ..." 

Her  senses  grew  dim.  In  her  last  moments  of  consciousness 
her  lips  moved  and  it  seemed  that  she  was  repeating  some- 
thing to  herself.  Olivier  went  to  her  bedside  and  bent  down 
over  her.  She  recognized  him,  once  more  and  smiled  feebly  up 
at  him:  her  lips  went  on  moving  and  her  eyes  were  filled  with 
tears.  They  could  not  make  out  what  she  was  trying  to  say. 
.  .  .  But  faintly  Olivier  heard  her  breathe  the  words  of  the 
dear  old  song  they  used  to  love  so  much,  the  song  she  was  al- 
ways singing : 

"  I  icill  come  atjain,  my  sicccl  and  bonny,  J  trill  come  nc/ain." 

Then  she  relapsed  into  unconsciousness.     So  she  passed  away. 

Unconsciously  she  had  aroused  a  profound  sympathy  in 
many  people  whom  she  did  not  even  know:  in  the  house  in 
which  she  lived  she  did  not  even  know  the  names  of  the  other 
tenants.  Olivier  received  expressions  of  sympathy  from  people. 
who  were  strangers  to  him.  Antoinette  was  not  taken  to  her 
grave  unattended  as  her  mother  had  been.  Her  body  was  fol- 
lowed to  the  cemeterv  bv  friends  and  schoolfellows  of  her 
brother,  and  members  of  the  families  whose  children  she  had 
taught,  and  people  whom  she  had  met  without  saving  a  word 
of  her  own  life  or  hearing  a  word  from  them,  though  they  ad- 
mired her  secretly,  knowing  her  devotion,  and  many  of  the 
poor,  and  the  housekeeper  who  had  helped  her,  and  even  many 
of  the  small  tradesmen  of  the  neighborhood.  Madame  Xathan 
had  taken  Olivier  under  her  wing  on  the  day  of  his  sister's 
death,  and  she  had  carried  him  of?  in  spite  of  himself,  and  done 
her  best  to  turn  his  thoughts  awav  from  his  grief. 


ANTOINETTE  295 

If  it  had  come  later  in  his  life  he  could  never  have  borne 
up  against  such  a  catastrophe, — but  now  it  was  impossible  for 
him  to  succumb  absolutely  to  his  despair.  He  had  just  begun  a 
new  life;  he  was  living  in  a  community,  and  had  to  live  the 
common  life  whatever  he  might  be  feeling.  The  full  busy  life 
of  the  Ecolc,  the  intellectual  pressure,  the  examinations,  the 
struggle  for  life,  all  kept  him  from  withdrawing  into  himself: 
he  could  not  be  alone.  He  suffered,  but  it  proved  his  salvation. 
A  year  earlier,  or  a  few  years  earlier,  he  must  have  succumbed. 

And  yet  he  did  as  far  as  possible  retire  into  isolation  in 
the  memory  of  his  sister.  It  was  a  great  sorrow  to  him  that  he 
could  not  keep  the  rooms  where  they  had  lived  together:  but 
he  had  no  money.  He  hoped  that  the  people  who  seemed  to 
be  interested  in  him  would  understand  his  distress  at  not  being 
able  to  keep  the  things  that  had  been  hers.  But  nobody  seemed 
to  understand.  He  borrowed  some  money  and  made  a  little 
more  by  private  tuition  and  took  an  attic  in  which  he  stored  all 
that  he  could  preserve  of  his  sister's  furniture:  her  bed,  her 
table,  and  her  armchair.  He  made  it  the  sanctuary  of  her 
memory.  He  took  refuge  there  whenever  he  was  depressed. 
His  friends  thought  he  was  carrying  on  an  intrigue.  He  would 
stay  there  for  hours  dreaming  of  her  with  his  face  buried  in  his 
hands :  unhappily  he  had  no  portrait  of  her  except  a  little  photo- 
graph, taken  when  she  was  a  child,  of  the  two  of  them  together. 
He  would  talk  to  her  and  weep.  .  .  .  Where  was  she?  Ah! 
if  she  had  been  at  the  other  end  of  the  world,  wherever  she 
might  be  and  however  inaccessible  the  spot.— with  what  great 
joy  and  invincible  ardor  he  would  have  rushed  forth  in  search 
of  her,  though  a  thousand  sufferings  lay  in  wait  for  him. 
though  he  had  to  go  barefoot,  though  he  had  to  wander  for 
hundreds  of  years,  if  only  it  might  be  that  every  step  would 
bring  him  nearer  to  her!  ,  .  .  Yes,  even  though  there  were 
only  one  chance  in  a  thousand  of  his  ever  finding  her.  .  .  . 
But  there  was  nothing.  .  .  .  Nowhere  to  go.  .  .  .  No  way 
of  ever  finding  her  again.  .  .  .  How  utterly  lonely  he  was 
now!  Now  that  she  was  no  longer  there  to  love  and  counsel 


296  JEAX-CHRISTOPHE  IX  PARIS 

and  console  him,  inexperienced  and  childish  as  he  was,  he  was 
flung  into  the  waters  of  life,  to  sink  or  swim !  .  .  .  He  who 
has  once  had  the  happiness  of  perfect  intimacy  and  boundless 
friendship  with  another  human  being  has  known  the  divinest 
of  all  joys, — a  joy  that  will  make  him  miserable  for  the  re- 
mainder of  his  life.  .  .  . 

Nessun  magyior  dolore  die  ricordarsi  del  tempo  fclice  nclla 
miseria.  .  .  . 

For  a  weak  and  tender  soul  it  is  the  greatest  of  misfortunes 
ever  to  have  known  the  greatest  happiness. 

But  though  it  is  sad  indeed  to  lose  the  beloved  at  the  be- 
ginning of  life,  it  is  even  more  terrible  later  on  when  the  springs 
of  life  are  running  dry.  Olivier  was  young :  and,  in  spite  of  his 
inborn  pessimism,  in  spite  of  his  misfortune,  he  had  to  live  his 
life.  As  often  seems  to  happen  after  the  loss  of  those  dear  to 
us,  it  was  as  though  when  Antoinette  passed  away  she  had 
breathed  part  of  her  soul  into  her  brother's  life.  And  he  be- 
lieved it  was  so.  Though  he  had  not  such  faith  as  hers,  yet  he 
did  arrive  at  a  vague  conviction  that  his  sister  was  not  dead, 
but  lived  on  in  him,  as  she  had  promised.  There  is  a  Breton 
superstition  that  those  who  die  young  are  not  dead,  but  stay  and 
hover  over  the  places  where  they  lived  until  they  have  fulfilled 
the  normal  span  of  their  existence. — So  Antoinette  lived  out 
her  life  in  Olivier. 

He  read  through  the  papers  he  had  found  in  her  room.  Un- 
happily she  had  burned  most  of  them.  Besides,  she  was  not  the 
sort  of  woman  to  keep  notes  and  tallies  of  her  inner  life.  She 
was  too  modest  to  uncloak  her  inmost  thoughts  in  morbid 
babbling  indiscretion.  She  only  kept  a  little  notebook  which 
was  almost  unintelligible  to  anybody  else — a  bare  record  in 
which  she  had  written  down  without  remark  certain  dates,  and 
certain  small  events  in  her  daily  life,  which  had  given  her  joys 
and  emotions,  which  she  had  no  need  to  write  down  in  detail 
to  keep  alive.  Almost  all  these  dates  were  connected  with  some 
event  in  Olivier's  life.  She  had  kept  every  letter  he  had  ever 
written  to  her,  without  exception. — Alas !  He  had  riot  been  so 


ANTOINETTE  297 

careful :  he  had  lost  almost  all  the  letters  she  had  written  to  him. 
What  need  had  he  of  letters?  He  thought  he  would  have  his 
sister  always  with  him :  that  dear  fount  of  tenderness  seemed 
inexhaustible:  he  thought  that  he  would  always  be  able  to  quench 
his  thirst  of  lips  and  heart  at  it :  he  had  most  prodigally  squan- 
dered the  love  he  had  received,  and  now  he  was  eager  to  gather 
up  the  smallest  drops.  .  .  .  What  was  his  emotion  when,  as 
he  skimmed  through  one  of  Antoinette's  books,  he  found  these 
words  written  in  pencil  on  a  scrap  of  paper : 

"  Olivier,  my  dear  Olivier !    ..." 

He  almost  swooned.  He  sobbed  and  kissed  the  invisible 
lips  that  so  spoke  to  him  from  the  grave. — Thereafter  he  took 
down  all  her  books  and  hunted  through  them  page  by  page  to 
see  if  she  had  not  left  some  other  words  of  him.  He  found  the 
fragment  of  the  letter  to  Christophe,  and  discovered  the  un- 
spoken romance  which  had  sprung  to  life  in  her:  so  for  the  first 
time  he  happed  upon  her  emotional  life,  that  he  had  never 
known  in  her  and  never  tried  to  know:  he  lived  through  the 
last  passionate  days,  when,  deserted  by  himself,  she  had  held 
out  her  arms  to  the  unknown  friend.  She  had  never  told  him 
that  she  had  seen  Christophe  before.  Certain  words  in  her  let- 
ter revealed  the  fact  that  they  had  met  in  Germany.  He  un- 
derstood that  Christophe  had  been  kind  to  Antoinette,  in  cir- 
cumstances the  details  of  which  were  unknown  to  him,  and  that 
Antoinette's  feeling  for  the  musician  dated  from  that  day, 
though  she  had  kept  her  secret  to  the  end. 

Christophe,  whom  he  loved  already  for  the  beauty  of  his 
art,  now  became  unutterably  dear  to  him.  She  had  loved  him: 
it  seemed  to  Olivier  that  it  was  she  whom  he  loved  in  Chris- 
tophe. He  moved  heaven  and  earth  to  meet  him.  It  was  not 
an  easy  matter  to  trace  him.  After  his  rebuff  Christophe  had 
been  lost  in  the  wilderness  of  Paris:  he  had  shunned  all  society 
and  no  one  gave  a  thought  to  him. — After  many  months  it 
chanced  that  Olivier  met  Christophe  in  the  street:  he  was  pale 
and  sunken  from  the  illness  from  which  he  had  only  just  recov- 
ered. But  Olivier  had  not  the  courage  to  stop  him.  He  fol- 


298  JEAN-CHKISTOPHE  IX  PARIS 

lowed  him  home  at  a  distance.  He  wanted  to  write  to  him, 
but  could  not  screw  himself  up  to  it.  What  was  there  to  say? 
Olivier  was  not  alone:  Antoinette  was  with  him:  her  love,  her 
modesty  had  become  a  part  of  him  :  the  thought  that  his  sister 
had  loved  Christophe  made  him  as  bashful  in  Chriotophe's  pres- 
ence as  though  he  had  been  Antoinette.  And  yet  how  he 
longed  to  talk  to  him  of  her! — But  he  could  not.  Her  secret 
was  a  seal  upon  his  lips. 

He  tried  to  meet  Christophe  again,  lie  went  everywhere 
where  he  thought  Christophe  might  be.  He  was  longing  to 
shake  bands  with  him.  And  when  he  saw  him  he  tried  to  hide 
so  that  Christophe  should  not  see  him. 

At  last  Christophe  saw  him  at  the  house  of  some  mutual 
friends  where  they  both  happened  to  be  one  evening.  Olivier 
stood  far  away  from  him  and  said  nothing:  but  he  watched  him. 
And  no  doubt  the  spirit  of  Antoinette  was  hovering  near 
Olivier  that  night:  for  Christophe  saw  her  in  Olivier's  eyes: 
and  it  was  her  image,  so  suddenly  evoked,  that  made  him  cross 
the  room  and  go  towards  the  unknown  messenger,  who,  like  a 
young  Hermes,  brought  him  the  melancholy  greeting  of  the 
blessed  dead. 


THE    HOUSE 


T  HAVE  a  friend !  .  .  .  Oh !  The  delight  of  having  found 
a  kindred  soul  to  which  to  cling  in  the  midst  of  torment, 
a  tender  and  sure  refuge  in  which  to  breathe  again  while 
the  fluttering  heart  beats  slower !  No  longer  to  be  alone, 
no  longer  never  to  unarm,  no  longer  to  stay  on  guard  with 
straining,  burning  eyes,  until  from  sheer  fatigue  he  should 
fall  into  the  hands  of  his  enemies !  To  have  a  dear  com- 
panion into  whose  hands  all  his  life  should  be  delivered — 
the  friend  whose  life  was  delivered  into  his !  At  last  to 
taste  the  sweetness  of  repose,  to  sleep  while  the  friend  watches, 
watch  while  the  friend  sleeps.  To  know  the  joy  of  protecting 
a  beloved  creature  who  should  trust  in  him  like  a  little  child. 
To  know  the  greater  joy  of  absolute  surrender  to  that  friend, 
to  feel  that  he  is  in  possession  of  all  secrets,  and  has  power 
over  life  and  death.  Aging,  worn  out,  weary  of  the  burden 
of  life  through  so  many  years,  to  find  new  birth  and  fresh 
youth  in  the  body  of  the  friend,  through  his  eyes  to  see  the 
world  renewed,  through  his  senses  to  catch  the  fleeting  love- 
liness of  all  things  by  the  way,  through  his  heart  to  enjoy 
the  splendor  of  living.  .  .  .  Even  to  suffer  in  his  suffering. 
.  .  .  Ah !  Even  suffering  is  joy  if  it  be  shared ! 

I  have  a  friend !  .  .  .  Away  from  me,  near  me,  in  me 
always.  1  have  my  friend,  and  I  am  his.  My  friend  loves 
me.  I  am  my  friend's,  the  friend  of  my  friend.  Of  our  two 
souls  love  has  fashioned  one. 

Christophe's  first  thought,  when  he  awoke  the  day  after 
the  Eoussins'  party,  was  for  Olivier  Jeannin.  At  once  he 
felt  an  irresistible  longing  to  see  him  again.  He  got  up  and 

301 


302  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PAIttS 

went  out.  It  was  not  yet  eight  o'clock.  It  was  a  heavy  and 
rather  oppressive  morning.  An  April  day  before  its  time : 
stormy  clouds  were  hovering  over  Paris. 

Olivier  lived  below  the  hill  of  Sainte-Genevieve,  in  a  little 
street  near  the  Jardin  dcs  Pl.anics.  The  house  stood  in  the 
narrowest  part  of  the  street.  The  staircase  led  out  of  a  dark 
yard,  and  was  full  of  divers  unpleasant  smells.  The  stairs 
wound  steeply  up  and  sloped  down  towards  the  wall,  which  was 
disfigured  with  scribblings  in  pencil.  On  the  third  floor  a 
woman,  with  gray  hair  hanging  down,  and  in  petticoat-bodice, 
gaping  at  the  neck,  opened  the  door  when  she  heard  footsteps 
on  the  stairs,  and  slammed  it  to  when  she  saw  Christophe. 
There  were  several  flats  on  each  landing,  and  through  the 
ill-fitting  doors  Christophe  could  hear  children  romping  and 
squalling.  The  place  was  a  swarming  heap  of  dull  base 
creatures,  living  as  it  were  on  shelves,  one  above  the  other, 
in  that  low-storied  house,  built  round  a  narrow,  evil-smelling 
yard.  Christophe  was  disgusted,  and  wondered  what  lusts  and 
covetous  desires  could  have  drawn  so  many  creature's  to  this 
place,  far  from  the  fields,  where  at  least  there  is  air  enough 
for  all.  and  what  it  could  profit  them  in  the  end  to  be  in  the 
city  of  Paris,  where  all  their  lives  they  were  condemned  to  live  in 
such  a  sepulcher. 

He  reached  Olivier's  landing.  A  knotted  piece  of  string  was 
his  bell-pull.  Christophe  tugged  at  it  so  mightily  that  at 
the  noise  several  doors  on  the  staircase  were  half  opened. 
Olivier  came  to  the  door.  Christophe  was  struck  by  the  care- 
ful simplicity  of  his  dross:  and  the  neatness  of  it,  which  at 
any  other  time  would  have  been  little  to  his  liking,  was  in  that 
place  an  agreeable  surprise :  in  such  an  atmosphere  of  foul- 
ness there  was  something  charming  and  healthy  about  it. 
And  at  once  he  felt  just  as  he  had  done  the  night  before 
when  lie  gazed  into  Olivier's  clear,  honest  eyes,  lie  held  out 
his  hand :  but  Olivier  was  overcome  with  shyness,  and  mur- 
mured : 

"  You.  You  here !  " 


THE  HOUSE  303 

Christophc  was  engrossed  in  catching  at  the  lovable  quality 
of  the  man  as  it  was  revealed  to  him  in  that  fleeting  moment 
of  embarrassment,  and  he  only  smiled  in  answer.  He  moved 
forward  and  forced  Olivier  backward,  and  entered  the  one 
room  in  which  he  both  slept  and  worked.  An  iron  bedstead 
stood  against  tlie  wall  near  the  window;  Christophe  noticed 
the  pillows  heaped  up  on  the  bolster.  There  were  three  chairs, 
a  black-painted  table,  a  small  piano,  bookshelves  and  hooks,  and 
that  was  all.  The  room  was  cramped,  low.  ill-lighted:  and 
yet  there  was  in  it  a  ray  of  the  pure  light  that  shone  in  the 
eyes  of  its  owner.  Everything  was  clean  and  tidy,  as  though 
a  woman's  hands  had  dealt  with  it:  and  a  few  roses  in  a  vase 
brought  spring-time  into  the  room,  the  walls  of  which  were 
decorated  with  photographs  of  old  Florentine  pictures. 

"So.  .  .  .  You.  .  .  .  You  have  come  to  see  me?"  said 
Olivier  warmly. 

"Good  Lord,  I  had  to!"  said  Christophe.  "You  would 
never  have  come  to  me  ?  " 

"You  think  not?"  replied  Olivier. 

Then,  quickly : 

"  Yes,  you  are  right.  But  it  would  not  be  for  want  of  thinking 
of  it." 

"  What  would  have  stopped  you  ?  " 

"  Wanting  to  too  much." 

"  That's  a  fine  reason !  " 

"Yes.  Don't  laugh.  I  was  afraid  you  would  not  want  it 
as  much  as  1." 

"A  lot  that's  worried  me!  T  wanted  to  see  you,  and  here 
I  am.  If  it  bores  you.  I  shall  know  at  once." 

"You  will  have  to  have  good  eyes." 

They  smiled  at  each  other. 

Olivier  went  on : 

"I  was  an  ass  last  night.  T  was  afraid  T  might  have  of- 
fended you.  My  shyness  is  absolutely  a  disease' :  1  can't  get  a 
word  out." 

"I  shouldn't  worry  about  that.     There  arc  plenty  of  talkers 


304  JEAX-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

in  your  country:  one  is  only  too  glad  to  meet  a  man  who  is 
silent  occasionally,  even  though  it  be  only  from  shyness  and  in 
spite  of  himself." 

Christophe  laughed  and  chuckled  over  his  own  gibe. 

"  Then  you  have  come  to  see  me  because  I  can  be 
silent?'' 

"Yes.  For  your  silence,  the  sort  of  silence  that  is  yours. 
There  are  all  sorts :  and  I  like  yours,  and  that's  all  there  is 
to  say." 

"  But  how  could  you  sympathize  with  me  ?  You  hardly 
saw  me." 

"  That's  my  affair.  It  doesn't  take  me  long  to  make  up  my 
mind.  When  I  see  a  face  that  I  like  in  the  crowd,  I  know 
what  to  do :  I  go  after  it :  I  simply  have  to  know  the  owner 
of  it." 

"  And  don't  you  ever  make  mistakes  when  you  go  after 
them  ?  " 

"  Often." 

"  Perhaps  you  have  made  a  mistake  this  time." 

"We  shall  see." 

"Ah!  In  that  case  I'm  done!  You  terrify  me.  If  I 
think  you  are  watching  me,  I  shall  lose  what  little  wits  I 
have." 

With  fond  and  eager  curiosity  Christophe  watched  the  sensi- 
tive, mobile  face,  which  blushed  and  went  pale  by  turns.  Emo- 
tion showed  fleeting  across  it  like  the  shadows  of  clouds  on  a 
lake. 

"What  a  nervous  youngster  it  is!"  he  thought.  "lie  is 
like  a  woman." 

He  touched  his  knee. 

"Come,  come!"  he  said.  "Do  you  think  I  should  come 
to  you  with  weapons  concealed  about  me?  f  have  a  horror 
of  people  who  practise  their  psychology  on  their  friends.  [ 
only  ask  that  we  should  both  be  open  and  sincere,  and  frankly 
and  without  shame,  and  without  being  afraid  of  committing 
ourselves  finally  to  anything  or  of  any  sort  of  contradiction,  be 


THE  HOUSE  305 

true  to  what  we  feel.  I  ask  only  the  right  to  love  now,  and 
next  minute,  if  needs  must,  to  be  out  of  love.  There's  loyalty 
and  manliness  in  that,  isn't  there  ? " 

Olivier  gazed  at  him  with  serious  eyes,  and  replied : 

"  Xo  doubt.  It  is  the  more  manly  part,  and  you  are  strong 
enough.  But  I  don't  think  I  am." 

"I'm  sure  you  are,"  said  Christophe;  "but  in  a  different 
way.  And  then,  I've  come  just  to  help  you  to  be  strong,  if 
you  want  to  be  so.  For  what  I  have  just  said  gives  me  leave 
to  go  on  and  say,  with  more  frankness  than  I  should  other- 
wise have  had,  that — without  prejudice  for  to-morrow — I  love 
you." 

Olivier  blushed  hotly.  He  was  struck  dumb  with  embar- 
rassment, and  could  not  speak. 

Christophe  glanced  round  the  room. 

"It's  a  poor  place  you  live  in.     Haven't  you  another  room?" 

"  Only  a  lumber-room." 

"  Ugh !  I  can't  breathe.  How  do  you  manage  to  live 
here?" 

"  One  does  it  somehow." 

"  I  couldn't — never." 

Christophe  unbuttoned  his  waistcoat  and  took  a  long  breath. 

Olivier  went  and  opened  the  window  wide. 

"You  must  be  very  unhappy  in  a  town,  M.  Krafft.  But 
there's  no  danger  of  my  suffering  from  too  much  vitality.  I 
breathe  so  little  that  I  can  live  anywhere.  And  yet  there  are 
nights  in  summer  when  even  I  am  hard  put  to  it  to  get  through. 
I'm  terrified  when  I  see  them  coming.  Then  I  stay  sitting 
up  in  bed,  and  I'm  almost  stifled." 

Christophe  looked  at  the  heap  of  pillows  on  the  bed,  and 
from  them  to  Olivier's  worn  face:  and  he  could  see  him 
struggling  there  in  the  darkness. 

"  Leave  it."  he  said.     "  Why  do  you  stay?  " 

Olivier  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  replied  carelessly: 

"It  doesn't  matter  where  1   live." 

Heavy  footsteps  padded  across  the  floor  above  them.     In  the 


30G  JEAF-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

room  below  a  shrill  argument  was  toward.  And  always,  with- 
out ceasing,  the  walls  were  shaken  by  the  rumbling  of  the 
buses  in  the  street. 

"  And  the  house !  "  Ohristophc  went  on.  "  The  house  reek- 
ing of  filth,  the  hot  dirtiness  of  it  all,  the  shameful  poverty— 
how  can  you  bring  yourself  to  come  back  to  it  night  after 
night?  I~)on't  you  lose  heart  with  ii  all?  I  couldn't  live  in 
it  for  a  moment.  I'd  rather  sleep  under  an  arch.'' 

"Yes.  I  felt  all  that  at  first,  and  suffered.  1  was  just 
as  disgusted  as  you  are.  When  I  went  for  walks  as  a  boy, 
the  mere  sight  of  some  of  the  crowded  dirty  streets  made  me 
ill.  They  gave  me  all  sorts  of  fantastic  horrors,  which  I 
dared  not  speak  of.  I  used  to  think:  'If  there  were  an  earth- 
quake now,  I  should  be  dead,  and  stay  here  for  ever  and  ever'; 
and  that  seemed  to  me  the  most  appalling  thing  that  could 
happen.  I  never  thought  that  one  day  1  should  live  in  one  of 
them  of  my  own  free-will,  and  that  in  all  probability  T  shall  die 
there.  And  then  it  became  easier  to  put  up  with:  it  had  to. 
It  still  revolts  me:  but  I  try  not  to  think  of  it.  When  I 
climb  the  stairs  1  close  my  eyes,  and  stop  my  ears,  and  hold  my 
nose,  and  shut  off  all  my  senses  and  withdraw  utterly  into  my- 
self. And  then,  over  the  roof  there,  1  can  see  the  tops  of 
the  branches  of  an  acacia.  I  sit  here  in  this  corner  so  that  I 
don't  see  anything  else:  and  in  the  evening  when  the  wind 
rustles  through  them  T  fancy  that  I  am  far  away  from  Paris: 
and  the  mighty  roar  of  a  forest  has  never  seemed  so  sweet  to  me 
as  the  gentle  murmuring  of  those  few  frail  leaves  at  certain 
moments/' 

"Yes,"  said  rhristophe.  "I've  no  doubt  that  you  are  always 
dreaming;  but  it's  all  wrong  to  waste  your  fancy  in  such  a 
struggle  against  the  sordid  things  of  life,  when  you  might 
be  using  it  in  the  creation  of  other  lives." 

"Isn't  it  the  common  lot?  Don't  you  yourself  waste  energy 
in  anger  and  bitter  struggles?" 

"'That's  not  the  same  thing.  It's  natural  to  me:  what  T 
was  born  for.  Look  at  my  arms  and  hands !  Fighting  is  the 


THE  HOUSE  307 

breath  of  life  to  me.  But  you  haven't  any  too  much  strength : 
that's  obvious." 

Olivier  looked  sadly  down  at  his  thin  wrists,  and  said: 

"  Yes.  I  am  weak  :  I  always  have  been.  But  what  can  I  do  ? 
One  must  live?  " 

"  How  do  you  make  your  living?  " 

"I  teach." 

"  Teach  what  ?  " 

"Everything — Latin,  Greek,  history.  I  coach  for  degrees. 
And  T  lecture  on  Moral  Philosophy  at  the  Municipal  School." 

"Lecture  on  what?" 

"  Moral  Philosophy." 

"What  in  thunder  is  that?  Do  they  teach  morality  in 
French  schools?  " 

Olivier  smiled: 

"Of  course." 

"  Is  there  enough  in  it  to  keep  you  talking  for  ten 
minutes?  " 

"  I  have  to  lecture  for  twelve  hours  a  week." 

"  Do  you  teacli  them  to  do  evil,  then  ?  " 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  There's  no  need  for  so  much  talk  to  find  out  what  good 
is." 

"  Or  to  leave  it  undiscovered  either." 

"Good  gracious,  yes!  T^eave  it  undiscovered.  There  are 
worse  ways  of  doing  good  than  knowing  nothing  about  it.  Good 
isn't  a  matter  of  knowledge:  it's  a  matter  of  action.  It's  only 
your  neurasthenics  who  go  haggling  about  morality:  and  the 
iirst  of  all  moral  laws  is  not  to  be  neurasthenic.  Rotten  pedants! 
They  are  like  cripples  teaching  people  how  to  walk." 

"  But  they  don't  do  their  talking  for  such  as  you.  You 
know:  but  there  arc;  so  many  who  do  not  know!"' 

"  Well,  let  them  crawl  like  children  until  they  learn  how 
to  walk  by  themselves.  But  whether  they  go  on  two  legs  or 
on  all  fours,  the  iirst  thing,  the  only  thing  you  can  ask  is  that 
they  should  walk  somehow." 


308  JEAX-CHKISTOPHE  IX  PARIS 

He  was  prowling  round  and  round  and  up  and  down  the 
room,  though  less  than  four  strides  took  him  across  it.  He 
stopped  in  front  of  the  piano,  opened  it,  turned  over  the  pages 
of  some  music,  touched  the  keys,  and  said : 

"  Play  me  something.'' 

Olivier  started. 

"11"  he  said.     "  What  an  idea !  " 

"  Madame  Roussin  told  me  you  were  a  good  musician.  Come : 
play  me  something." 

"With  you  listening?     Oh !  "  he  said,  "  I  should  die." 

The  sincerity  and  simplicity  with  which  he  spoke  made  Chris- 
tophe  laugh :  Olivier,  too,  though  rather  bashfully. 

"  Well,"  said  Christophe,  "  is  that  a  reason  for  a  Frencch- 
man?" 

Olivier  still  drew  back. 

"But  why?     Why  do  you  want  me  to?" 

"  I'll  tell  you  presently.     Play !  " 

"What?" 

"  Anything  you  like." 

Olivier  sat  down  at  the  piano  with  a  sigh,  and,  obedient  to 
the  imperious  will  of  the  friend  who  had  sought  him  out,  he 
began  to  play  the  beautiful  Adagio  in  E  Minor  of  Mo/art.  At 
first  his  fingers  trembled  so  that  he  could  hardly  make  them 
press  down  the  keys:  but  he  regained  courage  little  by  little: 
and,  while  he  thought  he  was  but  repeating  Mozart's  utter- 
ance, he  unwittingly  revealed  his  inmost  heart.  Music  is  an 
indiscreet  confidant:  it  betrays  the  most  secret  thoughts  of  its 
lovers  to  those  who  love  it.  Through  the  godlike  scheme  of  the 
Adagio  of  Mozart  Christophe  could  perceive  the  invisible  lines 
of  the  character,  not  of  Mozart,  but  of  his  new  friend  sitting 
there  by  the  piano:  the  serene  melancholy,  the  timid,  tender 
smile  of  the  boy.  so  nervous,  so  pure,  so  full  of  love,  so  ready 
to  blush.  But  he  had  hardly  reached  the  end  of  the  air,  the 
topmost  point  where  the  melody  of  sorrowful  love  ascends  and 
snaps,  when  a  sudden  irrepressible  feeling  of  shame  and  modesty 
overcame  Olivier,  so  that  he  could  not  go  on :  his  fingers  would 


THE  HOUSE  309 

not  move,  and  his  voice  failed  him.  His  hands  fell  by  his  side, 
and  he  said : 

"I   can't  play  any  more.    ..." 

Christophe  was  standing  behind  him,  and  he  stooped  and 
reached  over  him  and  finished  the  broken  melody :  then  he 
said : 

"  Now  I  know  the  music  of  your  soul." 

He  held  his  hands,  and  stayed  for  a  long  time  gazing  into 
his  face.  At  last  he  said : 

"  How  queer  it  is !  ...  I  have  seen  you  before.  ...  I 
know  you  so  well,  and  I  have  known  you  so  long!  ..." 

Olivier's  lips  trembled :  he  was  on  the  point  of  speaking.  But 
he  said  nothing. 

Christophe  went  on  gazing  at  him  for  a  moment  or  two 
longer.  Then  he  smiled  and  said  no  more,  and  went  away. 

He  went  down  the  stairs  with  his  heart  filled  with  joy.  He 
passed  two  ugly  children  going  up,  one  with  bread,  the  other 
with  a  bottle  of  oil.  He  pinched  their  cheeks  jovially.  He 
smiled  at  the  scowling  porter.  When  he  reached  the  street  he 
walked  along  humming  to  himself  until  he  came  to  the  Luxem- 
bourg. He  lay  down  on  a  seat  in  the  shade,  and  closed  his  eyes. 
The  air  was  still  and  heavy :  there  were  only  a  few  passers-by. 
Very  faintly  he  could  hear  the  irregular  trickling  of  the  foun- 
tain, and  every  now  and  then  the  scrunching  of  the  gravel  as 
footsteps  passed  him  by.  Christophe  was  overcome  with  drowsi- 
ness, and  he  lay  basking  like  a  lizard  in  the  sun:  his  face  had 
been  out  of  the  shadow  of  the  trees  for  some  time:  but  lie  could 
not  bring  himself  to  stir.  His  thoughts  wound  about  and  about: 
lie  made  no  attempt  to  hold  and  fix  them  :  tbcy  were  all  steeped 
in  the  light  of  happiness.  The  Luxembourg  clock  struck:  he 
did  not  listen  to  it:  but.  a  moment  later,  he  thought  it  must 
have  been  striking  twelve.  He  jumped  up  to  realize'  that  he  had 
been  lounging  for  a  couple  of  hours,  had  missed  an  appoint- 
ment with  Hecht.  and  wasted  the  whole  morning.  He  laughed, 
and  went  home  whistling.  He  composed  a  Rondo  in  canon  on 


310  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PAKIS 

the  cry  of  a  peddler.  Even  sad  melodies  now  took  on  the 
charm  of  the  gladness  that  was  in  him.  As  he  passed  the  laun- 
dry in  his  stveet,  as  usual,  he  glanced  into  the  shop,  and  saw 
the  little  red-haired  girl,  with  her  dull  complexion  flushed  with 
the  heat,  and  she  was  ironing  with  her  thin  arms  bare  to  the 
shoulder  and  her  bodice  open  at  the  neck:  and,  as  usual,  she 
ogled  him  brazenly:  for  the  first  time  he  was  not  irritated  by 
her  eyes  meeting  his.  He  laughed  once  more.  'Ulum  he  reached 
his  room  he  was  free  of  all  the  obsessions  from  which  he  had 
suffered.  He  flung  his  hat,  coat,  and  vest  in  different  direc- 
tions, and  sat  down  to  work  with  an  all-conquering  zest.  He 
gathered  together  all  his  scattered  scraps  of  music,  which  were 
lying  all  over  the  room,  but  his  mind  was  not  in  his  work:  he 
only  read  the  script  with  his  eyes:  and  a  few  minute's  later 
he  fell  back  into  the  happy  somnolence  that  had  been  upon 
him  in  the  Luxembourg  Gardens;  his  head  buzzed,  and  he 
could  not  think.  Twice  or  thrice  he  became  aware  of  his 
condition,  and  tried  to  shake  it  off:  but  in  vain.  He  swore 
light-heartedly,  got  up.  and  dipped  his  head  in  a  basin  of  cold 
water.  That  sobered  him  a  little.  He  sat  down  at  the  table 
again,  sat  in  silence,  and  smiled  dreamily.  He  was  wondering: 

"What  is  the  difference  between  that  and  love?" 

Instinctively  he  had  begun  to  think  in  whispers,  as  though 
he  were  ashamed.  He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  There  are  not  two  ways  of  loving.  .  .  .  Or,  rather,  yes, 
there  are  two  ways:  there  is  the  way  of  those  who  love  with 
every  fiber  of  their  being,  and  the  way  of  those  who  only  give 
to  love  a  part  of  their  superfluous  energy.  God  keep  me  from 
such  cowardice  of  heart!" 

lie  stopped  in  his  thought,  from  a  sort  of  shame  and  dread 
of  following  it  any  farther.  He  sat  for  a  long  time  smil- 
ing at  his  inward  dreams.  His  heart  sang  through  the 
silence : 

I)u  lixt  me.  in,  und  nun  ist  da«  Heine  H  finer  aJs  jcmals   .    .    . 

("'Thou  art  mine,  and  now  1  am  mine,  more  mine  than  I 
have  ever  been.  .  .  .") 


THE  HOUSE  311 

He  took  a  sheet  of  paper,  and  with  tranquil  ease  wrote  down 
the  song  that  was  in  his  heart. 

They  decided  to  take  rooms  together.  Christophe  wanted 
to  take  possession  at  once  without  worrying  about  the  waste  of 
half  a  quarter.  Olivier  was  more  prudent,  though  not  less 
ardent  in  their  friendship,  and  thought  it  better  to  wait  until 
their  respective  tenancies  had  expired.  Christophe  could  not 
understand  such  parsimony.  Like  many  people  who  have  no 
money,  he  never  worried  about  losing  it.  He  imagined  tljat 
Olivier  was  even  worse  off  than  himself.  One  day  when  his 
friend's  poverty  had  been  brought  home  to  him  he  left  him 
suddenly  and  returned  a  few  hours  later  in  triumph  with  a  few 
francs  which  he  had  squeezed  in  advance  out  of  Hecht.  Olivier 
blushed  and  refused.  Christophe  was  put  out  and  made  to 
throw  them  to  an  Italian  who  was  playing  in  the  yard.  Olivier 
withheld  him.  Christophe  went  away,  apparently  offended,  but 
really  furious  with  his  own  clumsiness  to  which  lie  attributed 
Olivier's  refusal.  A  letter  from  his  friend  brought  balm  to  his 
wounds.  Olivier  could  write  what  lie  could  not  express  by  word 
of  mouth:  he  could  tell  of  his  happiness  in  knowing  him  and 
how  touched  he  was  by  Christophe's  offer  of  assistance.  Chris- 
tophe replied  with  a  crazy,  wild  letter,  rather  like  those  which 
lie  wrote  when  he  <vas  fifteen  to  his  friend  Otto :  it  was  full  of 
Gemiitk  and  blundering  jokes:  he  made  puns  in  French  and 
German,  and  even  translated  them  into  music. 

At  last  they  went  into  their  rooms.  In  the  Montparnasse 
quarter,  near  the  Place  Dcnfcrl,  on  the  fifth  floor  of  an  old  house 
they  had  found  a  flat  of  three  rooms  and  a  kitchen,  all  very 
small,  and  looking  on  to  a  tiny  garden  inclosed  by  four  high 
walls.  From  their  windows  they  looked  out  over  the  opposite 
wall,  which  was  lower  than  the  rest,  on  to  one  of  those  large 
convent  gardens  which  are  still  to  be  found  in  Paris,  hidden 
and  unknown.  Not  a  soul  was  to  be  seen  in  the  deserted  ave- 
nues. The  old  trees,  taller  and  more  leafy  than  those  in  the 
Luxembourg  Gardens,  trembled  in  the  sunlight:  troops  of 


312  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IX  PARTS 

birds  sang:  in  the  early  dawn  the  blackbirds  fluted,  and  then 
there  came  the  riotously  rhythmic  chorus  of  the  sparrows :  and 
in  summer  in  the  evening  the  rapturous  cries  of  the  swifts 
cleaving  the  luminous  air  and  skimming  through  the  heavens. 
And  at  night,  under  the  moon,  like  bubbles  of  air  mounting 
to  the  surface  of  a  pond,  there  came  up  the  pearly  notes  of  the 
toads.  Almost  they  might  have  forgotten  the  surrounding  pres- 
ence of  Paris  but  that  the  old  house  was  perpetually  shaken  by 
the  heavy  vehicles  rumbling  by,  as  though  the  earth  beneath 
were  shivering  in  a  fever. 

One  of  the  rooms  was  larger  and  finer  than  the  rest,  and 
there  was  a  struggle  between  the  friends  as  to  who  should  not 
have  it.  They  had  to  toss  for  it :  and  Christophe,  who  had 
made  the  suggestion,  contrived  not  to  win  with  a  dexterity 
of  which  he  found  it  hard  to  believe  himself  capable. 

Then  for  the  two  of  them  there  began  a  period  of  absolute 
happiness.  Their  happiness  lay  not  in  any  one  thing,  but  in 
all  things  at  once:  their  every  thought,  their  every  act,  were 
steeped  in  it,  and  it  never  left  them  for  a  moment. 

During  this  honeymoon  of  their  friendship,  the  first  days 
of  deep  and  silent  rejoicing,  known  only  to  him  "  who  in  all 
the  universe  can  call  one  soul  his  own "...  Ja,  ircr 
aucli  nur  cine  Seel  a  sein  ncnnt  aitf  dem  Erdcnrund  .  .  .  they 
hardly  spoke  to  each  other,  they  dared  hardly  breathe  a  word; 
it  was  enough  for  them  to  feel  each  other's  nearness,  to  exchange 
a  look,  a  word  in  token  that  their  thoughts,  after  long  periods  of 
silence,  still  ran  in  the  same  channel.  Without  probing  or  in- 
quiring, without  even  looking  at  each  other,  yet  unceasingly 
they  watched  each  other.  Unconsciously  the  lover  takes  for  model 
the  soul  of  the  beloved:  so  great  is  his  desire  to  give  no  hurt, 
to  be  in  all  things  as  the  beloved,  that  with  mysterious  and 
sudden  intuition  he  marks  the  imperceptible  movements  in  the 
depths  of  his  soul.  One  friend  to  another  is  crystal-clear:  they 
exchange  entities.  Their  features  are  assimilated.  Soul  imi- 
tates soul, — until  that  day  comes  when  deep-moving  force,  the 


THE  HOUSE  313 

spirit  of  the  race,  bursts  his  bonds  and  rends  asunder  the  web 
of  love  in  which  lie  is  held  captive. 

Christophe  spoke  in  low  tones,  walked  softly,  tried  hard 
to  make  no  noise  in  his  room,  which  was  next  to  that  of  the 
silent  Olivier:  he  was  transfigured  by  his  friendship:  he  had 
an  expression  of  happiness,  confidence,  youth,  such  as  he  had 
never  worn  before.  He  adored  Olivier.  It  would  have  been 
easy  for  the  boy  to  abuse  his  power  if  he  had  not  been  so 
timorous  in  feeling  that  it  was  a  happiness  undeserved :  for 
he  thought  himself  much  inferior  to  Christophe,  who  in  his  turn 
was  no  less  humble.  This  mutual  humility,  the  product  of 
their  great  love  for  each  other,  was  an  added  joy.  It  was  a 
pure  delight — even  with  the  consciousness  of  unworthiness — 
for  each  to  feel  that  he  filled  so  great  a  room  in  the  heart  of  his 
friend.  Each  to  other  they  were  tender  and  filled  with 
gratitude. 

Olivier  had  mixed  his  books  with  Christophe's :  they  made 
no  distinction.  When  he  spoke  of  them  he  did  not  say  "  my 
book,"  but  "  our  book."  He  kept  back  only  a  few  things  from 
the  common  stock:  those  which  had  belonged  to  his  sister  or 
were  bound  up  with  her  memory.  With  the  quick  perception  of 
love  Christophe  was  not  slow  to  notice  this:  but  he  did  not 
know  the  reason  of  it.  He  had  never  dared  to  ask  Olivier 
about  his  family:  he  only  knew  that  Olivier  had  lost  his 
parents:  and  to  the  somewhat  proud  reserve  of  his  affection, 
which  forbade  his  prying  into  his  friend's  secrets,  there  was 
added  a  fear  of  calling  to  life  in  him  the  sorrows  of  the  past. 
Though  he  might  long  to  do  so.  yet  he  was  strangely  timid  and 
never  dared  to  look  closelv  at  the  photographs  on  Olivier's 
desk,  portraits  of  a  lady  and  a  gentleman  stitlly  posed,  and  a 
little  girl  of  twelve  with  a  great  spaniel  at  her  feet. 

A  few  months  after  they  had  taken  up  their  quarters  Olivier 
caught  cold  and  had  to  stay  in  bed.  Christophe,  who  had  be- 
come quite  motherly,  nursed  him  with  fond  anxiety:  and  the 
doctor,  who,  on  examining  Olivier,  had  found  a  little  inflam- 
mation at  the  top  of  the  lungs,  told  Christophe  to  smear  the 


314  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

invalid's  chest  with  tincture  of  iodine.  As  Christophe  was 
gravely  acquitting  himself  of  the  task  he  saw  a  confirmation 
medal  hanging  from  Olivier's  neck.  He  was  familiar  enough 
with  Olivier  to  know  that  he  was  even  more  emancipated  in 
matters  of  religion  than  himself.  He  could  not  refrain  from 
showing  his  surprise.  Olivier  colored  and  said: 

"  It  is  a  souvenir.  My  poor  sister  Antoinette  was  wearing 
it  when  she  died." 

Christophe  trembled.  The  name  of  Antoinette  struck  him 
like  a  flash  of  lightning. 

"  Antoinette  ?  "  he  said. 

"  My  sister/'  said  Olivier. 

Christophe  repeated : 

"  Antoinette  .  .  .  Antoinette  Jeannin.  .  .  .  She  was  your 
sister?  .  .  .  But,"  he  said,  as  he  looked  at  the  photograph 
on  the  desk,  "  she  was  quite  a  child  when  you  lost  her  ?  " 

Olivier  smiled  sadly. 

"  It  is  a  photograph  of  her  as  a  child,"  he  said.  "  Alas !  I 
have  no  other.  .  .  .  She  was  twenty-five  when  she  left  me." 

"  Ah !  "  said  Christophe,  who  was  greatly  moved.  "  And 
she  was  in  Germany,  was  she  not?" 

Olivier  nodded. 

Christophe  took  Olivier's  hands  in  his. 

"  I  knew  her/'  he  said. 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  replied  Olivier. 

And  he  flung  his  arms  round  Christophe's  neck. 

"  Poor  girl !  Poor  girl ! "  said  Christophe  over  and  over 
again. 

They  were  both  in  tears. 

Christophe  remembered  then  that  Olivier  was  ill.  He  tried 
to  calm  him,  and  made  him  keep  his  arms  inside  the  bed,  and 
tucked  the  clothes  up  round  his  shoulders,  and  dried  his  eyes 
for  him,  and  then  sat  down  by  the  bedside  and  looked  long  at 
him. 

"  You  see,"  he  said,  "  that  is  how  I  knew  you.  I  recognized 
you  at  once,,  that  first  evening." 


THE  HOUSE  315 

(It  were  hard  to  tell  whether  he  was  speaking  of  the  present 
or  the  absent  friend.) 

"  But,"  he  went  on  a  moment  later,  "  you  knew  ?  .  .  . 
Why  didn't  you  tell  me?" 

And  through  Olivier's  eyes  Antoinette  replied: 

"  I  could  not  tell  you.     You  had  to  see  it  for  yourself." 

They  said  nothing  for  some  time:  then,  in  the  silence  of  the 
night,  Olivier,  lying  still  in  bed,  in  a  low  voice  told  Christophc, 
who  held  his  hand,  poor  Antoinette's  story: — but  he  did  not  tell 
him  \vhat  he  had  no  right  to  tell ;  the  secret  that  she  had  kept 
locked,- — the  secret  that  perhaps  Christophe  knew  already  with- 
out needing  to  be  told. 

From,  that  time  on  the  soul  of  Antoinette  was  ever  near 
them.  When  they  were  together  she  was  with  them.  They 
had  no  need  to  think  of  her :  every  thought  they  shared  was 
shared  with  her  too.  Her  love  was  the  meeting-place  wherein 
their  two  hearts  were  united. 

Often  Olivier  would  conjure  up  the  image  of  her:  scraps  of 
memory  and  brief  anecdotes.  In  their  fleeting  light  they  gave 
a  glimpse  of  her  shy,  gracious  gestures,  her  grave,  young  smile, 
the  pensive,  wistful  grace  that  was  so  natural  to  her.  Chris- 
tophe would  listen  without  a  word  and  let  the  light  of  the  un- 
seen friend  pierce  to  his  very  soul.  In  obedience  to  the  law  of 
his  own  nature,  Avhieh  everywhere  and  always  drank  in  life 
more  greedily  than  any  other,  he  would  sometimes  hear  in 
Olivier's  words  depths  of  sound  which  Olivier  himself  could 
•not  hear:  and  more  than  Olivier  he  would  assimilate  the  es- 
sence of  the  girl  who  was  dead. 

Instinctively  he  supplied  her  place  in  Olivier's  life:  and 
it  was  a  touching  sight  to  see  the  awkward  (Jerman  hap  un- 
wittingly on  certain  of  the  delicate  attentions  and  little  mother- 
ing ways  of  Antoinette.  Sometimes  he  could  not  tell  whether 
it  was  Olivier  that  he  loved  in  Antoinette  or  Antoinette  in 
Olivier.  Sometimes  on  a  tender  impulse1,  without  saying  any- 
thing, he  would  go  and  visit  Antoinette's  grave  and  lay 
flowers  on  it.  It  was  some  time  before  Olivier  had  anv  idea 


316  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PAEIS 

of  it.  He  did  not  discover  it  until  one  day  when  he  found 
fresh  flowers  on  the  grave :  but  he  had  some  difficulty  in  proving 
that  it  was  Christophe  who  had  laid  them  there.  When  he  tried 
bashfully  to  speak  about  it  Christophe  cut  him  short  roughly 
and  abruptly.  He  did  not  want  Olivier  to  know :  and  he  stuck 
to  it  until  one  day  when  they  met  in  the  cemetery  at  Ivry. 

Olivier,  on  his  part,  used  to  write  to  Christophers  mother 
without  letting  him  know.  He  gave  Louisa  news  of  her  son, 
and  told  her  how  fond  he  was  of  him  and  how  he  admired  him. 
Louisa  would  send  Olivier  awkward,  humble  letters  in  which 
she  thanked  him  profusely :  she  used  always  to  write  of  her 
son  as  though  lie  were  a  little  boy. 

After  a  period  of  fond  semi-silence — "  a  delicious  time  of 
peace  and  enjoyment  without  knowing  why," — their  tongues 
were  loosed.  They  spent  hours  in  voyages  of  discovery,  each 
in  the  other's  soul. 

They  were  very  different,  but  they  were  both  pure  metal. 
They  loved  each  other  because  they  were  so  different  though  so 
much  the  same. 

Olivier  was  weak,  delicate,  incapable  of  fighting  against  dif- 
ficulties. When  he  came  up  against  an  obstacle  he  drew  back, 
not  from  fear,  but  something  from  timidity,  and  more  from 
disgust  with  the  brutal  and  coarse  means  he  would  have  to  em- 
ploy to  overcome  it.  He  earned  his  living  by  giving  classes, 
and  writing  art-books,  shamefully  underpaid,  as  usual,  and 
occasionally  articles  for  reviews,  in  which  he  never  had  a  free 
hand  and  had  to  deal  with  subjects  in  which  he  was  not 
greatly  interested : — there  was  no  demand  for  the  things  that 
did  interest  him :  he  was  never  asked  for  the  sort  of  thing  he 
could  do  best :  he  was  a  poet  and  was  asked  for  criticism :  lie 
knew  something  about  music  and  lie  had  to  write  about  painting: 
he  knew  quite  well  that  he  could  only  say  mediocre  things, 
which  was  just  what  people  liked,  for  there  he  could  speak  to 
mediocre  minds  in  a  language  which  they  could  understand. 
He  grew  disgusted  with  it  all  and  refused  to  write.  lie  had 
no  pleasure  except  in  writing  for  certain  obscure  periodicals, 


THE  HOUSE  317 

which  never  paid  anything,  and,  like  so  many  other  young  men, 
lie  devoted  his  talents  to  them  because  they  left  him  a  free 
hand.  Only  in  their  pages  could  he  publish  what  was  worthy  of 
publicity. 

He  was  gentle,  well-mannered,  seemingly  patient,  though  he 
was  excessively  sensitive.  A  harsh  word  drew  blood :  injustice 
overwhelmed  him :  he  suffered  both  on  his  own  account  and 
for  others.  Certain  crimes,  committed  ages  ago,  still  had  the 
power  to  rend  him  as  though  he  himself  had  been  their  victim. 
He  would  go  pale,  and  shmlder,  and  be  utterly  miserable  as 
he  thought  how  wretched  he  must  have  been  who  suffered  them, 
and  how  many  ages  cut  him  off  from  his  sympathy.  When  any 
unjust  deed  was  done  before  his  eyes  he  would  be  wild  with 
indignation  and  tremble  all  over,  and  sometimes  become  quite 
ill  and  lose  his  sleep.  It  was  because  lie  knew  his  weakness 
that  he  drew  on  his  mask  of  calmness :  for  when  he  was  angry 
he  knew  that  he  went  beyond  all  limits  and  was  apt  to  say 
unpardonable  things.  People  we're  more  resentful  with  him 
than  with  Christophe,  who  was  always  violent,  because  it  seemed 
that  in  moments  of  anger  Olivier,  much  more  than  Christophe, 
expressed  exactly  what  he  thought :  and  that  was  true.  lie 
judged  men  and  women  without  Christophc's  blind  exaggeration, 
but  lucidly  and  without  his  illusions.  And  that  is  precisely 
what  people  do  pardon  the  least  readily.  In  such  cases  he 
would  say  nothing  and  avoid  discussion,  knowing  its  futility. 
He  had  suffered  from  this  restraint.  He  had  suffered  more 
from  his  timiditv,  which  sometimes  led  him  to  betray  his 
thoughts,  or  deprived  him  of  the  courage  to  defend  his  thoughts 
conclusively,  and  even  to  apologixe  for  them,  as  had  happened 
in  the  argument  with  Lucieu  Levy-Cuiur  about  Christophe. 
lie  had  passed  through  many  crises  of  despair  before  he  had 
been  able  to  strike  a  compromise  between  himself  and  the  rest 
of  the  world.  In  his  youth  and  budding  manhood,  when  his 
nerves  were  not  hopelessly  out  of  order,  he  lived  in  a  perpetual 
alternation  of  periods  of  exaltation  and  periods  of  depression 
which  came  and  went  with  horrible  suddenness.  Just  when 


318  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

Tic  was  feeling  most  at  his  case  and  even  happy  he  was  very 
certain  that  sorrow  was  lying  in  wait  for  him.  And  suddenly 
it  would  lay  him  low  without  giving  any  warning  of  its  coining. 
And  it  was  not  enough  for  him  to  be  unhappy:  he  had  to  hlame 
himself  for  his  unhappiness,  and  hold  an  inquisition  into  his 
every  word  and  deed,  and  his  honesty,  and  take  the  side  of  other 
people  against  himself.  His  heart  would  throb  in  his  bosom,  he 
would  struggle  miserably,  and  he  would  scarcely  be  able  to 
breathe. — Since  die  death  of  Antoinette,  and  perhaps  thanks  to 
her,  thanks  to  the  peace-giving  light  that  issues  from  the  be- 
loved dead,  as  the  light  of  dawn  brings  refreshment  to  the 
eyes  and  soul  of  those  who  are  sick,  Olivier  had  contrived,  if 
not  to  break  away  from  these  difficulties,  at  least  to  be  resigned 
to  them  and  to  master  them.  Very  few  had  any  idea  of  his  in- 
ward struggles.  The  humiliating  secret  wras  locked  up  in  his 
breast,  all  the  immoderate  excitement  of  a  weak,  tormented 
body,  surveyed  serenely  by  a  free  and  keen  intelligence  which 
could  not  master  it,  though  it  was  never  touched  by  it,— 
"the  central  peace  which  endures  amid  the  endless  agitation  of 
the  heart." 

Christophe  marked  it.  This  it  was  that  he  saw  in  Olivier's 
eyes.  Olivier  had  an  intuitive  perception  of  the  souls  of 
men,  and  a  mind  of  a  wide,  subtle  curiositv  that  was  open  to 
everything,  denied  nothing,  hated  nothing,  and  contemplated 
the  world  and  things  with  generous  sympathy:  that  freshness 
of  outlook,  which  is  a  priceless  gift,  granting  the  power  to  taste 
with  a  heart  thai  is  always  new  the  eternal  renewal  and  re-birth. 
In  that  inward  universe,  wherein  he  knew  himself  to  be  free, 
vast,  sovereign,  he  could  forget  his  physical  weakness  and 
agony.  There  was  even  a  certain  pleasure  in  watching  from 
a  great  height,  with  ironic  pity,  that  poor  sulfering  bodv  which 
seemed  always  so  near  the  point  of  death.  So  there  was  no 
danger  of  his  clinging  to  /;;',$  life,  and  only  the  more  passionately 
did  he  hug  life  itself.  Olivier  translated  into  the  region  of 
love  and  mind  all  the  forces  which  in  action  he  had  abdicated. 
He  had  not  enough  vital  sap  to  live  by  his  own  .substance, 


THE  HOUSE  319 

He  was  as  ivy:  it  was  needful  for  him  to  cling.     He  was  never 

so  rich  as  when  he  gave  himself.     His  was  a  womanish  soul 

• 

with  its  eternal  need  of  loving  and  heing  loved.  He  was  born 
for  Christophe,  and  Christophe  for  him.  Such  are  the  aristo- 
cratic and  charming  friends  who  arc  the  escorts  of  the  great 
artists  and  seem  to  have  come  to  flower  in  the  lives  of  their 
mighty  souls :  Beltraffio,  the  friend  of  Leonardo :  Cavalliere  of 
Michael  Angelo :  the  gentle  Umbrians,  the  comrades  of  young 
Eaphael:  Ae'rt  van  Gelder,  who  remained  faithful  to  Kem- 
brandt  in  his  poor  old  age.  They  have  not  the  greatness  of  the 
masters:  but  it  is  as  though  all  the  purity  and  nobility  of 
the  masters  in  their  friends  were  raised  to  a  yet  higher  spiritual 
power.  They  are  the  ideal  companions  for  men  of  genius. 

Their  friendship  was  profitable  to  both  of  them.  Love  lends 
wings  to  the  soul.  The  presence  of  the  beloved  friend  gives 
all  its  worth  to  life:  a  man  lives  for  his  friend  and  for  his 
sake  defends  his  soul's  integrity  against  the  wearing  force  of 
time. 

Each  enriched  the  other's  nature.  Olivier  had  serenity  of 
mind  and  a  sickly  body.  Christophe  had  mighty  strength  and 
a  stormy  soul.  They  were  in  some  sort  Kke  a  blind  man  and  a 
cripple.  Now  that  they  were  together  they  felt  sound  and 
strong.  Living  in  the  shadow  of  Christophe  Olivier  recovered 
his  joy  in  the  light:  Christophe  transmitted  to  him  something 
of  his  abounding  vitality,  his  physical  and  moral  robustness, 
which,  even  in  sorrow,  even  in  injustice,  even  in  hate,  inclined 
to  optimism.  He  took  much  more  than  he  gave,  in  obedience 
to  the  law  of  genius,  which  gives  in  vain,  but  in  love  always 
takes  more  than  it  gives,  qnia  nominor  Ico.  because  it  is  genius, 
and  genius  half  consists  in  the  instinctive  absorption  of  all 
that  is  great  in  its  surroundings  and  making  it  greater  still. 
The  vulgar  saying  has  it  that  riches  go  to  the  rich.  Strength 
goes  to  the  strong.  Christophe  fed  on  Olivier's  ideas:  he  im- 
pregnated himself  with  his  intellectual  calmness  and  mental  de- 
tachment, his  lofty  outlook,  his  silent  understanding  and  mastery 
of  things.  But  when  they  were  transplanted  into  him,  the 


320  JEAX-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

richer  soil,  the  virtues  of  his  friend  grew  with  a  new  and  other 
energy. 

They  both  marveled  at  the  things  they  discovered  in 'each 
other.  There  were  so  many  things  to  share!  Each  brought 
vast  treasures  of  which  till  then  he  had  never  been  conscious : 
the  moral  treasure  of  his  nation :  Olivier  the  wide  culture  and 
the  psycho]  ogical  genius  of  France :  Christoplie  the  innate 
music  of  Germany  and  his  intuitive  knowledge  of  nature. 

Christophe  could  not  understand  how  Olivier  could  be  a 
Frenchman.  His  friend  was  so  little  like  all  the  Frenchmen 
he  had  met !  Before  he  found  Olivier  he  had  not  been  far 
from  taking  Lucien  Levy-Cceur  as  the  type  of  the  modern 
French  mind,  Levy-Cceur  who  was  no  more  than  the  caricature 
of  it.  And  now  through  Olivier  he  saw  that  there  might  be  in 
Paris  minds  just  as  free,  more  free  indeed  than  that  of  Lucien 
Levy-Cceur,  men  who  remained  as  pure  and  stoical  as  any  in 
Europe.  Christophe  tried  to  prove  to  Olivier  that  he  and  his 
sister  could  not  be  altogether  French. 

"My  poor  dear  fellow,"  said  Olivier,  "what  do  you  know  of 
France?" 

Christophe  avowed  the  trouble  lie  had  taken  to  gain  some 
knowledge  of  the  country:  he  drew  up  a  list  of  all  the  French- 
men he  had  met  in  the  circle  of  the  Stevens  and  the  Roussins: 
Jews,  Belgians.  Luxemburgers,  Americans,  Russians,  Levan- 
tines, and  here  and  there  a  few  authentic  Frenchmen. 

"Just  what  I  was  saying,"  replied  Olivier.  "You  haven't 
seen  a  single  Frenchman.  A  group  of  debauchees,  a  few  beasts 
of  pleasure,  who  are  not  even  French,  men-about-town,  politi- 
cians, useless  creatures,  all  the  fuss  and  flummery  which  passes 
over  and  above  the  life  of  the  nation  without  even  touching  it. 
You  have  only  seen  the  swarms  of  wasps  attracted  by  a  fine 
autumn  and  the  rich  meadows.  You  haven't  noticed  the  busy 
hives,  the  industrious  city,  the  thirst  for  knowledge." 

"I  beg  pardon,"  said  Christophe,  "  I've  come  across  your  in- 
tellectual elite  as  well." 

"What?     A  few  dozen  men  of  letters?     They're  a  fine  lot! 


THE  HOUSE  321 

Nowadays  when  science  and  action  play  so  groat  a  part  literature 
has  become  superficial,  no  more  than  the  bed  where  the  thought 
of  the  people  sleeps.     And  in  literature  you   have  only   come 
across  the  theater,  the  theater  of  luxury,  an  international  kitchen 
where  dishes  are  turned  out  for  the  wealthy  customers  of  the 
cosmopolitan  hotels.     The  theaters  of  Paris?     Do  you  think  a 
working-man  even  knows  what  is  being  done  in  them  ?    Pasteur 
did  not  go  to  them  ten  times  in  all  his  life !     Like  all  foreigners 
you  attach  an  exaggerated  importance  to  our  novels,  and  our 
boulevard  plays,  and  the  intrigues  of  our  politicians.    ...      If 
you  like  I  will  show  you  women  who  never  read  novels,  girls  in 
Paris  who  have  never  been  to  the  theater,  men  who  have  never 
bothered  their  heads  about  politics, — yes,  even  among  our  in- 
tellectuals.    You    have    not    come    across    either    our    men    of 
science   or   our   poets.     You   have    not   discovered    the   solitary 
artists  who  languish  in  silence,  nor  the  burning  flame  of  our 
revolutionaries.     You  have  not  seen  a  single  great  believer,  or  a 
single  great    skeptic.     As   for    the   people,    we    won't   talk    of 
them.     Outside   the   poor  woman   who  looked   after  you.   what 
do  you  know  of  them?     Where  have  you  had  a  chance  of  seeing 
them?     How    many    Parisians   have   you    met   who    have    lived 
higher  than  the  second  or  third  floor?     If  you  do  not  know  these 
people,  you  do  not  know  France.    You  know  nothing  of  the  brave 
true  hearts,  the  men  and  women  living  in  poor  lodgings,  in  the 
garrets  of  Paris,  in  the  dumb  provinces,  men  and  women  who, 
through   a   dull,   drab   life,    think   grave   thoughts,   and    live   in 
daily  sacrifice, — the  little  Church,  which  has  always  existed  in 
France — small    in    numbers,   great   in   spirit,   almost    unknown, 
having  no  outward  or  apparent  force  of  action,  though  it  is  the 
very    force    of    France,    that    might    which    endures    in    silence, 
while   the  so-called   elite   rots   away   and   springs   to   life   again 
unceasingly.    .    .    .      You  are  amaxed  when  you   find  a   French- 
man   who   lives   not   for   the    sake    of    happiness,    happiness   at 
all  costs,  but  to  accomplish  or  to  serve   his   faith?     There  are 
thousands  of  men  like  myself,  men  more  worthy  than  myself, 
more  pious,  more  humble,  men  who  to  their  dying  day  live  un- 


322  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

failingly  to  serve  an  ideal,  a  God,  who  vouchsafes  them  no  reply, 
You  know  nothing  of  the  thrifty,  methodical,  industrious,  tran- 
quil middle-class  living  with  a  quenchless  dormant  flame  in  their 
hearts — the  people  betrayed  and  sacrificed  who  in  old  days  de- 
fended '  my  country '  against  the  selfish  arrogance  of  the 
great,  the  blue-eyed  ancient  race  of  Vauban.  You  do  not  know 
the  people,  you  do  not  know  the  elite.  Have  you  read 'a  single 
one  of  the  books  which  are  our  faithful  friends,  the  companions 
who  support  us  in  our  lives  ?  Do  you  even  know  of  the  ex- 
istence of  our  young  reviews  in  which  such  great  faith  and 
devotion  are  expressed?  Have  you  any  idea  of  the  men  of 
moral  might  and  worth  who  are  as  the  sun  to  us,  the  sun  whose 
voiceless  light  strikes  terror  to  the  army  of  the  hypocrites? 
They  dare  not  make  a  frontal  attack :  they  bow  before  them, 
the  better  to  betra}r  them.  The  hypocrite  is  a  slave,  and  there 
is  no  slave  but  he  has  a  master.  You  know  only  the  slaves : 
you  know  nothing  of  the  masters.  .  .  .  You  have  watched 
our  struggles  and  they  have  seemed  to  you  brutish  and  un- 
meaning because  you  have  not  understood  their  aim.  You 
see  the  shadow,  the  reflected  light  of  day :  you  have  never  seen 
the  inward  day,  our  age-old  immemorial  spirit.  Have  you  ever 
tried  to  perceive  it?  Have  you  ever  heard  of  our  heroic  deeds 
from  the  Crusades  to  the  Commune?  Have  you  ever  seen  and 
felt  the  tragedy  of  the  French  spirit?  Have  you  ever  stood  at 
the  brink  of  the  abyss  of  Pascal  ?  How  dare  you  slander  a  peo- 
ple who  for  more  than  a  thousand  years  have  been  living  in 
action  and  creation,  a  people  that  has  graven  the  world  in  its 
own  image  through  Gothic  art,  and  the  seventeenth  century, 
and  the  Revolution, — a  people  that  has  twenty  times  passed 
through  the  ordeal  of  fire,  and  plunged  into  it  again,  and  twenty 
times  has  come  to  life  again  and  never  yet  has  perished !  .  .  . 
— You  are  all  the  same.  All  your  countrymen  who  come 
among  us  see  only  the  parasites  who  suck  our  blood,  literary, 
political,  and  financial  adventurers,  with  their  minions  and 
their  hangers-on  and  their  harlots:  and  they  judge  France  by 
these  wretched  creatures  who  prey  on  her.  Not  one  of  you  has 


THE  HOUSE  323 

any  idea  of  the  real  France  living  under  oppression,  or  of  the 
reserve  of  vitality  in  the  French  provinces,  or  of  the  great 
mass  of  the  people  who  go  on  working  heedless  of  the  uproar 
and  pother  made  by  their  masters  of  a  day.  .  .  .  Yes :  it  is 
only  natural  that  you  should  know  nothing  of  all  this:  I  do 
not  blame  you:  how  could  you?  Why.  France  is  hardly  at  all 
known  to  the  French.  The  best  of  us  are  bound  down  and 
held  captive  to  our  native  soil.  .  .  .  Xo  one  will  ever  know 
all  that  we  have  suffered,  we  who  have  guarded  as  a  sacred 
charge  the  light  in  our  hearts  which  we  have  received  from 
the  genius  of  our  race,  to  which  we  cling  with  all  our  might, 
desperately  defending  it  against  the  hostile  winds  that  strive 
blusteringly  to  snuff  it  out ; — we  are  alone  and  in  our  nostrils 
stinks  the  pestilential  atmosphere  of  these  harpies  who  have 
swarmed  about  our  genius  like  a  thick  cloud  of  flies,  whose 
hideous  grubs  gnaw  at  our  minds  and  defile  our  hearts: — we  are 
betrayed  by  those  whose  duty  it  is  to  defend  us,  our  leaders,  our 
idiotic  and  cowardly  critics,  who  fawn  upon  the  enemy,  to  win 
pardon  for  being  of  our  race: — we  are  deserted  by  the  people  who 
give  no  thought  to  us  and  do  not  even  know  of  our  existence.  .  .  . 
By  what  means  can  we  make  ourselves  known  to  them?  We 
cannot  reach  them.  .  .  .  Ah !  that  is  the  hardest  thing  of 
all!  We  know  that  there  are  thousands  of  men  in  France  who 
all  think  as  we  do,  we  know  that  we  speak  in  their  name,  and  we 
cannot  gain  a  hearing!  Everything  is  in  the  hands  of  the 
enemy:  newspapers,  reviews,  theaters.  .  .  .  The  Press  scur- 
ries away  from  ideas  or  admits  them  onlv  as  an  instrument  of 
pleasure  or  a  party  weapon.  The  cliques  and  coteries  will  onlv 
suffer  us  to  break  through  on  condition  that  we  degrade  our- 
selves. We  are  crushed  by  poverty  and  overwork.  The  politi- 
cians, pursuing  nothing  but  wealth,  are  only  interested  in  that 
section  of  the  public  which  thev  can  buy.  The  middle-class 
is  selfish  and  indifferent,  and  unmoved  sees  us  perish.  The 
people  know  nothing  of  our  existence:  oven  those  who  are  fight- 
ing the  same  fight  like  us  are  cut  off  by  silence  and  do  not 
know  that  we  exist,  and  we  do  not  know  that  thev  exist.  .  .  , 


324  JEAX-CHRISTOPHE  IX  PARTS 

Ill-omened  Pans !  Xo  doubt  good  also  lias  come  of  it — by 
gathering  together  all  the  forces  of  the  French  mind  and  genius. 
But  the  evil  it  has  done  is  at  least  equal  to  the  good:  and  in  a 
time  like  the  present  the  good  quickly  turns  to  evil.  A  pseudo- 
elite  fastens  on  Paris  and  blows  the  loud  trumpet  of  publicity 
and  the  voices  of  all  the  rest  of  France  are  drowned.  More 
than  that:  France  herself  is  deceived  by  it:  she  is  scared  and 
silent  and  fearfully  locks  away  her  own  ideas.  .  .  .  There 
was  a  time  when  it  hurt  me  dreadfully.  But  now,  Christophe,  I 
can  bear  it  calmly.  I  know  and  understand  my  own  strength 
and  the  might  of  my  people.  We  must  wait  until  the  flood  dies 
down.  It  cannot  touch  or  change  the  bed-rock  of  France.  I 
will  make  you  feel  that  bed-rock  under  the  mud  that  is  borne 
onward  by  the  flood.  And  even  now,  here  and  there,  there  are 
lofty  peaks  appearing  above  the  waters.  ..." 

Christophe  discovered  the  mighty  power  of  idealism  which 
animated  the  French  poets,  musicians,  and  men  of  science  of 
his  time.  While  the  temporary  masters  of  the  country  with 
their  coarse  sensuality  drowned  the  voice  of  the  French  genius, 
it  showed  itself  too  aristocratic  to  vie  with  the  presumptuous 
shouts  of  the  rabble  and  sang  on  with  burning  ardor  in  its  own 
praise  and  the  praise  of  its  God.  It  was  as  though  in  its  desire 
to  escape  the  revolting  uproar  of  the  outer  world  it  had  with- 
drawn to  the  farthest  refuge  in  the  innermost  depths  of  its 
castle-keep. 

The  poets — that  is.  those  only  who  were  worthy  of  that 
splendid  name,  so  bandied  by  the  Press  and  the  Academies 
and  doled  out  to  divers  windbags  greedy  of  money  and  flattery — 
the  poets,  despising  impudent  rhetoric  and  that  slavish  realism 
which  nibbles  at  the  surface  of  things  without  penetrating  to 
reality,  had  intrenched  themselves  in  the  very  center  of  the 
soul,  in  a  mystic  vision  into  which  was  drawn  the  universe  of 
form  and  idea,  like  a  torrent  falling  into  a  lake,  there  to  take 
on  the  color  of  the  inward  life.  The  very  intensity  of  this 
idealism,  which  withdrew  into  itself  to  recreate  the  universe, 
made  it  inaccessible  to  the  mob.  Christophe  himself  did  not 


THE  HOUSE  325 

understand  it  at  first.  The  transition  was  too  abrupt  after  the 
market-place.  It  was  as  though  he  had  passed  from  a  furious 
rush  and  scramble  in  the  hot  sunlight  into  silence  and  the  night. 
His  ears  buzzed.  He  could  see  nothing.  At  first,  with  his 
ardent  love  of  life,  lie  was  shocked  by  the  contrast.  Outside  was 
the  roaring  of  the  rushing  streams  of  passion  overturning  France 
and  stirring  all  humanity.  And  at  the  first  glance  there  was  not 
a  trace  of  it  in  this  art  of  theirs.  Cbristophe  asked  Olivier: 

"You  have  been  lifted  to  the  stars  and  hurled  down  to 
the  depths  of  hell  by  your  Dreyfus  affair.  Where  is  the  poet 
in  whose  soul  the  height  and  depth  of  it  were  felt?  Now.  at 
this  very  moment,  in  the  souls  of  your  religious  men  and 
women  there  is  the  mightiest  struggle  there  has  been  for  cen- 
turies between  the  authority  of  the  Church  and  the  rights  of 
conscience.  Where  is  the  poet  in  whose  soul  this  sacred  agony 
is  reflected?  The  working  classes  are  preparing  for  war.  na- 
tions are  dying,  nations  are  springing  to  new  life,  the  Armeni- 
ans are  massacred,  Asia,  awaking  from  its  sleep  of  a  thousand 
years,  hurls  down  the  Muscovite  colossus,  the  keeper  of  the  keys 
of  Europe:  Turkey,  like  Adam,  opens  its  eyes  on  the  light 
of  day:  the  air  is  conquered  by  man:  the  old  earth  cracks  under 
our  feet  and  opens:  it  devours  a  whole  people.  .  .  .  All  these 
prodigies,  accomplished  in  twenty  years,  enough  to  supply 
material  for  twenty  Iliad*:  but  where  are  they,  where  shall 
their  fiery  traces  be  found  in  the  books  of  your  poets?  Are  they 
of  all  men  unable  to  see  the  poetry  of  the  world  ?  :' 

"Patience,  my  friend,  patience!"  replied  Olivier.  "Be 
silent,  say  nothing,  listen.  .  .  . " 

Slowly  the  creaking  of  the  axle-tree  of  the  world  died  away 
and  the  rumbling  over  the  stones  of  the  iieavv  ear  of  action 
was  lost  in  the  distance.  And  there  arose  the  divine  song  of 
silence.  .  .  . 

The  hum  of  Ices,  and  the  perfume  of  the  lime*.    .    .    . 

The  wind. 

With  his  golden  /i';w  kixxin//  (lie  eartli  of  tin'  /ilainx.    .    .    . 
The  soft  sound  of  the  rain  and  I  lie  scent  of  the.  royes. 


326  JEAN-CHEISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

There  rang  out  the  hammer  and  chisel  of  the  poets  carving 
the  sides  of  a  vase  with 

The  fine  majesty  of  simple  things, 
solemn,  joyous  life, 

With  its  flutes  of  gold  and  flutes  of  ebony, 
religious  joy,  faith  welling  up  like  a  fountain  of  souls 

For  whom  the  very  darkness  is  clear,   .    .    . 
and  great  sweet  sorrow,  giving  comfort  and  smiling, 

With  her  austere  face  from  which  there  shines 

A  clearness  beyond  nature,   .    .    . 
and 

Death  serene  with  her  great,  soft  eyes, 

A  symphony  of  harmonious  and  pure  voices.  Not  one  of 
them  had  the  full  sonorousness  of  such  national  trumpets  as 
were  Corneille  and  Hugo :  but  how  much  deeper  and  more 
subtle  in  expression  was  their  music !  The  richest  music  in 
Europe  of  to-day. 

Olivier  said  to  Christophe,  who  was  silent: 

"  Do  you  understand  now  ?  " 

Christophe  in  his  turn  bade  him  be  silent.  In  spite  of  him- 
self, and  although  he  preferred  more  manly  music,  yet  he  drank 
in  the  murmuring  of  the  woods  and  fountains  of  the  soul 
which  came  whispering  to  his  ears.  Amid  the  passing  struggles 
of  the  nations  they  sang  the  eternal  youth  of  the  world,  the 

Siueet  goodness   of  Beauty. 
While  humanity, 

Screaming  with  terror  and  yelping  its  complaint 
Marched  round  and  round  a  barren  gloom;/  field, 

while  millions  of  men  and  women  wore  themselves  out  in 
wrangling  for  the  bloody  rags  of  liberty,  the  fountains  and  the 
woods  sang  on : 

"Free!   .    .    .     Free!   .    .    .     Sanctus,   Sanctus.   .    .    ." 


THE  HOUSE  327 

And  yet  they  slept  not  in  any  dream  selfishly  serene.  In  the 
choir  of  the  poets  there  were  not  wanting  tragic  voices :  voices 
of  pride,  voices  of  love,  voices  of  agony. 

A  blind  hurricane,  mad,  intoxicated 

With  Us  own  rough  force  or  gentleness  profound, 

tumultuous  forces,  the  epic  of  the  illusions  of  those  who 
sing  the  wild  fever  of  the  crowd,  the  conflicts  of  human  gods, 
the  breathless  toilers, 

Faces  inky  Hack  and  golden  peering  through  darkness  and 

mist, 

Muscular  backs  stretching,  or  suddenly  crouching 
Round  mighty  furnaces  and  gigantic  anvils  .    .    . 

forging  the  City  of  the  Future. 

In  the  flickering  light  and  shadow  falling  on  the  glaciers 
of  the  mind  there  was  the  heroic  bitterness  of  those  solitary 
souls  which  devour  themselves  with  desperate  joy. 

Many  of  the  characteristics  of  these  idealists  seemed  to  the 
German  .more  German  than  French.  But  all  01  them  had  the 
love  for  the  "  fine  speech  of  France  "  and  the  sap  of  the  myths 
of  Greece  ran  through  their  poetry.  Scenes  of  France  and  daily 
life  were  by  some  hidden  magic  transformed  in  their  eyes  into 
visions  of  Attica.  It  was  as  though  antique  souls  had  come  to 
life  again  in  these  twentieth-century  Frenchmen,  and  longed 
to  fling  off  their  modern  garments  to  appear  again  in  their 
lovely  nakedness. 

Their  poetry  as  a  whole  gave  out  the  perfume  of  a  rich 
civilization  that  has  ripened  through  the  ages,  a  perfume  such  as 
could  not  be  found  anywhere  else  in  Kurope.  It  were  impos- 
sible to  forget  it  once  it  had  been  breathed.  It  attracted  for- 
eign artists  from  every  country  in  the  world.  Thev  became 
French  poets,  almost  bigotedly  French:  and  French  classical 
art  had  no  more  fervent  disciples  than  these  Anglo-Saxons  and 
Flemings  and  Greeks. 


3^8  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IX  PAKIS 

Ohristophe,  under  Olivier's  guidance,  was  impregnated  with 
the  pensive  beauty  of  the  Muse  of  France,  while  in  his  heart 
lie  found  the  aristocratic  lady  a  little  too  intellectual  for  his 
liking,  and  preferred  a  pretty  girl  of  the  people,  simple,  healthy, 
robust,  who  thinks  and  argues  less,  but  is  more  concerned  with 
love. 

The  same  odor  di  Icllczza  arose  from  all  French  art.  as 
the  scent  of  ripe  strawberries  and  raspberries  ascends  from 
autumn  woods  warmed  by  the  sun.  French  music  was  like  one 
of  those  little  strawberry  plants,  hidden  in  the  grass,  the  scent 
of  which  sweetens  all  the  air  of  the  woods.  At  first  Chris- 
tophe  had  passed  it  by  without  seeing  it,  for  in  his  own  country 
he  had  been  used  to  whole  thickets  of  music,  much  fuller  and 
bearing  more  brilliant  fruits.  But  now  the  delicate  perfume 
made  him  turn:  with  Olivier's  help  among  the  stones  and 
brambles  and  dead  leaves  which  usurped  the  name  of  music. 
he  discovered  the  subtle  and  ingenuous  art  of  a  handful  of 
musicians.  Amid  the  marshy  fields  and  the  factory  chimneys 
of  democracy,  in  the  heart  of  the  Plaine-Saint-Denis,  iu  a  little 
magic  wood  fauns  were  dancing  blithely.  Christopho  was 
amazed  to  hear  the  ironic  and  serene-  notes  of  their  flutes  which 
were  like  nothing  he  had  ever  heard  : 

"  A  little  reed  sufficed  for  me 
To  make  the  tall  r/rass  quiver, 
And  all  the  inettdw, 
The  irillotrx  xircet, 
Ai«l  the  xinrjinrj  stream  also ." 
A  little  I'nil  mtffii'ed  for  tne 
Tomaks.  Ihe  forr«t  sing." 

Beneath  the  careless  grace  and  the  seeming  dilettantism  of 
their  little  piano  pieces,  and  songs,  and  French  chamber-music, 
which  Herman  art  never  deigned  to  notice,  while  rhristopho 
himself  had  hitherto  failed  to  see  the  poetic  accomplishment  of 
it  all.  he  now  began  to  pee  the  fever  of  renovation,  and  the. 
uneasiness, — unknown  on  the  other  side  of  the  Rhine, — with 


THE  HOUSE  329 

which  French  musicians  were  seeking  in  the  untilled  fields 
of  their  art  the  genus  from  which  the  future  might  grow. 
While  German  musicians  sat  stolidly  in  the  encampments  of 
their  forebears,  and  arrogantly  claimed  to  stay  the  evolution 
of  the  world  at  the  barrier  of  their  past  victories,  the  world 
was  moving  onwards:  and  in  the  van  the  French  plunged  on- 
ward to  discovery:  they  explored  the  distant  realms  of  art. 
dead  suns  and  suns  lit  up  once  more,  and  vanished  Greece, 
and  the  Far  East,  after  its  age-long  slumber,  once  more  open- 
ing its  slanting  eyes,  full  of  vasty  dreams,  upon  the  light  of 
day.  In  the  music  of  the  West,  run  off  into  channels  by  the 
genius  of  order  and  classic  reason,  they  opened  up  the  sluices 
of  the  ancient  fashions:  into  their  Versailles  pools  they  turned 
all  the  waters  of  the  universe:  popular  melodies  and  rhythms, 
exotic  and  antique  scales,  new  or  old  beats  and  intervals.  Just 
as,  before  them,  the  impressionist  painters  had  opened  up  a  new 
world  to  the  eyes, — Christopher  Columbuses  of  light, — so  the 
musicians  were  rushing  on  to  the  conquest  of  the  world  of 
Sound;  they  pressed  on  into  mysterious  recesses  of  the  world  of 
Hearing:  they  discovered  new  lands  in  that  inward  ocean.  It 
was  more  than  probable  that  they  would  do  nothing  with  their 
conquests.  As  usual  the  French  were  the  harbingers  of  the 
world. 

Christophe  admired  the  initiative  of  their  music  born  of 
yesterday  and  already  marching  in  the  van  of  art.  What 
valiance  there  was  in  the  elegant  tiny  little  creature!  Hi' 
found  indulgence  for  the  follies  that  he  had  lately  seen  in  her. 
Only  those  who  attempt  nothing  never  make  mistakes.  But 
error  struggling  on  towards  the  living  truth  is  more  fruitful  and 
more  blessed  than  dead  truth. 

Whatever  the  results,  the  effort  was  amazing.  Olivier  showed 
Christophe  the  work  done  in  the  last  thirty-five  years,  and  the 
amount  of  energy  expended  in  raising  French  music'  from  the 
void  in  which  it  had  slumbered  before  1STO:  no  symphonic 
school,  no  profound  culture,  no  traditions,  no  masters,  no 
public:  the  whole  reduced  to  poor  Berlioz,  who  died  of  suf- 


330  JEAX-CHRISTOPHE  IX  PARIS 

focation  and  weariness.  And  now  Christoplie  felt  a  great  re- 
spect for  those  who  had  been  the  laborers  in  the  national  re- 
vival :  he  had  no  desire  now  to  jeer  at  their  esthetic  narrowness 
or  their  lack  of  genius.  They  had  created  something  much 
greater  than  music:  a  musical  people.  Among  all  the  great 
toilers  who  had  forged  the  new  French  music  one  man  was  espe- 
cially dear  to  him  :  Cesar  Franck,  who  died  without  seeing  the 
victory  for  which  he  had  paved  the  way,  and  yet,  like  old  Schiitx, 
through  the  darkest  years  of  French  art,  had  preserved  intact 
the  treasure  of  his  faith  and  the  genius  of  his  race.  It  was 
a  moving  thing  to  see :  amid  pleasure-seeking  Paris,  the  angelic 
master,  the  saint  of  music,  in  a  life  of  poverty  and  work 
despised,  preserving  the  unimpeachable  serenity  of  his  patient 
soul,  whose  smile  of  resignation  lit  up  his  music  in  which  is 
such  great  goodness. 

To  Christophe,  knowing  nothing  of  the  depths  of  the  life  of 
France,  this  great  artist,  adhering  to  his  faitli  in  the  midst 
of  a  country  of  atheists,  was  a  phenomenon,  almost  a  miracle. 

But  Olivier  would  gently  shrug  his  shoulders  and  ask  if 
any  other  country  in  Europe  could  show  a  painter  so  wholly 
steeped  in  the  spirit  of  the  Bible  as  Francois  Millet; — a  man 
of  science  more  filled  with  burning  faith  and  humility  than  tile- 
clear-sighted  Pasteur,  bowing  down  before  the  idea  of  the  in- 
finite, and.  when  that  idea  possessed  his  mind,  "  in  bitter  agony  " 
— as  he  himself  has  said — "praying  that  his  reason  might  be 
spared,  so  near  it  was  to  toppling  over  into  the  sublime  mad- 
ness of  Pascal."  Their  deep-rooted  Catholicism  was  no  more 
a  bar  in  the  way  of  the  heroic  realism  of  the  first  of  these  two 
men,  than  of  the  passionate  reason  of  the  other,  who.  sure  of 
foot  and  not  deviating  by  one  step,  went  his  way  through  "the 
circles  of  elementary  nature,  the  great  night  of  the  infinitely 
little,  the  ultimate  abysses  of  creation,  in  which  life  is  born." 
It  was  among  the  people  of  the  provinces,  from  which  they 
sprang,  that  they  had  found  this  faith,  which  is  for  ever  brood- 
ing on  the  soil  of  France,  while  in  vain  do  windy  demagogues 


THE  HOUSE  331 

struggle  to  deny  it.  Olivier  knew  well  that  faith :  it  had  lived 
in  his  own  heart  and  mind. 

He  revealed  to  Christophe  the  magnificent  movement  towards 
a  Catholic  revival,  which  had  been  going  on  for  the  last  twenty- 
five  years,  the  mighty  effort  of  the  Christian  idea  in  France  to 
wed  reason,  liberty,  and  life:  the  splendid  priests  who  had  the 
courage,  as  one  of  their  number  said,  "  to  have  themselves 
baptized  as  men,"  and  were  claiming  for  Catholicism  the  right 
to  understand  everything  and  to  join  in  every  honest  idea : 
for  "  every  honest  idea,  even  when  it  is  mistaken,  is  sacred  and 
divine  " :  the  thousands  of  young  Catholics  banded  by  the  gen- 
erous vow  to  build  a  Christian  Republic,  free,  pure,  in  brother- 
hood, open  to  all  men  of  good-will :  and,  in  spite  of  the  odious 
attacks,  the  accusations  of  heresy,  the  treachery  on  all  sides,  right 
and  left, —  (especially  on  the  right), — which  these  great  Chris- 
tians had  to  suffer,  the  intrepid  little  legion  advancing  towards 
the  rugged  defile  which  leads  to  the  future,  serene  of  front, 
resigned  to  all  trials  and  tribulations,  knowing  that  no  enduring 
edifice  can  be  built,  except  it  be  welded  together  with  tears 
and  blood. 

The  same  breath  of  living  idealism  and  passionate  liberalism 
brought  new  life  to  the  other  religions  in  France.  The  vast 
slumbering  bodies  of  Protestantism  and  Judaism  were  thrilling 
with  new  life.  All  in  generous  emulation  had  set  themselves 
to  create  the  religion  of  a  free  humanity  which  should  sacrifice 
neither  its  power  for  reason,  nor  its  power  for  enthusiasm. 

This  religious  exaltation  was  not  the  privilege  of  the  religious: 
it  was  the  very  soul  of  the  revolutionary  movement.  There  it 
assumed  a  tragic  character.  Till  now  Christophe  had  only  seen 
the  lowest  form  of  socialism, — that  of  the  politicians  who 
dangled  in  front  of  the  eyes  of  their  famished  constituents  the 
coarse  and  childish  dreams  of  Happiness,  or,  to  he  frank,  of 
universal  Pleasure,  which  Science  in  the  hands  of  Power  could, 
according  to  them,  procure.  Against  such  revolting  optimism 
Christophe  saw  the  furious  mystic  reaction  of  the  elite  arise  to 
lead  the  Syndicates  of  the  working-classes  on  to  battle.  It 


332  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IX  PARIS 

was  a  summons  to  "war,  which  engenders  the  sublime,"  to  heroic 
war  "which  alone  can  give  the  dying  worlds  a  goal,  an  aim,  an 
ideal."  Those  great  Revolutionaries,  spitting  out  such 
"bourgeois,  peddling,  peaee-mongering,  English"  socialism, 
set  up  against  it  a  tragic  conception  of  the  universe,  "  whose 
law  is  antagonism,"  since  it  lives  by  sacrifice,  perpetual  sacrifice, 
eternally  renewed. —  If  there  was  reason  to  doubt  that  the  army, 
which  these  leaders  urged  on  to  the  assault  upon  the  old  world, 
could  understand  such  warlike  mysticism,  which  applied  both 
Kant  and  Nietzsche  to  violent  action,  nevertheless  it  was  a  stir- 
ring sight  to  see  the  revolutionary  aristocracy,  whose  blind  pes- 
simism, and  furious  desire  for  heroic  life,  and  exalted  faith  in 
war  and  sacrifice,  were  like  the  militant  religious  ideal  of  some 
Teutonic  Order  or  the  Japanese  Samurai. 

And  yet  they  were  all  Frenchmen :  they  were  of  a  French 
stock  whose  characteristics  have  endured  unchanged  for  cen- 
turies. Seeing  with  Olivier's  eyes  Christophe  marked  them  in 
the  tribunes  and  proconsuls  of  the  Convention,  in  certain  of  the 
thinkers  and  men  of  action  and  French  reformers  of  the  Ancien 
Regime.  Calvinists,  Jansenists,  Jacobins,  Syndicalists,  in  all 
there  was  the  same  spirit  of  pessimistic  idealism,  struggling 
against  nature,  without  illusions  and  without  loss  of  courage: — 
the  iron  bands  which  uphold  the  nation. 

Christophe  drank  in  the  breath  of  these  mystic  struggles,  and 
he  began  to  understand  the  greatness  of  that  fanaticism,  into 
which  France  brought  uncompromising  faith  and  honesty,  such 
as  were  absolutely  unknown  to  other  nations  more  familiar 
with  combination!.  Like  all  foreigners  it  had  pleased  him  at 
first  to  be  flippant  about  the  only  too  obvious  contradiction  be- 
tween the  despotic  temper  of  the  French  and  the  magic  formula 
which  their  Republic  wrote  up  on  the  walls  of  their  buildings. 
Xow  for  the  first  time  he  began  to  grasp  the  meaning  of  the 
bellicose  Liberty  which  they  adored  as  the  terrible  sword  of 
Reason.  Xo :  it  was  not  for  them,  as  he  had  thought,  mere 
sounding  rhetoric  and  vague  ideology.  Among  a  people  for 
whom  the  demands  of  reason  transcend  all  others  the  fight  for 


THE  HOUSE  333 

reason  dominated  every  other.  What  did  it  matter  whether 
the  fight  appeared  absurd  to  nations  who  called  themselves  prac- 
tical? To  eyes  that  see  deeply  it  is  no  less  vain  to  fight  for 
empire,  or  money,  or  the  conquest  of  the  world  :  in  a  million 
years  there  will  he  nothing  left  of  any  of  these  things.  But 
if  it  is  the  fierceness  of  the  light  that  gives  its  worth  to  life, 
and  uplifts  all  the  living  forces  to  the  point  of  sacrifice  to  a 
superior  Being,  then  there  are  few  struggles  that  do  more 
honor  life  than  the  eternal  hattle  waged  in  France  for  or  against 
reason.  And  for  those  who  have  tasted  the  bitter  savor  of  it 
the  much-vaunted  apathetic  tolerance  of  the  Anglo-Saxons  is 
dull  and  unmanly.  The  Anglo-Saxons  paid  for  it  by  finding 
elsewhere  an  outlet  for  their  energy.  Their  energy  is  not  in 
their  tolerance,  which  is  only  great,  when,  between  factions,  it 
becomes  heroism.  In  Europe  of  to-day  it  is  most  often  indiffer- 
ence, want  of  faith,  want  of  vitality.  The  English,  adapting  a 
saying  of  Voltaire,  are  fain  to  boast  that  "  diversity  of  belief 
has  produced  more  tolerance  in  England''  than. the  Revolution 
has  done  in  France. — The  reason  is  that  there  is  more  faith 
in  the  France  of  the  Revolution  than  in  all  the  creeds  of 
England. 

Erom  the  circle  of  brass  of  militant  idealism  and  the  battles 
of  Reason. — like  Virgil  leading  Dante,  Olivier  led  rhristophe  by 
the  hand  to  the  summit  of  the  mountain  where,  silent  and 
serene,  dwelt  the  small  band  of  the  elect  of  France  who  were 
really  free. 

Nowhere  in  the  world  are  there  men  more  free.  Tbev  have 
the  serenity  of  a  bird  soaring  in  the  still  air.  On  such  a  height' 
the  air  was  so  pure  and  rarefied  that  rhristophe  could  hardly 
breathe.  There  he  met  artists  who  claimed  the  absolute  and 
limitless  libcrtv  of  dreams. — men  of  unbridled  subjectivity,  like 
Flaubert,  despising  "the  poor  beasts  who  believe  in  the  reality 
of  things": — thinkers,  who,  with  supple  and  many-sided  minds, 
emulating  the  endless  flow  of  moving  thing*,  went  on  "  cease- 
lessly trickling  and  flowing,"  staying  nowhere,  nowhere  coming 


334  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

in  contact  with  stubborn  earth  or  rock,  and  "  depicted  not  the 
essence  of  life,  but  the  passage"  as  Montaigne  said,  "  the 
eternal  passage,  from  day  to  day,  from  minute  to  minute  " ; — 
men  of  science  who  knew  the  emptiness  and  void  of  the  uni- 
verse, wherein  man  has  builded  his  idea,  his  God,  his  art,  his 
science,  and  went  on  creating  the  world  and  its  laws,  that  vivid 
day's  dream.  They  did  not  demand  of  science  either  rest,  or 
happiness,  or  even  truth : — for  they  doubted  whether  it  were  at- 
tainable :  they  loved  it  for  itself,  because  it  was  beautiful,  be- 
cause it  alone  was  beautiful,  and  it  alone  was  real.  On  the  top- 
most pinnacles  of  thought  these  men  of  science,  passionately 
Pyrrhonistic,  indifferent  to  all  suffering,  all  deceit,  almost  in- 
different to  reality,  listened,  with  closed  eyes,  to  the  silent  music 
of  souls,  the  delicate  and  grand  harmony  of  numbers  and 
forms.  These  great  mathematicians,  these  free  philosophers, — 
the  most  rigorous  and  positive  minds  in  the  world, — had  reached 
the  uttermost  limit  of  mystic  ecstasy :  they  created  a  void  about 
themselves,  they  hung  over  the  abyss,  they  were  drunk  with  its 
dizzy  depths:  into  the  boundless  night  with  joy  sublime  they 
flashed  the  lightnings  of  thought. 

Christophe  leaned  forward  and  tried  to  look  over  as  they 
did:  and  his  head  swam.  He  who  thought  himself  free  because 
he  had  broken  away  from  all  laws  save  those  of  his  own 
conscience,  now  became  fearfully  conscious  of  how  little  he  was 
free  compared  with  these  Frenchmen  who  were  emancipated 
from  every  absolute  law  of  mind,  from  every  categorical  im- 
perative, from  every  reason  for  living.  Why,  then,  did  they 
live? 

"  For  the  joy  of  being  free,"  replied  Olivier. 

But  Christophe,  who  was  unsteadied  by  such  liberty,  thought 
regretfully  of  the  mighty  spirit  of  discipline  and  German 
authoritarianism  :  and  he  said  : 

"  Your  joy  is  a  snare,  the  dream  of  an  opium-smoker.  You 
make  yourselves  drunk  with  liberty,  and  forget  life.  Absolute 
liberty  means  madness  to  the  mind,  anarchy  to  the  State  .  .  . 
Liberty !  What  man  is  free  in  this  world  ?  What  man  in  your 


THE  HOUSE  335 

Republic  is  free? — Only  the  knaves.  You,  the  best  of  the  na- 
tion, are  stifled.  You  can  do  nothing  but  dream.  Soon  you 
will  not  be  able  even  to  dream." 

"No  matter!"  said  Olivier.  "My  poor  dear  Christophe, 
you  cannot  know  the  delight  of  being  free.  It  is  worth  while 
paying  for  it  with  so  much  danger,  and  suffering,  and  even 
death.  To  be  free,  to  feel  that  every  mind  about  you — yes, 
even  the  knave's — is  free,  is  a  delicious  pleasure  which  it  is  im- 
possible to  express :  it  is  as  though  your  soul  were  soaring 
through  the  infinite  air.  It  could  not  live  otherwise.  What 
should  I  do  with  the  security  you  offer  me,  and  your  order 
and  your  impeccable  discipline,  locked  up  in  the  four  walls  of 
your  Imperial  barracks?  I  should  die  of  suffocation.  Air! 
give  me  air,  more  and  more  of  it !  Liberty,  more  and  more  of 
that !  " 

"  There  must  be  law  in  the  world,"  replied  Christophe. 
"  Sooner  or  later  the  master  cometh." 

But  Olivier  laughed  and  reminded  Christophe  of  the  saying 
of  old  Pierre  de  1'Estoile : 

It  is  as  little  in  the  power  of  all  the 

dominions  of  the  earth  to  curb  the  French 

liberty  of  speech,  as 

to  bury  the  sun  in  the  earth 

or  to  shut  it  up 

inside  a 

hole. 

Gradually  Christophe  grew  accustomed  to  the  air  of  bound- 
less liberty.  From  the  lofty  heights  of  French  thought,  where 
those  minds  dream  that  are  all  light,  he  looked  down  upon  the 
slopes  of  the  mountain  at  his  feet,  where  the  heroic  elect, 
fighting  for  a  living  faith,  whatever  faith  it  be.  struggle 
eternally  to  reach  the  summit: — those  who  wage  the  holy  war 
against  ignorance,  disease,  and  poverty;  the  fever  of  invention, 
the  mental  delirium  of  the  modern  Prometheus  and  I  earns  con- 
quering the  light  and  marking  out  roads  in  the  air:  the 


33fi  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  TX  PARTS 

Titanic  struggle  between  Science  and  Xature,  being  tamed ; — 
lower  down,  the  little  silent  band,  the  men  and  women  of  good 
faith,  those  brave  and  humble  hearts,  who.  after  a  thousand 
efforts,  have  climbed  half-way,  and  can  climb  no  farther,  being 
held  bound  in  a  dull  and  diilicult  existence,  while  in  secret 
they  burn  away  in  obscure  devotion: — -lower  still,  at  the  foot 
of  the  mountain,  in  a  narrow  gorge  between  rocky  crags,  the 
endless  battle,  the  fanatics  of  abstract  ideas  and  blind  instincts, 
fiercely  wrestling,  with  never  a  suspicion  that  there  may  be 
something  beyond,  above  the  wall  of  rocks  which  hems  them  in: 
— still  lower,  swamps  and  brutish  beasts  wallowing  in  the  mire. 
— And  everywhere,  scattered  about  the  sides  of  the  mountain, 
the  fresh  flowers  of  art,  the  scented  strawberry-plants  of  music, 
the  song  of  the  streams  and  the  poet  birds. 
.  And  Christophe  asked  Olivier: 

"  Where  are  your  people  ?  I  see  only  the  elect,  all  sorts,  good 
and  bad." 

Olivier  replied: 

"The  people?  They  are  tending  their  gardens.  They  never 
bother  about  us.  Every  group  and  faction  among  the  elect 
strives  to  engage  their  attention.  They  pay  no  heed  to  any 
one.  There  was  a  time  when  it  amused  them  to  listen  to  the 
humbug  of  the  political  mountebanks.  P>ut  now  they  never 
worry  about  it.  There  are  several  millions  who  do  not  even 
make  use  of  their  rights  as  electors.  The  parties  may  break 
each  other's  heads  as  much  as  thev  like,  and  the  people  don't 
care  one  way  or  another  so  long  as  they  don't  trample  the  crops 
in  their  wrangling:  if  that  happens  then  they  lose  their  tempers, 
and  smash  the  parties  indiscriminately.  They  do  not  act:  they 
react  in  one  way  or  another  against  all  the  exaggerations  which 
disturb  their  work  and  their  rest.  Kings.  Kmpcrors.  republics, 
priests,  Freemasons,  Socialists,  whatever  their  leaders  may  be, 
all  that  they  ask  of  them  is  to  be  protected  against  the  great 
common  dangers:  war,  riots,  epidemics, — and.  for  the  rest,  to  be 
allowed  to  go  on  tending  their  gardens.  When  all  is  said  and 
done  they  think: 


THE  HOUSE  337 

won't  these  people  leave  us  in  peace?' 
"But  the  politicians  are  so  stupid  that  they  worry  the  peo- 
ple, and  won't  leave  oir  until  they  an;  pitched  out  with  a  fork. — 
as  will  happen  some  day  to  our  members  of  Parliament.  There 
was  a  time  when  the  people  were  embarked  upon  great  enter- 
prises. Perhaps  that  will  happen  again,  although  they  sowed 
their  wild  oats  long  ago:  in  any  ease  their  embarkations  are 
never  for  long:  very  soon  they  return  to  their  age-old  com- 
panion: the  earth.  It  is  the  soil  which  binds  the  French  to 
France,  much  more  than  the  French.  There  are  so  many  dif- 
ferent races  who  for  centuries  have  been  tilling  that  brave  soil 
side  by  side,  that  it  is  the  soil  which  unites  them,  the  soil  which 
is  their  love.  Through  good  times  and  bad  they  cultivate  it 
unceasingly:  and  it  is  all  good  to  them,  even  the  smallest  scrap 
of  ground." 

Christophe  looked  down.  As  far  as  he  could  see,  along  the 
road,  around  the  -swamps,  on  the  slopes  of  rocky  hills,  over  the 
battlefields  and  ruins  of  action,  over  the  mountains  and  plains 
of  France,  all  was  cultivated  and  richly  bearing :  it  was  the 
great  garden  of  European  civilization.  Its  incomparable  charm 
lay  no  less  in  the  good  fruitful  soil  than  in  the  blind  labors 
of  an  indefatigable  people,  who  for  centuries  have  never  ceased 
to  till  and  sow  and  make  the  land  ever  more  beautiful. 

A  strange  people!  They  are  always  called  inconstant:  but 
nothing  in  them  changes.  Olivier,  looking  backward,  saw  in 
Gothic  statuary  all  the  types  of  the  provinces  of  to-day:  and 
so  in  the  drawings  of  a  Clouet  and  a  Dumoustier.  the  weary 
ironical  faces  of  worldly  men  and  intellectuals:  or  in  the  work 
of  a  Lenain  the  clear  eyes  of  the  laborers  and  peasants  of  Ile-de- 
France  or  Picardy.  And  the  thoughts  of  the  men  of  old  days 
lived  in  the  minds  of  the  present  day.  The  mind  of  Pascal 
was  alive,  not  only  in  the  elect  of  reason  and  religion,  but  in 
the  brains  of  obscure  citi/ens  or  revolutionary  Syndicalists.  The 
art  of  C'orneille  and  Racine  was  living  for  the  people  even  more 
than  for  the  elect,  for  they  were  less  attainted  hv  foreign  in- 
ilueuces:  a  humble  clerk  in  Paris  would  feel  more  svmpathy 


338  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

with  a  tragedy  of  the  time  of  Louis  XIV  than  with  a  novel  of 
Tolstoi  or  a  drama  of  Ibsen.  The  chants  of  the  Middle  Ages, 
the  old  French  Tristan,  would  he  more  akin  to  the  modern 
French  than  the  Tristan  of  Wagner.  The  flowers  of  thought, 
which  since  the  twelfth  century  have  never  ceased  to  blossom  in 
French  soil,  however  different  they  may  be,  were  yet  kin  one  to 
another,  though  utterly  different  from  all  the  flowers  about 
them. 

Christophe  knew  too  little  of  France  to  be  able  to  grasp 
how  these  characteristics  had  endured.  What  struck  him  most 
of  all  in  all  the  wide  expanse  of  country  was  the  extremely 
small  divisions  of  the  earth.  As  Olivier  said,  every  man  had  his 
garden :  and  each  garden,  each  plot  of  land,  was  separated  from 
the  rest  by  walls,  and  quickset  hedges,  and  inclosures  of  all 
sorts.  At  most  there  were  only  a  few  woods  and  fields  in  com- 
mon, and  sometimes  the  dwellers  on  one  side  of  a  river  were 
forced  to  live  nearer  to  each  other  than  to  the  dwellers  on  the 
other.  Every  man  shut  himself  up  in  his  own  house :  and  it 
seemed  that  this  jealous  individualism,  instead  of  growing 
weaker  .after  centuries  of  neighborhood,  was  stronger  than  ever. 
Christophe  thought : 

"  How  lonely  they  all  are !  " 

In  that  sense  nothing  could  have  been  more  characteristic 
than  the  house  in  which  Christophe  and  Olivier  lodged.  It 
was  a  world  in  miniature,  a  little  France,  honest  and  in- 
dustrious, without  any  bond  which  could  imite  its  divers  ele- 
ments. A  five-storied  house,  a  shaky  house,  leaning  over  to 
one  side,  with  creaking  floors  and  crumbling  ceilings.  The 
rain  came  through  into  the  rooms  under  the  roof  in  which 
Christophe  and  Olivier  lived:  they  had  had  to  have  the  work- 
men in  to  botch  up  the  roof  as  best  they  could:  Christophe 
could  hear  them  working  and  talking  overhead.  There  was  one 
man  in  particular  who  amused  and  exasperated  him  :  he  never 
stopped  talking  to  himself,  and  laughing,  and  singing,  and 
babbling  nonsense,  and  whistling  inane  tunes,  and  holding  long 


THE  HOUSE  339 

conversations  with  himself  all  the  time  he  was  working:  he 
was  incapable  of  doing  anything  without  proclaiming  exactly 
what  it  was : 

"I'm  going  to  put  in  another  nail.  Where's  my  hammer? 
I'm  putting  in  a  nail,  two  nails.  One  more  blow  with  the 
hammer!  There,  old  lady,  that's  it.  ..." 

When  Christophe  was  playing  he  would  stop  for  a  moment 
and  listen,  and  then  go  on  whistling  louder  than  ever:  during 
a  stirring  passage  he  would  beat  time  with  his  hammer  on  the 
roof.  At  last  Christophe  was  so  exasperated  that  he  climbed 
on  a  chair,  and  poked  his  head  through  the  skylight  of  the 
attic  to  rate  the  man.  But  when  he  saw  him  sitting  astride 
the  roof,  with  his  jolly  face  and  his  cheek  stuffed  out  with 
nails,  he  burst  out  laughing,  and  the  man  joined  in.  And  not 
until  they  had  done  laughing  did  he  remember  why  he  had 
come  to  the  window  : 

"  By  the  way,"  he  said,  "  I  wanted  to  ask  you :  my  playing 
doesn't  interfere  with  your  work  ?  " 

The  man  said  it  did  not:  but  he  asked  Christophe  to  play 
something  faster,  because,  as  he  worked  in  time  to  the  music, 
slow  tunes  kept  him  back.  They  parted  very  good  friends.  In 
a  quarter  of  an  hour  they  had  exchanged  more  words  than  in 
six  months  Christophe  had  spoken  to  the  other  inhabitants  of 
the  house. 

There  were  two  flats  on  each  floor,  one  of  three  rooms,  the 
other  of  only  two.  There  were1  no  servants'  rooms:  each 
household  did  its  own  housework,  except  for  the  tenants  of 
the  ground  floor  and  the  first  floor,  who  occupied  the  two  flats 
thrown  into  one. 

On  the  fifth  floor  Christophe  and  Olivier's  next-door  neigh- 
bor was  the  Abbe  Corneille.  a  priest  of  some  forty  years  old.  a 
learned  man,  an  independent  thinker,  broad-minded,  formerly 
a  professor  of  exegesis  in  a  great  seminary,  who  had  recently 
been  censured  by  Kome  for  his  modernist  tendency,  lie  had 
accepted  the  censure  without  submitting  to  it,  in  silence:  he 
made  no  attempt  to  dispute  it  and  refused  every  opportunity 


340  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IX  PAINS 

offered  to  him  of  publishing  his  doctrine:  he  shrank  from  a 
noisy  publicity  and  would  rather  put  up  with  the  ruin  of  his 
ideas  than  figure  in  a  scandal.  Christophe  could  not  under- 
stand that  sort  of  revolt  in  resignation.  He  had  tried  to  talk 
to  the  priest,  who,  however,  was  coldly  polite  and  would  not 
speak  of  the  things  which  most  interested  him,  and  seemed  to 
prefer  as  a  matter  of  dignity  to  remain  buried  alive. 

On  the  floor  below  in  the  flat  corresponding  to  that  of  the 
two  friends  there  lived  a  family  of  the  name  of  Elio  Elsberger: 
an  engineer,  his  wife,  and  their  two  little  girls,  seven  and  ten 
years  old  :  superior  and  sympathetic  people  who  kept  themselves 
very  much  to  themselves,  chiefly  from  a  sort  of  false  shame  of 
their  straitened  means.  The  young  woman  who  kept  her  house 
most  pluckily  was  humiliated  by  it:  she  would  have  put  up 
with  twice  the  amount  of  worry  and  exhaustion  if  she  could  have 
prevented  anybody  knowing  their  condition:  and  that  too  was 
a  feeling  which  Christophc  could  not  understand.  They  be- 
longed to  a  Protestant  family  and  came  from  the  East  of 
France.  l>oth  man  and  wife,  a  few  years  before,  had  been 
bowled  over  by  the  storm  of  the  Dreyfus  affair:  both  of  them 
had  taken  the  affair  passionately  to  heart,  and,  like  thousands 
of  French  people,  they  had  suffered  from  the  frenzy  brought  on 
by  the  turbulent  wind  of  that  exalted  fit  of  hysteria  which 
lasted  for  seven  years.  They  had  sacrificed  everything  to  it, 
rest,  position,  relations:  they  had  broke]!  off  many  dear  friend- 
ships through  it:  thev  had  almost  ruined  their  health.  For 
months  at  a  time  they  did  not  sleep  nor  act,  but  went  on  bring- 
ing forward  the  same  arguments  over  and  over  again  with  the 
monotonous  insistence  of  the  insane:  they  screwed  each  other 
up  to  a  pitch  of  excitement:  in  spite  of  their  timidity  and  their 
dread  of  ridicule,  thev  had  taken  part  in  demonstrations  and 
spoken  at  meetings,  from  which  thev  returned  with  minds  be- 
wildered and  aching  hearts,  and  they  would  weep  together 
through  the  night.  In  the  struggle  they  had  expended  so  much 
enthusiasm  and  passion  that  when  at  last  victory  was  theirs 


THE  HOUSE  3-11 

they  had  not  enough  of  either  to  rejoice:  it  left  thorn  dry  of 
energy  and  broken  for  life.  Their  hopes  had  been  so  high,  their 
eagerness  for  sacrifice  had  been  so  pure,  that  triumph  when  it 
came  had  seemed  a  mockery  compared  with  what  they  had 
dreamed.  To  such  single-minded  creatures  for  whom  there 
could  exist  but  one  truth,  the  bargaining  of  politics,  the  com- 
promises of  their  heroes  had  been  a  bitter  disappointment.  They 
had  seen  their  comrades  in  arms,  men  whom  they  had  thought 
inspired  with  the  same  single  passion  for  justice. — once  the 
enemy  was  overcome,  swarming  about  the  loot,  catching  at 
power,  carrying  off  honois  and  positions,  and,  in  their  turn, 
trampling  justice  underfoot.  Only  a  mere  handful  of  men  held 
steadfast  to  their  faith,  and,  in  poverty  and  isolation,  rejected 
by  every  party,  rejecting  every  party,  they  remained  in  obscurity, 
cut  off  one  from  the  other,  a  prey  to  sorrow  and  neurasthenia, 
left  hopeless  and  disgusted  with  men  and  utterly  weary  of  life. 
The  engineer  and  his  wife  were  among  these  wretched  victims. 
They  made  no  noise  in  the  house:  they  were  morbidly  afraid 
of  disturbing  iheir  neighbors,  the  more  so  as  they  suffered  from 
their  neighbors'  noises,  and  they  were  too  proud  to  complain. 
Christophe  was  sorry  for  the  two  little  girls,  whose  outbursts  of 
merriment,  and  natural  need  of  shouting,  jumping  about  and 
laughing,  were  continually  being  suppressed.  He  adored  chil- 
dren, and  he  made  friendly  advances  to  his  little  neighbors  when 
he  met  them  on  the  stairs.  The  little  girls  were  shy  at  first,  but 
were  soon  on  good  terms  with  Christophe,  who  always  had  some 
funny  story  to  tell  them  or  sweetmeats  in  his  pockets:  they  told 
their  parents  about  him:  and,  though  at  iirst  they  had  been  in- 
clined to  look  askance  at  bis  advances,  they  wer"  won  over  by 
the  frank  open  manners  of  their  noisy  neighbor,  whose  piano- 
playing  and  terrific  disturbance  overhead  had  ofieii  made  them 
curse: — (for  Christophe  used  to  feel  stifled  in  his  room  and 
take  to  pacing  up  and  down  like  a  caged  hear). — They  did  not 
iind  it  easy  to  talk  to  him.  rhristophe's  rather  ho<>ri.-h  and 
abrupt  manners  sometimes  made  Klie  Klsbergcr  shudder.  But 
it  was  all  in  vain  for  the  engineer  to  try  to  keep  up  the  wall 


342  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

of  reserve,  behind  which  he  had  taken  shelter,  between  himself 
and  the  German:  it  was  impossible  to  resist  the  impetuous  good 
humor  of  the  man  whose  eyes  were  so  honest  and  affectionate 
and  so  free  from  any  ulterior  motive.  Every  now  and  then 
Christophe  managed  to  squeeze  a  little  confidence  out  of  his 
neighbor.  Elsberger  was  a  queer  man,  full  of  courage,  yet 
apathetic,  sorrowful,  and  yet  resigned.  He  had  energy  enough 
to  bear  a  life  of  difficulty  with  dignity,  but  not  enough  to  change 
it.  It  was  as  though  he  took  a  delight  in  justifying  his  own 
pessimism.  Just  at  that  time  he  had  been  offered  a  post  in 
Brazil  as  manager  of  an  undertaking:  but  he  had  refused  as 
he  was  afraid  of  the  climate  and  fearful  of  the  health  of  his 
wife  and  children. 

"  Well,  leave  them,"  said  Christophe.  "  Go  alone  and  make 
their  fortune." 

"  Leave  them  !  "  cried  the  engineer.  "  It's  easy  to  see  that 
you  have  no  children." 

"  I  assure  you  that,  if  I  had,  I  should  be  of  the  same 
opinion." 

"  Never !  Never !  .  .  .  Leave  the  country !  .  .  .  No. 
I  would  rather  suffer  here." 

To  Christophe  it  seemed  an  odd  way  of  loving  one's  country 
and  one's  wife  and  children  to  sit  clown  and  vegetate  with  them. 
Olivier  understood. 

"Just  think,"  he  said,  "of  the  risk  of  dying  out  there,  in  a 
strange  unknown  country,  far  away  from  those  you  love !  Any- 
thing is  better  than  the  horror  of  that.  Besides,  it  isn't  worth 
while  taking  so  much  trouble  for  the  few  remaining  years  of 
life!  .  .  ." 

"As  though  one  had  always  to  be  thinking  of  death!"  said 
Christophe  with  a  shrug.  "And  even  if  that  does  happen,  isn't 
it  better  to  die  lighting  for  the  happiness  of  those  one  loves  than 
to  nicker  out  in  apathy  ?  " 

On  the  same  landing  in  the  smaller  flat  on  the  fourth  floor 
lived  a  journeyman  electrician  named  Aubert. — If  he  lived  en- 


THE  HOUSE  343 

tirely  apart  from  the  other  inhabitants  of  the  house  it  was  not 
altogether  his  fault.  He  had  risen  from  the  lower  class  and 
had  a  passionate  desire  not  to  sink  back  into  it.  He  was  small 
and  weakly-looking;  he  had  a  harsh  face,  and  his  forehead 
bulged  over  his  eyes,  which  were  keen  and  sharp  and  bored  into 
you  like  a  gimlet:  he  had  a  fair  mustache,  a  satirical  mouth,  a 
sibilant  way  of  speaking,  a  husky  voice,  a  scarf  round  his  neck, 
and  he  had  always  something  the  matter  with  his  throat,  in 
which  irritation  was  set  up  by  his  perpetual  habit  of  smoking : 
he  was  always  feverishly  active  and  had  the  consumptive  tem- 
perament. He  was  a  mixture  of  conceit,  irony,  and  bitterness, 
cloaking  a  mind  that  was  enthusiastic,  bombastic,  and  naive, 
while  it  was  always  being  taken  in  by  life.  He  was  the  bastard 
of  some  burgess  whom  he  had  never  known,  and  was  brought  up 
by  a  mother  whom  it  was  impossible  to  respect,  so  that  in  his 
childhood  he  had  seen  much  that  was  sad  and  degrading.  He 
had  plied  all  sorts  of  trades  and  had  traveled  much  in  France. 
He  had  an  admirable  desire  for  education,  and  had  taught  him- 
self with  frightful  toil  and  labor:  he  read  everything:  history, 
philosophy,  decadent  poets :  he  was  itp-to-date  in  everything: 
theaters,  exhibitions,  concerts:  lie  had  a  touching  veneration  for 
art,  literature,  and  middle-class  ideas:  they  fascinated  him.  lie 
had  imbibed  the  vague  and  ardent  ideology  which  intoxicated  the 
middle-classes  in  the  first  days  of  the  Revolution.  He  had  a 
definite  belief  in  the  infallibility  of  reason,  in  boundless 
progress, — quo  'non  ascendam  ? — in  the  near  advent  of  happi- 
ness on  earth,  in  the  omnipotence  of  science,  in  Divine  Hu- 
manity, and  in  France,  the  eldest  daughter  of  Humanity.  He 
had  an  enthusiastic  and  credulous  sort  of  anti-clericalism  which 
made  him  lump  together  religion — especiallv  Catholicism — and 
obscurantism,  and  see  in  priests  the  natural  foe  of  light.  So- 
cialism, individualism,  Chauvinism  jostled  each  other  in  his 
brain.  He  was  a  humanitarian  in  mind,  despotic  in  tempera- 
ment, and  an  anarchist  in  fact.  He  was  proud  and  knew  the 
gaps  in  his  education,  and,  in  conversation,  he  was  very  cautious: 
he  turned  to  account  everything  that  was  said  in  his  presence, 


344  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IX  PA1.US 

but  he  would  never  ask  advice:  that  humiliated  him;  now. 
though  he  had  intelligence  and  cleverness,  these  tilings  could  not 
altogether  supply  the  defects  of  his  education.  He  had  taken  it 
into  his  head  to  write.  Like  so  many  men  in  France  who  have 
not  been  taught,  he  had  the  gift  of  style,  and  a  clear  vision: 
but  he  was  a  confused  thinker.  He  had  shown  a  few  pages  of 
his  productions  to  a  successful  journalist  in  whom  he  believed. 
and  the  man  made  fun  of  him.  He  was  profoundly  humiliated, 
and  from  that  time  on  never  told  a  soul  Avhat  he  was  doing. 
But  he  went  on  writing:  it  fed  his  need  of  expansion  and  gave 
him  pride  and  delight.  Tn  his  heart  he  was  immensely  pleased 
with  his  eloquent  passages  and  philosophic  ideas,  which  were  not 
worth  a  brass  farthing.  And  he  set  no  store  by  his  observation 
of  real  life,  which  was  excellent.  It  was  his  crank  to  fancy 
himself  as  a  philosopher,  and  he  wished  to  write  sociological 
plays  and  novels  of  ideas.  He  had  no  difficulty  in  solving  all 
sorts  of  insoluble  questions,  and  at  every  turn  he  discovered 
America.  When  in  due  course  he  found  that  America  was 
already  discovered,  he  was  disappointed,  humiliated,  and  rather 
bitter:  he  was  never  far'  from  scenting  injustice  and  intrigue. 
He  was  consumed  by  a  thirst  for  fame  and  a  burning  capacity 
for  devotion  which  suffered  from  finding  no  means  or  direction 
of  employment:  he  would  have  loved  to  be  a  great  man  of  letters. 
a  member  of  that  literary  elite,  who  in  his  eyes  were  adorned 
with  a  supernatural  prestige.  In  spite  of  his  longing  to  deceive 
himself  he  had  too  much  good  sense  and  was  too  ironical  not  to 
know  that  there  was  no  chance  of  its  coming  to  pass.  But  he 
would  at  least  have  liked  to  live  in  that  atmosphere  of  art  and 
middle-class  ideas  which  at  a  distance  seemed  to  him  so 
brilliant  and  pure  and  chastened  of  mediocrity.  This  innocent 
longing  had  the  unfortunate  result  of  making  the  society  of 
the  people  with  whom  bis  condition  in  life  forced  him  to  live 
intolerable  to  him.  And  as  the  middle-class  society  which  he 
wished  to  enter  closed  its  doors  to  him.  the  result  was  that  he 
never  saw  anvhodv.  And  so  Christophc  had  no  diilicultv  in 
making  his  acquaintance.  On  the  contrary  he  had  very  soon 


THE  HOUSE  345 

to  bolt  and  bar  against  him :  otherwise  Aubort  would  more  often 
have  been  in  Christophc's  rooms,  than  fhristophe  in  his.  Ho 
was  only  too  happy  to  find  an  artist  to  whom  he  could  talk  about 
music,  plays,  etc.  But.  as  one  would  imagine,  Christophe  did 
not  find  them  so  interesting:  he  would  rather  have  discussed  the 
people  with  a  man  who  was  of  the  people.  But  that  was  just 
what  Aubcrt  would  not  and  could  not  discuss. 

In  proportion  as  he  went  lower  in  the  house  relations  be- 
tween Christophe  and  the  other  tenants  became  naturally  more 
distant.  Besides,  some  secret  magic,  some  Open  Scxaim'.  would 
have  been  necessary  for  him  to  reach  the  inhabitants  of  the 
third  floor.—  In  the  one  Hat  there  lived  two  ladies  who  were  un- 
der the  self-hypnotism  of  grief  for  a  loss  that  was  already  some 
years  old:  Madame  Germain,  a  woman  of  thirty-five  who  had 
lost  her  husband  and  daughter,  and  lived  in  seclusion  with  her 
aged  and  devout  mother-in-law. — On  the  other  side  of  the  land- 
ing there  dwelt  a  mysterious  character  of  uncertain  age,  any- 
thing between  fifty  and  sixty,  with  a  little  girl  of  ten.  lit1  was 
bald,  with  a  handsome,  well-trimmed  heard,  a  soft  way  of  speak- 
ing, distinguished  manners,  and  aristocratic  hands.  He  wa« 
called  M.  Watelet.  He  was  said  to  he  an  anarchist,  a  revolu- 
tionary, a  foreigner,  from  what  country  was  not  known,  Russia 
or  Belgium.  As  a  matter  of  fact  he  was  a  Northern  French- 
man arid  was  hardly  at  all  revolutionary:  but  he  was  living  on 
his  past  reputation.  He  had  been  mixed  up  with  the  Com- 
mune of  '71  and  condemned  to  death:  lie  had  escaped,  how  lie 
did  not  know:  and  for  ten  years  lie  had  lived  for  a  short  time 
in  every  country  in  Europe.  He  had  seen  so  many  ill-deeds 
during  the  upheaval  in  Paris,  and  afterwards,  and  also  in  cvilf. 
and  also  since  his  return,  ill-deeds  done  hv  his  former  comrades 
now  that  they  were  in  power,  and  also  hv  men  in  every  rank  of 
the  revolutionary  parties,  that  he  had  broken  with  th-'in.  peace- 
fully keeping  bis  convictions  to  himself  useless  and  untarnished. 
He  read  much,  wrote  a  few  mildly  incendiary  hooks,  pulled — 
(so  it  was  said)— the  wires  of  anarchist  movements  in  distant 
places,  in  India  or  the  Far  Fast,  luisied  himself  with  the  uni- 


346  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IX  PARIS 

vcrsal  revolution,  and,  at  the  same  time,  with  researches  no 
less  universal  but  of  a  more  genial  aspect,  namely  with  a  uni- 
versal language,  a  new  method  of  popular  instruction  in  music. 
He  never  came  in  contact  with  anybody  in  the  house :  when  he 
met  any  of  its  inmates  he  did  no  more  than  bow  to  them  with 
exaggerated  politeness.  However,  lie  condescended  to  tell  Chris- 
tophe  a  little  about  his  musical  method.  Christophe  was  not 
the  least  interested  in  it :  the  symbols  of  his  ideas  mattered  very 
little  to  him :  in  any  language  he  would  have  managed  some- 
how to  express  them.  But  Watelet  was  not  to  be  put  off,  and 
went  on  explaining  his  system  gently  but  firmly :  Christophe 
could  not  find  out  anything  about  the  rest  of  his  life.  And  so 
he  gave  up  stopping  when  he  met  him  on  the  stairs  and  only 
looked  at  the  little  girl  who  was  always  with  him :  she  was 
fair,  pale,  anemic :  she  had  blue  eyes,  rather  a  sharp  profile, 
a  thin  little  figure — she  was  always  very  neatly  dressed — and  she 
looked  sickly  and  her  face  was  not  very  expressive.  Like 
everybody  else  he  thought  she  was  Watelcfs  daughter.  She 
was  an  orphan,  the  daughter  of  poor  parents,  whom  Watelet  had 
adopted  when  she  was  four  or  five,  after  the  death  of  her  father 
and  mother  in  an  epidemic.  He  had  an  almost  boundless  love 
for  the  poor,  especially  for  poor  children.  It  was  a  sort  of 
mystic  tenderness  with  him  as  with  Vincent  de  Paul.  lie  dis- 
trusted official  charity,  and  knew  exactly  what  philanthropic  in- 
stitutions were  worth,  and  therefore  he  set  about  doing  charity 
alone:  he  did  it  by  stealth,  and  took  a  secret  joy  in  it.  He  had 
learned  medicine  so  as  to  be  of  some  use  in  the  world.  One 
day  when  he  went  to  the  house  of  a  working-man  in  the  district 
and  found  sickness  there,  he  turned  to  and  nursed  the  invalids: 
he  had  some  medical  knowledge  and  turned  it  to  account.  He 
could  not  bear  to  see  a  child  suffer:  it  broke  his  heart.  But, 
on  the  other  hand,  what  a  joy  it  was  when  he  had  succeeded  in 
tearing  one  of  these  poor  little  creatures  from  the  clutches  of 
sickness,  and  the  first  pale  smile  appeared  on  the  little  pinched 
face!  Then  Watelefs  heart  would  melt.  Those  were  his  mo- 
ments of  Paradise.  Th«y  made  him  forget  the  trouble  he  often 


THE  HOUSE  347 

had  with  his  proteges :  for  they  very  rarely  showed  him  much 
gratitude.  And  the  housekeeper  was  furious  at  seeing  so  many 
people  with  dirty  boots  going  up  her  stairs,  and  she  would  com- 
plain bitterly.  And  the  proprietor  would  watch  uneasily  these 
meetings  of  anarchists,  and  make  remarks.  Watelet  would  con- 
template leaving  his  flat :  but  that  hurt  him :  he  had  his  little 
whimsies :  he  was  gentle  and  obstinate,  and  he  put  up  with  the 
proprietor's  observations. 

Christophe  won  his  confidence  up  to  a  certain  point  by  the 
love  he  showed  for  children.  That  was  their  common  bond. 
Christophe  never  met  the  little  girl  without  a  catch  at  his 
heart :  for,  though  he  did  not  know  why,  by  one  of  those  mys- 
terious similarities  in  outline,  which  the  instinct  perceives 
immediately  and  subconsciously,  the  child  reminded  him  of  Sa- 
bine's  little  girl.  Sabine,  his  first  love,  now  so  far  away,  the 
silent  grace  of  whose  fleeting  shadow  had  never  faded  from 
his  heart.  And  so  he  took  an  interest  in  the  pale-faced  little 
girl  whom  he  never  saw  romping,  or  running,  whose  voice  he 
hardly  ever  heard,  who  had  no  little  friend  of  her  own  age, 
who  was  always  alone,  mum.  quietly  amusing  herself  with  life- 
less toys,  a  doll  or  a  block  of  wood,  while  her  lips  moved  as  she 
whispered  some  story  to  herself.  She  was  affectionate  and  a 
little  offhanded  in  manner:  there  was  a  foreign  and  uneasy 
quality  in  her,  but  her  adopted  father  never  saw  it :  he  loved  her 
too  much.  Alas !  Does  not  that  foreign  and  uneasy  quality 
exist  even  in  the  children  of  our  own  flesh  and  blood?  .  .  .— 
Christophe  tried  to  make  the  solitary  little  girl  friends  with  the 
engineer's  children.  But  with  both  Elsberger  and  Watelet  he 
met  with  a  polite  but  categorical  refusal.  These  people  seemed 
to  make  it  a  point  of  honor  to  bury  themselves  alive,  each  in  his 
own  mausoleum.  If  it  came  to  a  point  each  would  have  been 
ready  to  help  the  other:  but  each  was  afraid  of  it  being  thought 
that  he  himself  was  in  need  of  help:  and  as  they  were  both 
equally  proud  and  vain, — and  the  means  of  both  were  equally 
precarious, — there  was  no  hope  of  either  of  them  being  the  first 
to  hold  out  his  hand  to  the  other. 


3-18  JEAN-CHEISTOPHE  IX  PARIS 

The  larger  flat  on  the  second  floor  was  almost  always  empty. 
The  proprietor  of  the  hon.se  reserved  it  for  his  own  use:  and 
he  was  never  there,  lie  was  a  retired  merchant  who  had  closed 
down  his  business  as  soon  as  he  had  made  a  certain  fortune, 
the  figure  of  which  lie  had  fixed  for  himself,  lie  spent  the 
greater  part  of  the  year  in  some  ho  Lei  on  the  Riviera,  and  the 
summer  at  some  watering-place  in  Normandy,  living  as  a  gentle- 
man with  private  means  who  enjoys  the  illusion  of  luxury 
cheaply  by  watching  the  luxury  of  others,  and,  like  them,  lead- 
ing a  useless  existence. 

The  smaller  flat  was  let  to  a  childless  couple:  M.  and  Madame 
Arnaud.  The  husband,  a  man  of  between  forty  and  forty-live, 
was  a  master  at  a  school,  lie  was  so  overworked  with  lectures, 
and  correcting  exercises,  and  giving  classes,  that  he  had  never 
been  able  to  find  time  to  write  his  thesis:  and  at  last  he  had 
given  it  up  altogether.  The  wife  was  ten  years  younger,  pretty, 
and  very  shy.  They  were  both  intelligent,  well  read,  in  love 
with  each  other:  they  knew  nobody,  and  never  went  out.  The 
husband  had  no  time  for  it.  The  wife  had  too  much  time: 
but  she  was  a  brave  little  creature,  who  fought  down  her  fits  of 
depression  when  they  came  over  her,  and  hid  them,  by  occupying 
herself  as  best  she  could,  trying  to  learn,  taking  notes  for  her 
husband,  copying  out  her  husband's  notes,  mending  he:1  hus- 
band's clothes,  making  frocks  and  hats  for  herself.  She  would 
have  liked  to  go  to  the  theater  from  time  to  time:  but  Arnaud 
did  not  eare  about  it:  he  was  too  tired  in  the  evening.  And  she 
resigned  herself  to  it. 

Their  great  jov  was  music.  They  both  adored  it.  lie  could 
not  play,  and  she  dared  not  although  she  could:  when  she  played 
before  anybody,  even  before  her  husband,  it  was  like  a  child 
strumming.  However,  that  was  good  enough  for  them:  and 
Gluck.  Mo/art,  Beethoven,  whom  they  stammered  out,  were  as 
friends  to  them:  they  knew  their  lives  in  detail,  and  their  suf- 
ferings filled  them  with  love  and  pity.  Books,  too,  beautiful, 
fine  books,  which  they  read  together,  gave  them  happiness.  But 


THE  HOUSE  340 

there  are  few  such  books  in  the  literature  of  to-day:  authors  do 
not  worry  about  tho.se  people  who  can  bring  them  neither  repu- 
tation,   nor    pleasure,    nor    money,    such    humble    readers    who 
are  never  seen  in   society,   and   do   not   write   in    any   journal, 
and  can  only  love  and  say  nothing.     The  silent  light  of  art, 
which  in  their  upright  and  religious  hearts  assumed  almost  a 
supernatural  character,  and  their  mutual  affection,  were  enough 
to  make  them  live  in  peace,  happy  enough,  though  a  little  sad— 
(there  is  no  gainsaying  that), — very  lonely,  a  little  bruised  in 
spirit.     They  were  both  much  superior  to  their  position  in  life. 
M.  Arnaud  was  full  of  ideas :  but  he  had  neither  the  time  nor 
enough  courage  left  to  write  them  down.     It  meant  such  a  lot  of 
trouble  to  get  articles  and  books  published  :   it   was  not  worth 
it:  futile  vanity!     Anything  he  could  do  was  so  small  in  com- 
parison  with   the  thinkers  he  loved!     He  had  too  true  a   love 
for  the  great  works  of  art  to  want  to  produce  art  himself:   it 
would    have    seemed    to    him     pretentious,     impertinent,     and 
ridiculous.      It  seemed   to  be  his   lot   to  spread  their   intluenc.e. 
He  gave  his   pupils   the  benefit  of  his   ideas:   they   would   turn 
them    into   books   later   on, — without   mentioning    his    name    of 
course. — Nobody    spent    more    money    than    he    in    subscribing 
to   various   publications.     The   poor   are   always   the   most    gen- 
erous: they  do  buy  their  books:  the  rich  would  take  it  as  a  slur 
upon  themselves  if  they  did  not  somehow  manage  to  get   them 
for  nothing.     Arnaud   ruined   himself  in  buving  books:  ii   was 
his  weakness— his  vice.      lie  was  ashamed  of  it.  and  concealed  it 
from  his  wife.      But  she  did   not  blame  him    for  it:  she  would 
have  spent  just  as   much. — And   with   it  all    they  were  always 
making   line,    plans    for  saving,   with   a   view   to  going   to    Italy 
some  day— though,  as   thev   knew  quite  well,   they   iic\er   would 
go:   and    they    wen1   the    first    to    laugh    at    their    incapacity    for 
keeping  money.      Arnaud  would  console  himself.      11  is  d.-ar  wife 
was   enough    for   him,   and    his    life    of    work    and    inward    joys. 
Was  it  not  also  enough   for  her:'- — She  said   it  was.      She  dared 
not  say  bow  dear  it  would  have  been  to  her  if  her  husband  could 
have  some  reputation,   which  would   in  some  sort   be  reflected 


350  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

upon  herself,  and  brighten  her  life,  and  give  her  ease  and 
comfort :  inward  joys  are  beautiful :  but  a  little  ray  of  light 
from  without  shining  in  from  time  to  time  is  sweet,  and  does  so 
much  good !  .  .  .  But  she  never  said  anything,  because  she 
was  timid :  and  besides,  she  knew  that  even  if  he  wished  to 
make  a  reputation  it  was  by  no  means  certain  that  he  would  suc- 
ceed :  it  was  too  late !  .  .  .  Their  greatest  sorrow  was  that 
they  had  no  children.  Each  hid  that  sorrow  from  the  other : 
and  they  were  only  the  more  tender  with  each  other:  it  was  as 
though  the  poor  creatures  were  striving  to  win  one  another's 
forgiveness.  Madame  Arnaud  was  kind  and  affectionate:  she 
would  gladly  have  been  friends  with  Madame  Elsberger.  But 
she  dared  not :  she  was  never  approached.  As  for  Christophe, 
husband  and  wife  would  have  asked  nothing  better  than  to 
know  him :  they  were  fascinated  by  the  music  that  they  could 
hear  faintly  when  he  was  playing.  But  nothing  in  the  world 
could  have  induced  them  to  make  the  first  move:  they  would 
have  thought  it  indiscreet. 

The  whole  of  the  first  floor  was  occupied  by  M.  and  Madame 
Felix  Weil.  They  were  rich  Jews,  and  had  no  children,  and 
they  spent  six  months  of  the  year  in  the  country  near  Paris. 
Although  they  had  lived  in  the  house  for  twenty  years — (they 
stayed  there  as  a  matter  of  habit,  although  they  could  easily 
have  found  a  flat  more  in  keeping  with  their  fortune) — they 
were  always  like  passing  strangers.  They  had  never  spoken 
a  word  to  any  of  their  neighbors,  and  no  one  knew  any  more 
about  them  than  on  the  day  of  their  arrival.  But  that  was  no 
reason  why  the  other  tenants  should  not  pass  judgment  on 
them:  on  the  contrary.  They  were  not  liked.  And  no  doubt 
they  did  nothing  to  win  popularity.  And  yet  they  were1  worthy 
of  more  acquaintance:  they  were  both  excellent  people  and  re- 
markably intelligent.  The  husband,  a  man  of  sixty,  was  an  As- 
sy riologist,  well  known  through  his  famous  excavations  in  Cen- 
tral Asia:  like  most  of  his  race  lie  was  open-minded  and  curi- 
ous, and  did  not  confine  himself  to  his  special  studies :  he  was 


THE  HOUSE  351 

interested  in  an  infinite  number  of  tilings:  the  art?,  social 
questions,  every  manifestation  of  contemporary  thought.  But 
these  were  not  enough  to  occupy  his  mind:  for  they  all  amused 
him,  and  none  of  them  roused  passionate  interest.  He  was 
very  intelligent,  too  intelligent,  too  much  emancipated  from 
all  ties,  always  ready  to  destroy  with  one  hand  what  he  had 
constructed  with  the  other:  for  he  was  constructive,  always 
producing  hooks  and  theories:  he  was  a  great  worker:  a?  a 
matter  of  habit  and  spiritual  health  he  was  always  patiently 
plowing  his  deep  furrow  in  the  field  of  knowledge,  without  hav- 
ing any  belief  in  the  utility  of  what  he  was  doing.  He  had 
always  had  the  misfortune  to  he  rich,  so  that  he  had  never  had 
the  interest  of  the  struggle  for  life.  and.  since  his  explorations 
in  the  East,  of  which  he  had  grown  tired  after  a  few  years, 
he  had  not  accepted  any  official  position.  Outside  his  own  per- 
sonal work,  however,  he  busied  himself  with  clairvoyance,  con- 
temporary problems,  social  reforms  of  a  practical  and  pressing 
nature,  the  reorganization  of  public  education  in  France:  he 
flung  out  ideas  and  created  lines  of  thought  :  he  would  set  great 
intellectual  machines  working,  and  would  immediately  grow  dis- 
gusted with  them.  More  than  once  he  had  scandalized  people. 
who  had  been  converted  to  a  cause  by  bis  arguments,  bv  pro- 
ducing the  most  incisive  and  discouraging  criticisms  of  the 
cause  itself.  He  did  not  do  it  deliberately:  it  was  a  natural 
necessity  for  him  :  he  was  very  nervous  and  ironical  in  temper, 
and  found  it  hard  to  bear  with  the  foibles  of  things  and  people 
which  he  saw  with  the  most  disconcerting  clarity.  And.  as 
there  is  no  good  cause,  nor  any  good  man.  who.  seen  at  a  certain 
angle  or  with  a  certain  distortion,  does  not  present  a  ridiculous 
aspect,  there  was  nothing  that,  with  his  ironic  disposition,  lie 
could  go  on  respecting  for  long.  All  this  was  not  ealculated  to 
make  him  friends.  And  yet  he  was  always  we!l-di<Most>d 
towards  people,  and  inclined  to  do  good:  he  did  much  -ood  : 
but  no  one  was  ever  grateful  to  him  :  even  those  whom  he  had 
helped  could  not  in  their  hearts  forgive  him.  because  they 
had  seen  that  they  were  ridiculous  in  his  eves.  It  was  necessary 


352  JEAN-CHRISTOrilE  IN  PARIS 

for  him  not  to  see  too  much  of  men  if  he  were  to  love  them. 
Xot  that  lie  was  a  misanthrope.  He  was  not  sure  enough  of 
himself  to  be  that.  Face  to  face  with  the  world  at  which  he 
mocked,  he  was  timid  and  bashful:  at  heart  he  was  not  at  all  sure 
that  the  world  was  not  right  and  himself  wrong:  he  endeavored 
not  to  appear  too  different  from  other  people,  and  strove  to  base 
his  manners  and  apparent  opinions  on  theirs.  But  he  strove  in 
vain :  he  could  not  help  judging  them :  he  was  keenly  sensible 
of  any  sort  of  exaggeration  and  anything  that  was  not  simple: 
and  he  could  never  conceal  his  irritation.  He  was  especially 
sensible  of  the  foibles  of  the  Jews,  because  he  knew  them  best : 
and  as,  in  spite  of  his  intellectual  freedom,  which  did  not  ad- 
mit of  barriers  between  races,  he  was  often  brought  up  sharp 
against  those  barriers  which  men  of  other  races  raised  against 
him, — as,  in  spite  of  himself,  he  was  out  of  his  element  among 
Christian  ideas,  he  retired  with  dignity  into  his  ironic  labors 
and  the  profound  affection  he  had  for  his  wife. 

Worst  of  all,  his  wife  was  not  secure  against  his  irony.  She 
was  a  kindly,  busy  woman,  anxious  to  be  useful,  and  always 
taken  up  with  various  charitable  works.  Her  nature  was  much 
less  complex  than  that  of  her  husband,  and  she  was  cramped 
by  her  moral  benevolence  and  the  rather  rigidly  intellectual, 
though  lofty,  idea  of  duty  that  she  had  begotten.  Her  whole 
life,  which  was  sad  enough,  without  children,  with  no  great  joy 
nor  great  love,  was  based  on  this  moral  belief  of  hers,  which 
was  more  than  anything  else  the  will  to  believe.  Her  hus- 
band's irony  had.  of  course,  sei/ed  on  the  element  of  voluntary 
self-deception  in  her  faith,  and — (it  was  too  strong  for  him)  — 
he  had  made  much  fun  at  her  expense.  He  was  a  mass  of  con- 
tradictions, lie  had  a  feeling  for  duty  no  less  lofty  than  his 
wife's,  and,  at  the  same  time1,  a  merciless  desire  to  analyxe.  to 
criticize,  and  to  avoid  deception,  which  made  him  dismember 
and  take  to  pieces  his  moral  imperative.  He  could  not  sec 
that  he  was  digging  away  the  ground  from  under  his  wife's 
feet:  he  used  cruelly  to  discourage  her.  When  he  realized  that 
he  had  done  so^  he  sulfered  even  more  than  she :  but  the  harm 


THE  HOUSE  353 

was  done.  It  did  not  keep  them  from  loving  each  other  faith- 
fully, and  working  and  doing  good.  But  the  cold  dignity  of  the 
wife  was  not  more  kindly  judged  than  the  irony  of  the  hus- 
band :  and  as  they  were  too  proud  to  publish  abroad  the  good 
they  did,  or  their  desire  to  do  good,  their  reserve  was  regarded  as 
indifference,  and  their  isolation  as  sellishness.  And  the  more 
conscious  they  became  of  the  opinion  that  was  held  of  them,  the 
more  careful  were  they  to  do  nothing  to  dispute  it.  Reacting 
against  the  coarse  indiscretion  of  so  many  of  their  race  they 
were  the  victims  of  an  excessive  reserve  which  covered  a  vast 
deal  of  pride. 

As  for  the  ground  floor,  which  was  a  few  steps  higher  than 
the  little  garden,  it  was  occupied  by  Commandant  Chabran,  a 
retired  officer  of  the  Colonial  Artillery:  he  was  still  young,  a 
man  of  great  vigor,  who  had  fought  brilliantly  in  the  Soudan 
and  Madagascar:  then  suddenly,  he  bad  thrown  the  whole 
thing  up,  and  buried  himself  there:  he  did  not  even  want  to 
hear  the  army  mentioned,  and  spent  his  time  in  digging  his 
flower-beds,  and  practising  the  flute  without  making  any 
progress,  and  growling  about  politics,  and  scolding  his  daughter, 
whom  he  adored:  she  was  a  young  woman  of  thirty,  not  very 
pretty,  but  quite  charming,  who  devoted  herself  to  him,  and 
had  not  married  so  as  not  to  leave  him.  Christophe  used  often 
to  see  them  leaning  out  of  the  window:  and,  naturally,  he  paid 
more  attention  to  the  daughter  than  the  father.  She  used  to 
spend  part  of  the  afternoon  in  the  garden,  sewing,  dreaming, 
digging,  always  in  high  good  humor  with  her  grumbling  old 
father.  Christophe  could  hear  her  soft  clear  voice  laughingly 
replying  to  the  growling  tones  of  the  Commandant,  whose  foot- 
steps ground  and  scrunched  on  the  gravel-paths:  then  he  would 
go  in,  and  she  would  stay  sitting  on  a  seat  in  the  garden,  and 
sew  for  hours  together,  never  stirring,  never  speaking,  smiling 
vaguely,  while  inside  the  house  the  bored  old  soldier  played 
flourishes  on  his  shrill  flute,  or,  by  way  of  a  change,  made  a 
broken-winded  old  harmonium  squeal  and  groan,  mmh  to  Chris- 


354  JEAX-CI1R1STOPHE  IN  PARIS 

tophe's  amusement— or  exasperation — (which,  depended  on  the 
day  and  his  mood). 

All  these  people  went  on  living  side  by  side  in  that  house 
with  its  walled-in  garden  sheltered  from  all  the  buffets  of  the 
world,  hermetically  sealed  even  against  each  other.  Only  Chris- 
tophe,  with  his  need  of  expansion  and  his  great  fullness  of  life. 
unknown  to  them,  wrapped  them  about  with  his  vast  sympathy, 
blind,  yet  all-seeing,  lie  could  not  understand  them,  lie  had 
no  means  of  understanding  them,  lie  lacked  Oliviers  psy- 
chological insight"  and  quickness.  P>ut  he  loved  them.  In- 
stinctively he  put  himself  in  their  place.  Slowly,  mysteriously, 
there  crept  through  him  a  dim  consciousness  of  these  lives  so 
near  him  and  yet  so  far  removed,  'the  stupefying  sorrow  of  the 
mourning  woman,  the  stoic  silence  of  all  their  proud  thoughts, 
the  priest,  the  Jew,  the  engineer,  the  revolutionary:  the  pale 
and  gentle  flame  of  tenderness  and  faith  which  burned  in 
silence  in  the  hearts  of  the  two  Arnands:  the  naive  aspirations 
towards  the  light  of  the  man  of  the  people:  the1  suppressed  re- 
volt and  fertile  activity  which  were  stilled  in  the  bosom  of  the 
old  soldier:  and  the  calm  resignation  of  the  girl  dreaming  in 
the  shade  of  the  lilac.  But  only  riiristophe  could  perceive  and 
hear  the  silent  music  of  their  soids:  thov  heard  it  not:  they 
were  all  absorbed  in  their  sorrow  and  their  dreams. 

They  all  worked  hard,  the  skeptical  old  scientist,  the  pessi- 
mistic engineer,  the  priest,  the  anarchist,  and  all  these  proud 
or  dispirited  creatures.  And  on  the  roof  the  mason  sang. 

Jn  the  district  round  the  house1  among 
Christophe    found    the    same    moral 
people  were  banded  together. 

Olivier   bad    brought    him    in   touch    with 
which   he   wrote.      It    was   called    E.^npe.   and 
motto  this  quotation  from  Montaigne: 

"  *'Efi(ip  irn*  put  up  for  *at<>  irUli  lim  oilier  xlarcs.  The  pur- 
chaser 'inquired  of  tin1  ///•*/  ichai  lie  could  do:  and  he,  to  put 


THE  HOUSE  355 

a  price  upon  himself,  described  all  sorts  of  marvels;  the  sec- 
ond said  as  much  for  himself,  or  more.  When  it  came  to  J~Ksop's 
turn,  and  he  was  axkcd  what  he.  could  do: — Nothing,  he  said,  for 
these  two  have  ial-en  everything:  ilicy  can  do  everything." 

Their  attitude  was  that  of  pure'  reaction  against  "the  im- 
pudence,'' as  ^Montaigne  says,  "'of  those  \vlio  profess  knowledge 
and  their  overweening  presumption!"  The  self-styled  skeptics 
of  the  Esope  review  were  at  heart  men  of  the  firmest  faith. 
But  their  mask  of  irony  and  haughty  ignorance,  naturally 
enough,  had  small  attraction  for  the  public:  rather  it  repelled. 
The  people  are  only  with  a  writer  when  he  brings  them  words 
of  simple,  clear,  vigorous,  and  assured  life.  They  prefer  a 
sturdy  lie  to  an  anemic  truth.  Skepticism  is  only  to  their  liking 
when  it  is  the  covering  of  lusty  naturalism  or  Christian  idolatry. 
The  scornful  Pyrrhonism  in  which  the  Esope  clothed  itself  could, 
only  be  acceptable  to  a  few  minds — ''acme  sdcgnofic," — who 
knew  the  solid  worth  beneath  it.  It  was  force  absolutely  lost 
upon  action  and  life. 

Then1  was  no  help  for  it.  The  more  democratic  France  be- 
came, the  more  aristocratic  did  her  ideas,  her  art.  her  science 
seem  to  grow.  Science  securely  lodged  behind  its  special  lan- 
guages, in  the  depths  of  its  sanctuary,  wrapped  about  with  a 
triple  veil,  which  only  the  initiate  had  the  power  to  draw,  was 
less  accessible  than  at  the  time  of  ButVon  and  the  Kncyclo- 
pedists.  Art, — that  art  at  least  which  had  some  respect  for 
itself  and  the  worship  of  beauty.— was  no  less  henuet  it-all y 
sealed:  it  despised  the  people.  Kven  among  writers  who  cared 
less  for  beauty  than  for  action,  among  those  who  gave  moral 
ideas  precedence  over  esthetic  ideas,  there  was  often  a  strange 
dominance!  of  the  aristocratic  spirit.  They  seemed  to  be  more 
intent  upon  preserving  the  purity  of  their  inward  ilauie  than 
to  communicate  its  warmth  to  others.  It  was  as  though  they 
desired  not  to  make  their  ideas  prevail  but  only  to  atlirm 
them. 

And  yet  among  these  writers  there  were  some  who  applied 
themselves  to  popular  art.  Among  the  most  sincere  some  hurled 


356  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PAEIS 

into  their  writings  destructive  anarchical  ideas,  truths  of  the 
distant  future,  which  might  be  beneficent  in  a  century  or  so,  but, 
for  the  time  being,  corroded  and  scorched  the  soul ;  others  wrote 
bitter  or  ironical  plays,  robbed  of  all  illusion,  sad  to  the  last  de- 
gree. Christophe  was  left  in  a  state  of  collapse,  ham-strung, 
for  a  day  or  two  after  he  read  them. 

"And  you  give  that  sort  of  thing  to  the  people?''  he  would 
ask,  feeling  sorry  for  the  poor  audiences  who  had  come  to  forget 
their  troubles  for  a  few  hours,  only  to  be  presented  with  these 
lugubrious  entertainments.  "  It's  enough  to  make  them  all  go 
and  drown  themselves !  " 

"  You  may  be  quite  easy  on  that  score,"  said  Olivier,  laughing. 
"  The  people  don't  go." 

"  And  a  jolly  good  thing  too !  You're  mad.  Are  you  trying 
to  rob  them  of  every  scrap  of  courage  to  live  ?  " 

"Why?  Isn't  it  right  to  teach  them  to  see  the  sadness  of 
things,  as  we  do,  and  yet  to  go  on  and  do  their  duty  without 
flinching  ?  " 

"Without  flinching?  I  doubt  that.  But  it's  very  certain 
that  they'll  do  it  without  pleasure.  And  you  don't  go  very  far 
when  you've  destroyed  a  man's  pleasure  in  living." 

"What  else  can  one  do?  One  has  no  right  to  falsify  the 
truth." 

"  Nor  have  you  any  right  to  tell  the  whole  truth  to  every- 
body." 

"You  say  that?  You  who  are  always  shouting  the  truth 
aloud,  you  who  pretend  to  love  truth  more  than  anything  in 
the  world !  " 

"Yes:  truth  for  myself  and  those  whose  backs  are  strong 
enough  to  bear  it.  But  it  is  cruel  and  stupid  to  tell  it  to  the 
rest.  Yes.  I  see  that  now.  At  home  that  would  never  have 
occurred  to  me:  in  Germany  people  are  not  so  morbid  about 
the  truth  as  they  are  here:  they're  too  much  taken  up  with  liv- 
ing: very  wisely  they  see  only  what  they  wish  to  see.  1  love  you 
for  not  being  like  that:  you  are  honest  and  go  straight  ahead. 
But  you  are  inhuman.  When  you  think  you  have  unearthed 


THE  HOUSE  35? 

a  truth,  you  let  it  loose  upon  the  world,  without  stopping  to 
think  whether,  like  the  foxes  in  the  Bible  with  their  burning 
tails,  it  will  not  set  fire  to  the  world.     I   think  it  is  fine  of  you 
to  prefer  truth  to  your  happiness.     But  when  it  conies  to  the 
happiness  of  other  people.    .    .    .      Then  I   say,  'Stop!'     You 
are  taking  too   much  upon  yourselves.     Thou  shalt  love  truth 
more  than  thyself,  but  thy  neighbor  more  than  truth." 
"Is  one  to  lie  to  one's  neighbor?" 
Christophe  replied,  with  the  words  of  (Joethe: 
"  We  should  only  express  those  of  the  highest  truths  which 
will  be  to  the  good  of  the  world.     The  rest  we  must  keep  to  our- 
selves:  like  the  soft  rays  of  a  hidden  sun,  they  will  shed  their 
light  upon  all  our  actions." 

But  they  were  not  moved  by  these  scruples.  They  never 
stopped  to  think  whether  the  bow  in  their  hands  shot  "  ideas 
or  deatli,"  or  both  together.  They  were  too  intellectual.  They 
lacked  love.  When  a  Frenchman  has  ideas  he  tries  to  impose 
them  on  others.  He  tries  to  do  the  same  thing  when  he  has 
none.  And  when  he  sees  that  he  cannot  do  it  lie  loses  interest  in 
other  people,  he  loses  interest  in  action.  That  was  the  chief 
reason  why  this  particular  group  took  so  little  interest  in  politics, 
save  to  moan  and  groan.  Each  of  them  was  shut  up  in  his 
faith,  or  want  of  faith. 

Many  attempts  had  been  made  to  break  down  their  in- 
dividualism and  to  form  groups  of  these  men :  but  the  majority 
of  these  groups  had  immediately  resolved  themselves  into  liter- 
ary clubs,  or  split  tip  into  absurd  factions.  The  best  of  them 
were  mutually  destructive.  There  were  among  them  some  first- 
rate  men  of  force  and  faith,  men  well  fitted  to  rally  and  guide 
those  of  weaker  will.  But  each  man  had  his  following,  and 
would  not  consent  to  merging  it  with  that  of  other  men.  So 
they  were  split  up  into  a  number  of  reviews,  unions,  associations, 
which  had  all  the  moral  virtues,  save  one:  self-denial:  for  not 
one  of  them  would  give  way  to  the  others:  and,  while  they 
wrangled  over  the  crumbs  that  fell  from  an  honest  and  well- 
meaning  public,  small  in  numbers  and  poor  in  purse,  they 


358  JBAN-CHRISTOPHB  IN  PAETS 

vegetated  for  a  short  time,  starved  and  languished,  and  at  last 
collapsed  never  to  rise  again,  not  under  the  assault  of  the  enemy, 
but — (most  pitiful!)- — under  the  weight  of  their  own  quarrels. 
— The  various  professions, — men  of  letters,  dramatic  authors, 
poets,  prose  writers,  professors,  members  of  the  Institute,  jour- 
nalists— were  divided  up  into  a  number  of  little  castes,  which 
they  themselves  split  up  again  into  smaller  castes,  each  one  of 
which  closed  its  doors  against  the  rest.  There  was  no  sort  of 
mutual  interchange.  There  was  no  unanimity  on  any  subject 
in  France,  except  at  those  very  rare  moments  when  unanimity 
assumed  an  epidemic  character,  and,  as  a  rule,  was  in  the  wrong: 
for  it  was  morbid.  A  crazy  individualism  predominated  in 
every  kind  of  French  activity :  in  scientific  research  as  well  as  in 
commerce,  in  which  it  prevented  business  men  from  combining 
and  organizing  working  agreements.  This  individualism  was 
not  that  of  a  rich  and  bustling  vitality,  but  tliat  of  obstinacy 
and  self-repression.  To  be  alone,  to  owe  nothing  to  others,  not 
to  mix  with  others  for  fear  of  feeling  their  inferiority  in  their 
company,  not  to  disturb  the  tranquillity  of  their  haughty  isola- 
tion :  these  were  the  secret  thoughts  of  almost  all  these  men  who 
founded  "  outside  "  reviews,  "  outside  "  theaters,  "  outside  " 
groups:  reviews,  theaters,  groups,  all  most  often  had  no  other 
reason  for  existing  than  the  desire  not  to  be  with  the  general 
herd,  and  an  incapacity  for  joining  with  other  people  in  a  com- 
mon idea  or  course  of  action,  distrust  of  other  people,  or.  at 
the  very  worst,  party  hostility,  setting  one  against  the  other 
the  very  men  who  were  most  fitted  to  understand  each  other. 

Even  when  men  who  thought  highly  of  each  other  were 
united  in  some  common  task,  like  Olivier  and  his  colleagues 
on  the  Esope  review,  they  always  seemed  to  be  on  their  guard 
with  each  other:  they  had  nothing  of  that  open-handed  geni- 
ality so  common  in  Germany,  where  it  is  apt  to  become  a 
nuisance.  Among  these  young  men  there  was  one  especially 
who  attracted  Christophe  because  he  divined  him  to  be  a  man  of 
exceptional  force:  he  was  a  writer  of  inflexible  logic  and  will, 
with  a  passion  for  moral  ideas,  in  the  service  of  which  he  was 


THE  HOUSE  359 

absolutely  uncompromising  and  ready  in  their  cause  to  sacrifice 
the  whole  world  and  himself:  he  had  founded  and  conducted 
almost  unaided  a  review  in  which  to  uphold  them :  he  had  sworn 
to  impose  on  Europe  and  on  France  the  idea  of  a  pure,  heroic, 
and  free  France:  he  firmly  believed  that  the  world  would  one 
day  recognize  that  he  was  responsible  for  one  of  the  boldest 
pages  in  the  history  of  French  thought : — and  he  was  not  mis- 
taken. Christophe  would  have  been  only  too  glad  to  know  him 
better  and  to  be  his  friend.  But  there  was  no  way  of  bringing  it 
about.  Although  Olivier  had  a  good  deal  to  do  with  him 
they  saw  very  little  of  each  other  except  on  business :  they  never 
discussed  any  intimate  matter,  and  never  got  any  farther  than 
the  exchange  of  a  few  abstract  ideas:  or  rather — (for,  to  be 
exact,  there  was  no  exchange,  and  each  adhered  to  his  own 
ideas) — they  soliloquized  in  each  other's  company  in  turn.  How- 
ever, they  were  comrades  in  arms  and  knew  their  worth. 

There  were  innumerable  reasons  for  this  reservedness,  reasons 
difficult  to  discern,  even  for  their  own  eyes.  The  first  reason 
was  a  too  great  critical  faculty,  which  saw  too  clearly  the  un- 
alterable differences  between  one  mind  and  another,  backed  by 
an  excessive  intellectualism  which  attached  too  much  importance 
to  those  differences:  they  lacked  that  puissant  and  naive  sym- 
pathy whose  vital  need  is  of  love,  the  need  of  giving  out  its 
overflowing  love.  Then.  too.  perhaps  overwork,  the  struggle 
for  existence,  the  fever  of  thought,  which  so  taxes  strength 
that  by  the  evening  there  is  none  left  for  friendly  intercourse, 
had  a  great  deal  to  do  with  it.  And  there  was  that  terrible 
feeling,  which  every  Frenchman  is  afraid  to  admit,  though  too 
often  it  is  stirring  in  his  heart,  the  feeling  of  not  Icing  of  one 
race,  the  feeling  that  the  nation  consists  of  different  races 
established  at  different  epochs  on  the  soil  of  France,  who, 
though  all  bound  together,  have  few  ideas  in  common,  and 
therefore  ought  not,  in  the  common  interest,  to  ponder  them 
too  much.  But  above  all  the  reason  was  to  seek  in  the  in- 
toxicating and  dangerous  passion  for  liberty,  to  which,  when  a 
man  has  once  tasted  it,  there  is  nothing  that  he  will  not 


360  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PAEIS 

sacrifice.  Such  solitary  freedom  is  all  the  more  precious  for 
having  been  bought  by  years  of  tribulation.  The  select  few 
have  taken  refuge  in  it  to  escape  the  slavishness  of  the  mediocre. 
It  is  a  reaction  against  the  tyranny  of  the  political  and  religious 
masses,  the  terrific  crushing  weight  which  overbears  the  in- 
dividual in  France :  the  family,  public  opinion,  the  State,  secret 
societies,  parties,  coteries,  schools.  Imagine  a  prisoner  who,  to 
escape,  has  to  scale  twenty  great  walls  hemming  him  in.  If 
he  manages  to  clear  them  all  without  breaking  his  neck,  and, 
above  all,  without  losing  heart,  he  must  be  strong  indeed.  A 
rough  schooling  for  free-will !  But  those  who  have  gone 
through  it  bear  the  marks  of  it  all  their  life  in  the  mania  for 
independence,  and  the  impossibility  of  their  ever  living  in  the 
lives  of  others. 

Side  by  side  with  this  loneliness  of  pride,  there  was  the 
loneliness  of  renunciation.  There  were  many,  many  good  men 
in  France  whose  goodness  and  pride  and  affection  came  to 
nothing  in  withdrawal  from  life !  A  thousand  reasons,  good 
and  bad,  stood  in  the  way  of  action  for  them.  With  some  it 
was  obedience,  timidity,  force  of  habit.  With  others  human 
respect,  fear  of  ridicule,  fear  of  being  conspicuous,  of  being  a 
mark  for  the  comments  of  the  gallery,  of  meddling  with  things 
that  did  not  concern  them,  of  having  their  disinterested  actions 
attributed  to  motives  of  interest.  There  were  men  who  would 
not  take  part  in  any  political  or  social  struggle,  women  who 
declined  to  undertake  any  philanthropic  work,  because  there 
were  too  many  people  engaged  in  these  things  who  lacked  con- 
science and  even  common  sense,  and  because  they  were  afraid  of 
the  taint  of  these  charlatans  and  fools.  In  almost  all  such 
people  there  are  disgust,  weariness,  dread  of  action,  suffering, 
ugliness,  stupidity,  risks,  responsibilities:  the  terrible  "What's 
the  use?"  which  destroys  the  good-will  of  so  many  of  the 
French  of  to-day.  They  are  too  intelligent, —  (their  intelligence 
has  no  wide  sweep  of  the  wings), — they  are  too  intent  upon 
reasons  for  and  against.  They  lack  force.  They  lack  vitality. 
When  a  man's  life  beats  strongly  he  never  wonders  why  lie  goes 


THE  HOUSE  361 

on  living:  he  lives  for  the  sake  of  living, — because  it  is  a 
splendid  thing  to  be  alive ! 

In  fine,  the  best  of  them  were  a  mixture  of  sympathetic  and 
average  qualities :  a  modicum  of  philosophy,  moderate  desires, 
fond  attachment  to  the  family,  the  earth,  moral  custom :  dis- 
cretion, dread  of  intruding,  of  being  a  nuisance  to  other  peo- 
ple: modesty  of  feeling,  unbending  reserve.  All  these  amiable 
and  charming  qualities  could,  in  certain  cases,  be  brought  into 
line  with  serenity,  courage,  and  inward  joy :  but  at  bottom  there 
was  a  certain  connection  between  them  and  poverty  in  the 
blood,  the  progressive  ebb  of  French  vitality. 

The  pretty  garden,  beneath  the  house  in  which  Christophe 
and  Olivier  lived,  tucked  away  between  the  four  walls,  was  sym- 
bolical of  that  part  of  the  life  of  France.  It  was  a  little  patch 
of  green  earth  shut  off  from  the  outer  world.  Only  now  and 
then  did  the  mighty  wind  of  the  outer  air,  whirling  down, 
bring  to  the  girl  dreaming  there  the  breath  of  the  distant  fields 
and  the  vast  earth. 

ISTow  that  Christophe  was  beginning  to  perceive  the  hidden 
resources  of  France  he  was  furious  that  she  should  suffer  the 
oppression  of  the  rabble.  The  half-light,  in  which  the,  select 
and  silent  few  were  huddled  away,  stifled  him.  Stoicism  is  a 
fine  thing  for  those  whose,  teeth  are  gone.  But  he  needed  the 
open  air,  the  great  public,  the  sunshine  of  glory,  the  love  of 
thousands  of  men  and  women :  he  needed  to  hold  close  to  him 
those  whom  he  loved,  to  pulverize  his  enemies,  to  figbt  and  to 
conquer. 

"  You  can,"  said  Olivier.  "  You  arc  strong.  You  were  born 
to  conquer  through  your  faults — (forgive  me!) — as  well  as 
through  your  qualities.  You  are  lucky  enough  not  to  belong 
to  a  race  and  a  nation  which  are  too  aristocratic.  Action  does 
not  repel  you.  If  need  be  you  could  even  become  a  politician. 
—Besides,  you  have  the  inestimable  good  fortune  to  write  music. 
Nobody  understands  you,  and  so  you  can  say  anything  and 
everything.  If  people  had  any  idea  of  the  contempt  for  them- 


362  JEAX-CHRISTOPHE  IX  PAEIS 

selves  which  you  put  into  your  music,  and  your  faith  in  what 
they  deny,  and  your  perpetual  hymn  in  praise  of  what  they 
are  always  trying  to  kill,  they  would  never  forgive  you,  and 
you  would  be  so  fettered,  and  persecuted,  arid  harassed,  that  you 
would  waste  most  of  your  strength  in  fighting  them  :  when  you 
had  beaten  them  back  you  would  have  no  breath  left  for  going 
on  with  your  work:  your  life  would  be  finished.  The  great  men 
who  triumph  have  the  good  luck  to  be  misunderstood.  They 
are  admired  for  the  very  opposite  of  what  they  are." 

"  Pooh !  "  said  Christophe.  "  You  don't  understand  how. 
cowardly  your  masters  are.  At  first  I  thought  you  were  alone, 
and  I  used  to  find  excuses  for  your  inaction.  But,  as  a  matter 
of  fact,  there's  a  whole  army  of  you  all  of  the  same  mind. 
You  are  a  hundred  times  stronger  than  your  oppressors,  you  are 
a  thousand  times  more  worthy,  and  you  let  them  impose  on  you 
with  their  effrontery!  I  don't  understand  you.  You  live  in  a 
most  beautiful  country,  you  are  gifted  with  the  finest  intelligence 
and  the  most  human  quality  of  mind,  and  with  it  all  you  do 
nothing:  you  allow  yourselves  to  be  overborne  and  outraged  and 
trampled  underfoot  by  a  parcel  of  fools.  Good  Lord!  Be  your- 
selves! Don't  wait  for  Heaven  or  a  Xapoleon  to  conic  to  your 
aid!  Arise,  band  yourselves  together!  Get  to  work,  all  of  you! 
Sweep  out  your  house !  " 

But  Olivier  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  said,  wearily  and 
ironically: 

"Grapple  with  them?  Xo.  That  is  not  our  game:  we 
have  better  things  to  do.  Violence  disgusts  me.  1  know  only 
too  well  what  would  happen.  All  the  old  embittered  failure-, 
the  young  Royalist  idiots,  the  odious  apostles  of  brutality  and 
hatred,  would  seize  on  anything  F  did  and  bring  it  to  dis- 
honor. Do  you  want  me  to  adopt  the  old  device  of  hate:  Fuori 
Barbari,  or:  France  for  ilic  Frvn<:li?" 

"Why  not?"  asked  Christophe. 

"  Xo.  Such  a  device  is  not  -for  the  French.  Any  attempt 
to  propagate  it  among  our  people  under  cover  of  patriotism 
must  fail.  It  is  good  enough  for  barbarian  countries !  But 


THE  HOUSE  363 

cur  country  has  no  use  for  hatred.  Our  genius  never  yet  as- 
serted itself  by  denying  or  destroying  the  genius  of  other  coun- 
tries, but  by  absorbing  them.  Let  the  troublous  North  and 
the  loquacious  South  come  to  us.  ..." 

"And  the  poisonous  East?" 

"And  the  poisonous  East :  we  "will  absorb  it  with  the  rest: 
we  have  absorbed  many  others!  I  just  laugh  at  the  air  of  tri- 
umph they  assume,  and  the  pusillanimity  of  some  of  my  fellow- 
countrymen.  They  think  they  have  conquered  us,  they  strut 
about  our  boulevards,  and  in  our  newspapers  and  reviews,  and 
in  our  theaters  and  in  the  political  arena.  Idiots!  It  is  they 
who  are  conquered!  They  will  be  assimilated  after  having  fed 
us.  Gaul  has  a  strong  stomach :  in  these  twenty  centuries  she 
has  digested  more  than  one  civilization.  We  are  proof  against 
poison.  ...  It  is  meet  that  you  Germans  should  be  afraid! 
You  must  be  pure  or  impure.  But  with  us  it  is  not  a  matter 
of  purity  but  of  universality.  You  have  an  Emperor:  Great 
Britain  calls  herself  an  Empire:  but,  in  fact,  it  is  our  Latin 
Genius  that  is  Imperial.  We  are  the  citizens  of  the  City  of 
the  Universe.  Urlis,  Orbis." 

"  That  is  all  very  well,"  said  Christophe,  "  as  long  as  the 
nation  is  healthy  and  in  the  flower  of  its  manhood.  But  there 
will  come  a  day  when  its  energy  declines:  and  then  their  is  a 
danger  of  its  being  submerged  by  the  influx  of  foreigners.  Be- 
tween ourselves,  does  it  not  seem  as  though  that  day  had  ar- 
rived ?  " 

"  People  have  been  saying  that  for  ages.  Again  and  again 
our  history  has  given  the  lie  to  such  fears.  We  have  passed 
through  many  different  trials  since  the  (lavs  of  the  Maid  of 
Orleans,  when  Paris  was  deserted,  and  bands  of  wolves  prowled 
through  the  streets.  Neither  in  the  prevalent  immorality, 
nor  the  pursuit  of  pleasure,  nor  the  laxncss.  nor  the  anarchy  of 
the  present  day,  do  I  see  anv  cause  for  fear.  Patience!  Those 
\vho  wish  to  live  must  endure  in  patience.  T  am  sure  that  pres- 
ently there  will  be  a  moral  reaction, — which  will  not  he  much, 
better,  and  will  probably  lead  to  an  equal  degree  of  folly;  those 


361  JEAN-CHEISTOPHB  IN  PAEIS 

who  are  now  living  on  the  corruptness  of  puhlic  life  will  not 
be  the  least  clamorous  in  the  reaction!  .  .  .  But  what  does 
that  matter  to  us?  All  these  movements  do  not  touch  the  real 
people  of  France.  Eotten  fruit  does  not  corrupt  the  tree.  It 
falls.  Besides,  all  these  people  are  such  a  small  part  of  the 
nation!  What  does  it  matter  to  us  whether  they  live  or  die? 
Why  should  I  bother  to  organize  leagues  and  revolutions  against 
them?  The  existing  evil  is  not  the  work  of  any  form  of  gov- 
ernment. It  is  the  leprosy  of  luxury,  a  contagion  spread  by 
the  parasites  of  intellectual  and  material  wealth.  Such  para- 
sites will  perish." 

"  After  they  have  sapped  your  vitality." 

"  It  is  impossible  to  despair  of  such  a  race.  There  is  in  it 
such  hidden  virtue,  such  a  power  of  light  and  practical  ideal- 
ism, that  they  creep  into  the  veins  even  of  those  who  are  ex- 
ploiting and  ruining  the  nation.  Even  the  grasping,  self-seek- 
ing politicians  succumb  to  its  fascination.  Even  the  most 
mediocre  of  men  when  they  are  in  power  are  gripped  by  the 
greatness  of  its  Destiny :  it  lifts  them  out  of  themselves :  the 
torch  is  passed  on  from  hand  to  hand  among  them :  one  after 
another  they  resume  the  holy  war  against  darkness.  They  are 
drawn  onward  by  the  genius  of  the  people :  willy-nilly  they  fulfil 
the  law  of  the-  God  whom  they  deny,  Gesta  Dei  per  Francos. 
...  0  my  beloved  country,  I  will  never  lose  my  faith  in 
thee !  And  though  in  thy  trials  thou  didst  perish,  yet  would  I 
find  in  that  only  a  reason  the  more  for  my  proud  belief,  even 
to  the  bitter  end,  in  our  mission  in  the  world.  I  will  not  have 
my  beloved  France  fearfully  shutting  herself  up  in  a  sick- 
room, and  closing  every  inlet  to  the  outer  air.  I  have  no  mind 
to  prolong  a  sickly  existence.  When  a  nation  has  been  so 
great  as  we  have  been,  then  it  were  far  better  to  die  rather 
than  to  sink  from  greatness.  Therefore  let  the  ideas  of  the 
world  rush  into  the  channels  of  our  minds !  I  am  not  afraid. 
The  flood  will  go  down  of  its  own  accord  after  it  has  enriched 
the  soil  of  France  with  its  ooze." 

"  My  poor  dear  fellow,"  said   Christophe,   "  but   it's  a  grim 


THE  HOUSE  365 

prospect  in  the  meanwhile.  Where  will  you  be  when  your 
France  emerges  from  the  Xile?  Don't  you  think  it  would  be 
better  to  fight  against  it?  You  wouldn't  risk  anything  except 
defeat,  and  you  seem  inclined  to  impose  that  on  yourself  as  long 
as  you  like." 

"  I  should  be  risking  much  more  than  defeat,"  said  Olivier. 
"  I  should  be  running  the  risk  of  losing  my  peace  of  mind,  which 
I  prize  far  more  than  victory.  I  will  not  be  a  party  to  hatred. 
I  will  be  just  to  all  my  enemies.  In  the  midst  of  passion  I 
wish  to  preserve  the  clarity  of  my  vision,  to  understand  and 
love  everything." 

But  Christophe,  to  whom  this  love  of  life,  detached  from 
life,  seemed  to  be  very  little  different  from  resignation  and  ac- 
ceptance of  death,  felt  in  his  heart,  as  in  Empedocles  of  old, 
the  stirring  of  a  hymn  to  Hatred  and  to  Love,  the  brother  of 
Hate,  fruitful  Love,  tilling  and  sowing  good  seed  in  the  earth. 
He  did  not  share  Olivier's  calm  fatalism:  he  had  no  such  con- 
fidence in  the  continuance  of  a  race  which  did  not  defend  it- 
self, and  his  desire  was  to  appeal  to  all  the  healthy  forces  of 
the  nation,  to  call  forth  and  band  together  all  the  honest  men 
in  the  whole  of  France. 

Just  as  it  is  possible  to  learn  more  of  a  human  being  in  one 
minute  of  love  than  in  months  of  observation,  so  Christophe  had 
learned  more  about  France  in  a  week  of  intimacy  with  Olivier, 
hardly  ever  leaving  the  house,  than  during  a  whole  year  of  blind 
wandering  through  Paris,  and  standing  at  attention  at  various 
intellectual  and  political  gatherings.  Amid  the  universal  anar- 
chy in  which  he  had  been  floundering,  a  soul  like  that  of 
his  friend  seemed  to  him  veritably  to  be  the  "lie,  dc  France  "- 
the  island  of  reason  and  serenity  in  the  midst  of  the  ocean.  The 
inward  peace  which  was  in  Olivier  was  all  the  more  striking,  in- 
asmuch as  it  had  no  intellectual  support, — as  it  existed  amid 
unhappy  circumstances, —  (in  poverty  and  solitude,  while  the 
country  of  its  birth  was  decadent),-;— and  as  its  body  was  weak, 


3GG  JEAN-CHKISTOPHB  IX  PA1MS 

sickly,  and  nerve- ridden.  That  serenity  was,  apparently  not  the 
fruit  of  any  effort  of  will  striving  to  realize  it, —  (Olivier  had 
little  will)  ; — it  came  from  the  depths  of  his  being  and  his 
race.  In  many  of  the  men  of  Olivier's  acquaintance  Chris- 
tophe  perceived  the  distant  light  of  that  (rnxfrwrvr,, — "the 
silent  calm  of  the  motionless  sea"; — and  he,  who  knew,  none 
better,  the  stormy,  troublous  depths  of  his  own  soul,  and  how 
he  had  to  stretch  his  will-power  to  the  utmost  to  maintain  the 
balance  in  his  lusty  nature,  marveled  at  its  veiled  harmony. 

What  he  had  seen  of  the  inner  France  had  upset  all  his  pre- 
conceived ideas  ahout  'the  character  of  the  French.  Instead  of 
a  gay,  sociable,  careless,  brilliant  people,  he.  saw  men  of  a  head- 
strong and  close  temper,  living  in  isolation,  wrapped  about  with 
a  seeming  optimism,  like  a  gleaming  mist,  while  they  were  in 
fact  steeped  in  a  deep-rooted  and  serene  pessimism,  possessed 
by  fixed  ideas,  intellectual  passions,  indomitable  souls,  which  it 
would  have  been  easier  to  destroy  than  to  alter.  No  doubt  these 
men  were  only  the  select  few  among  the  French  :  but  Chris- 
tophe  wondered  where  they  could  have  come  by  their  stoicism 
and  their  faith.  Olivier  told  him : 

"In  defeat.  It  is  you,  my  dear  Christophe,  who  have  forged 
us  anew.  Ah  !  But  we  suffered  for  it,  too.  You  can  have  no 
idea  of  the  darkness  in  which  \vc  grew  up  in  a  France  humiliated 
and  sore,  which  had  come  face  to  face  with  death,  and  still  felt 
the  heavy  weight  of  the  murderous  menace  of  force.  Our  life, 
our  genius,  our  French  civilization,  the  greatness  of  a  thou- 
sand years, — we  were  conscious  that  France  was  in  the  hands 
of  a  brutal  conqueror  who  did  not  understand  her.  and  hated 
her  in  his  heart,  and  at  any  moment  might  crush  the  life  out 
of  her  for  ever.  And  we  had  to  Jive  for  that  and  no  other 
destiny!  Have  you  ever  thought  of  the  French  children  born 
in  houses  of  death  in  the  shadow  of  defeat,  fed  with  ideas  of 
discouragement,  trained  to  strike  for  a  bloody,  fatal,  and  per- 
haps futile  revenge:  for  even  as  babies,  the  first  thing  they 
learned  was  that  there  was  no  justice,  there  was  no  justice  in  the 
world:  might  prevailed  against  right!  For  a  child  to  open  its 


THE  HOUSE  3G7 

eyes  upon  such  things  is  for  its  soul  to  bo  degraded  or  uplifted 
for  ever.  Many  succumbed:  they  said:  'Since  it  is  so,  why 
struggle  against  it?  Why  do  anything?  Everything  is  nothing. 
We'll  not  think  of  it.  Let  us  enjoy  ourselves.' — But  those  who 
stood  out  against  it  are  proof  against  fire:  no  disillusion  car. 
touch  their  faith:  for  from  their  earliest  childhood  they  have 
known  that  their  road  could  never  lead  them  near  the  road  to 
happiness,  and  that  they  had  no  choice  but  to  follow  it :  else 
they  would  suffocate.  Such  assurance  is  not  come  by  all  at 
once.  It  is  not  to  be  expected  of  boys  of  fifteen.  There  is 
bitter  agony  before  it  is  attained,  and  many  tears  are  shed.  But 
it  is  well  that  it  should  be  so.  It  must  be  so.  ... 

"  0  Faith,  virgin  of  steel   .    .    . 

"  Dig  deep  with  thy  lance  into  the  downtrodden  hearts  of  the 
peoples!  ..." 

In  silence  Christophe  pressed  Olivier's  hand. 

"  Dear  Christophe/'  said  Olivier,  "  your  Germany  has  made 
us  suffer  indeed." 

And  Christophe  begged  for  forgiveness  almost  as  though  he 
had  been  responsible  for  it. 

"  There's  nothing  for  you  to  worry  about,"  said  Olivier,  smil- 
ing. "  The  good  it  has  unintentionally  done  us  far  outweighs 
the  ill.  You  have  rekindled  our  idealism,  you  have  revived  in 
us  the  keen  desire  for  knowledge  and  faith,  you  have  tilled  our 
France  with  schools,  you  have  raised  to  the  highest  pitch  the 
creative  powers  of  a  Pasteur,  whose  discoveries  arc  alone  worth 
more  than  your  indemnity  of  two  hundred  million:  you  have 
given  new  life  to  our  poetry,  our  painting,  our  music:  to  you 
we  owe  the  new  awakening  of  the  consciousness  of  our  race. 
We  have  reward  enough  for  the  effort  needed  to  learn  to  set  our 
faith  before  our  happiness:  for,  in  doing  so,  we  have  come 
by  a  feeling  of  such  moral  force,  that,  amid  the  apathy  of  the 
world,  we  have  no  doubt,  even  of  victory  in  the  end.  Though 
we  are  few  in  number,  my  dear  Christophe.  though  we  seem 
so  weak, — a  drop  of  water  in  the  ocean  of  German  power — we 
believe  that  the  drop  of  water  will  in  the  end  color  the  whole 


3G8  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

ocean.  The  Macedonian  phalanx  will  destroy  the  mighty  armies 
of  the  plehs  of  Europe." 

Christophe  looked  down  at  the  puny  Olivier,  in  whose  eyes 
there  shone  the  light  of  faith,  and  he  said : 

"Poor  weakly  little  Frenchmen!  You  are  stronger  than  we 
are." 

"  0  beneficent  defeat,"  Olivier  went  on.  "  Blessed  be  that 
disaster !  We  will  no  more  deny  it !  We  are  its  children." 


II 

DEFEAT  new-forges  the  chosen  among  men:  it  sorts  out  the 
people :  it  winnows  out  those  who  are  purest  and  strongest,  and 
makes  them  purer  and  stronger.  But  it  hastens  the  downfall 
of  the  rest,  or  cuts  short  their  flight.  In  that  way  it  separates 
the  mass  of  the  people,  who  slumber  or  fall  by  the  way,  from  the 
chosen  few  who  go  marching  on.  The  chosen  few  know  it  and 
suffer:  even  in  the  most  valiant  there  is  a  secret  melancholy,  a 
feeling  of  their  own  impotence  and  isolation.  Worst  of  all, — 
cut  off  from  the  great  mass  of  their  people,  they  are  also  cut 
off  from  each  other.  Each  must  fight  for  his  own  hand.  The 
strong  among  them  think  only  of  self-preservation.  0  man, 
lielp  thyself!  .  .  .  They  never  dream  that  the  sturdy  saying 
means:  0  men,  lielp  yourselves!  In  all  there  is  a  want  of  con- 
fidence, they  lack  free-flowing  sympathy,  and  do  not  feel  the 
need  of  common  action  which  makes  a  race  victorious,  the  feel- 
ing of  overflowing  strength,  of  reaching  upward  to  the  zenith. 

Christophe  and  Olivier  knew  something  of  all  this.  In  Paris, 
full  of  men  and  women  who  could  have  understood  them,  in 
the  house  peopled  with  unknown  friends,  they  were  as  solitary  as 
in  a  desert  of  Asia. 

They  were  very  poor.  Their  resources  were  almost  nil. 
Christophe  had  only  the  copying  and  transcriptions  of  music 
given  him  by  Hecht.  Olivier  had  very  unwisely  thrown  up  his 


THE  HOUSE  369 

post  at  the  University  during  the  period  of  depression  follow- 
ing on  his  sister's  death,  which  had  been  accentuated  by  an 
unhappy  love  affair  with  a  young  lady  he  had  met  at  Madame 
Nathan's: — (he  had  never  mentioned  it  to  Christophe,  for  he 
was  modest  about  his  troubles:  part  of  his  charm  lay  in  the 
little  air  of  mystery  which  he  always  preserved  about  his  pri- 
vate affairs,  even  with  his  friend,  from  whom,  however,  he  made 
no  attempt  to  conceal  anything). — In  his  depressed  condition 
when  he  had  longed  for  silence  his  work  as  a  lecturer  became  in- 
tolerable to  him.  He  had  never  cared  for  the  profession,  which 
necessitates  a  certain  amount  of  showing  off,  and  thinking  aloud, 
while  it  gives  a  man  no  time  to  himself.  If  teaching  in  a 
school  is  to  be  at  all  a  noble  thing  it  must  be  a  matter  of  a  sort 
of  apostolic  vocation,  and  that  Olivier  did  not  possess  in  the 
slightest  degree :  and  lecturing  for  any  of  the  Faculties  means 
being  perpetually  in  contact  with  the  public,  which  is  a  grim 
fate  for  a  man,  like  Olivier,  with  a  desire  for  solitude.  On 
several  occasions  he  had  had  to  speak  in  public :  it  gave  him  a 
singular  feeling  of  humiliation.  At  first  he  loathed  being  ex- 
hibited on  a  platform.  He  saw  the  audience,  felt  it,  as  with 
antennas,  and  knew  that  for  the  most  part  it  was  composed  of 
idle  people  who  were  there  only  for  the  sake  of  having  some- 
thing to  do:  and  the  role  of  official  entertainer  was  not  at  all  to 
his  liking.  Worst  of  all,  speaking  from  a  platform  is  almost 
bound  to  distort  ideas :  if  the  speaker  does  not  take  care  there 
is  a  danger  of  his  passing  gradually  from  a  certain  theatricality 
in  gesture,  diction,  attitude,  and  the  form  in  which  he  presents 
his  ideas — to  mental  trickery.  A  lecture  is  a  thing  hovering 
in  the  balance  between  tiresome  comedy  and  polite  pedantry. 
For  an  artist  who  is  rather  bashful  and  proud,  a  lecture,  which 
is  a  monologue  shouted  in  the  presence  of  a  few  hundred  un- 
known, silent  people,  a  ready-made  garment  warranted  to  fit  all 
sizes,  though  it  actually  fits  no  one,  is  a  thing  intolerably  false. 
Olivier,  being  more  and  more  under  the  necessity  of  withdraw- 
ing into  himself  and  saying  nothing  which  was  not  wholly  the 
expression  of  his  thought,  gave  up  the  profession  of  teaching, 


370  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

which  he  had  had  so  much  difficulty  in  entering:  and,  as  he 
no  longer  had  his  sister  to  check  him  in  his  tendency  to  dream, 
he  began  to  write.  He  was  naive  enough  to  believe  that  his  un- 
doubted worth  as  an  artist  could  not  fail  to  be  rccogni/.od  without 
his  doing  anything  to  procure  recognition. 

He  was  quickly  undeceived,  lie  found  it  impossible  to  get 
anything  published.  He  had  a  jealous  love  of  liberty,  which 
gave  him  a  horror  of  everything  that  might  impinge  on  it,  and 
made  him  live  apart,  like  a  poor  starved  plant,  among  the  solid 
masses  of  the  political  churches  whose  baleful  associations  di- 
vided the  country  and  the  Press  between  them.  He  was  just  as 
much  cut  off  from  all  the  literary  coteries  and  rejected  by 
them.  He  had  not,  nor  could  he  have,  a  single  friend  among 
them.  He  was  repelled  by  the  hardness,  the  dryncss.  the  egoism 
of  the  intellectuals — (except  for  the  very  few  who  were  follow- 
ing a  real  vocation,  or  were  absorbed  by  a  passionate  enthusiasm 
for  scientific  research).  That  man  is  a  sorry  creature  who  lias 
let  his  heart  atrophy  for  the  sake  of  his  mind — -when  his  mind 
is  small.  In  such  a  man  there  is  no  kindness,  only  a  brain 
like  a  dagger  in  a  sheath  :  there  is  no  knowing  but  it  will  one 
day  cut  your  throat.  Against  such  a  man  it  is  necessary  to  be 
always  armed.  Friendship  is  .only  possible  with  honest  men, 
who  love  fine  things  for  their  own  sake,  and  not  for  what  they 
can  make  out  of  them, — those  who  live  outside  their  art.  The 
majority  of  men  cannot  breathe  the  atmosphere  of  art.  Only 
the  very  great  can  live  in  it  without  loss  of  love,  which  is  the 
source  of  life. 

Olivier  could  only  count  on  himself.  And  that  was  a  very 
precarious  support.  Any  fresh  step  was  a  matter  of  extreme 
difficulty  to  him.  He  was  not  disposed  to  accept  humiliation 
for  the  sake  of  his  work.  He  wont  hot  with  shame  at  the  base 
and  obsequious  homage  which  young  authors  forced  themselves 
to  pay  to  a  well-known  theater  manager,  who  took  advantage 
of  their  cowardice,  and  treated  them  as  he  would  never  dare  to 
treat  his  servants.  Olivier  could  never  have  done  that  to  save 
his  life.  He  just  sent  his  manuscripts  by  post,  or  left  them 


THE  HOUSE  371 

at  the  offices  of  the  theaters  or  the  reviews,  where  they  lay 
for  months  unread.  However,  one  day  by  chance  he  met  one 
of  his  old  schoolfellows,  an  amiable  loafer,  who  had  still  a  sort 
of  grateful  admiration  for  him  for  the  ease  and  readiness  with 
which  Olivier  had  done  his  exercises :  he  knew  nothing  at  all 
about  literature:  but  he  knew  several  literary  men,  which  was 
much  better :  he  was  rich  and  in  society,  something  of  a  snob, 
and  so  he  let  them,  discreetly,  exploit  him.  He  put  in  a  word 
for  Olivier  witii  the  editor  of  an  important  review  in  which  he 
was  a  shareholder:  and  at  once  one  of  his  forgotten  manuscripts 
was  disinterred  and  read:  and,  after  much  temporization, —  (for, 
if  the  article  seemed  to  be  worth  something,  the  author's  name, 
being  unknown,  was  valueless), — they  decided  to  accept  it. 
When  he  heard  the  good  news  Olivier  thought  his  troubles  were 
over.  They  were  only  just  beginning. 

It  is  comparatively  easy  to  have  an  article  accepted  in  Paris : 
but  getting  it  published  is  quite  a  different  matter.  The  un- 
happy writer  has  to  wait  and  wait,  for  months,  if  need  be  for 
life,  if  he  has  not  acquired  the  trick  of  flattering  people,  or 
bullying  them,  and  showing  himself  from  time  to  time  at  the 
receptions  of  these  petty  monarchs,  and  reminding  them  of  his 
existence,  and  making  it  clear  that  he  means  to  go  on  being  a 
nuisance  to  them  as  long  as  they  make  it  necessary.  Olivier 
just  stayed  at  home,  and  wore  himself  out  with  waiting.  At  best 
he  would  write  a  letter  or  two  which  were  never  answered.  He 
would  lose  heart,  and  be  unable  to  work.  It  was  quite  absurd, 
but  there  was  nothing  to  be  done.  He  would  wait  for  post  after 
post,  sitting  at  his  desk,  with  his  mind  blanketed  by  all  sorts  of 
vague  injuries:  then  he  would  get  up  and  go  downstairs  to  the 
porter's  room,  and  look  hopefully  in  his  letter-box,  only  to  meet 
with  disappointment:  he  would  walk  blindly  about  with  no 
thought  in  his  head  but  to  go  back  and  look  again:  and  when 
the  last  post  had  gone,  when  the  silence  of  his  room  was  broken 
only  by  the  heavy  footsteps  of  the  people  in  the  room  above, 
he  would  feel  strangled  by  the  cruel  indillVirnee  of  it  all.  Oniy 
a  word  of  reply,  only  a  word!  Could  that  be  refused  him  if  only/ 


372  JEAN-CHEISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

in  charity?  And  yet  those  who  refused  him  that  had  no  idea 
of  the  hurt  they  were  dealing  him.  Every  man  sees  the  world 
in  his  own  image.  Those  who  have  no  life  in  their  hearts  see 
the  universe  as  withered  and  dr}r:  and  they  never  dream  of  the 
anguish  of  expectation,  hope,  and  suffering  which  rends  the 
hearts  of  the  young :  or  if  they  give  it  a  thought,  they  judge  them 
coldly,  with  the  weary,  ponderous  irony  of  those  who  are  sur- 
feited and  beyond  the  freshness  of  life. 

At  last  the  article  appeared.  Olivier  had  waited  so  long  that 
it  gave  him  no  pleasure :  the  thing  was  dead  for  him.  And  yet 
he  hoped  desperately  that  it  would  be  a  living  thing  for  others. 
There  were  flashes  of  poetry  and  intelligence  in  it  which  could 
not  pass  unnoticed.  It  fell  upon  absolute  silence. — He  made 
two  or  three  more  attempts.  Being  attached  to  no  clique  he  met 
with  silence  or  hostility  everywhere.  He  could  not  understand 
it.  He  had  thought  simply  that  everybody  must  be  naturally 
well-disposed  towards  the  work  of  a  new  man,  even  if  it  was 
not  very  good.  It  always  represents  such  an  amount  of  work, 
and  surely  people  would  be  grateful  to  a  man  who  has  tried 
to  give  others  a  little  beauty,  a  little  force,  a  little  joy.  But  he 
only  met  with  indifference  or  disparagement.  And  yet  he  knew 
that  he  could  not  be  alone  in  feeling  what  he  had  written,  and 
that  it  must  be  in  the  minds  of  other  good  men.  He  did  not 
know  that  such  good  men  did  not  read  him.  and  had  nothing  to 
do  with  literary  opinion,  or  with  anything,  or  with  anything. 
If  here  and  there  there  were  a  few  men  whom  his  words  had 
reached,  men  who  sympathized  with  him,  they  would  never 
tell  him  so :  they  remained  immured  in  their  unnatural  silence. 
Just  as  they  refrained  from  voting,  so  they  took  no  share  in 
art :  they  did  not  read  books,  which  shocked  them :  they  did 
not  go  to  the  theater,  which  disgusted  them :  but  they  let  their 
enemies  vote,  elect  their  enemies,  engineer  a  scandalous  suc- 
cess and  a  vulgar  celebrity  for  books  and  plays  and  ideas  which 
only  represented  an  impudent  minority  of  the  people  of 
France. 

Since  Olivier  could  not  count  on  those  who  were  mentally 


THE  HOUSE  373 

akin  to  himself,  as  they  did  not  read,  he  was  delivered  up  to 
the  hosts  of  the  enemy,  to  the  mercy  of  men  of  letters,  who 
were  for  the  most  part  hostile  to  his  ideas,  and  the  critics  who 
were  at  their  beck  and  call. 

His  first  bouts  with  them  left  him  bleeding.  He  was  as 
sensitive  to  criticism  as  old  Bruchner,  who  could  not  bear  to 
have  his  work  performed,  because  he  had  suffered  so  much  from 
the  malevolence  of  the  Press.  He  did  not  even  win  the  sup- 
port of  his  former  colleagues  at  the  University,  who,  thanks  to 
their  profession,  did  preserve  a  certain  sense  of  the  intellectual 
traditions  of  France,  and  might  have  understood  him.  But  for 
the  most  part  these  excellent  young  men,  cramped  by  discipline, 
absorbed  in  their  work,  often  rather  embittered  by  their  thank- 
less duties,  could  not  forgive  Olivier  for  trying  to  break  away 
and  do  something  else  Like  good  little  officials,  many  of  them 
were  inclined  only  to  admit  the  superiority  of  talent  when  it  was 
consonant  with  hierarchic  superiority. 

In  such  a  position  three  courses  were  open  to  him :  to  break 
down  resistance  by  force :  to  submit  to  humiliating  compromises : 
or  to  make  up  his  mind  to  write  only  for  himself.  Olivier  was 
incapable  of  the  two  first :  he  surrendered  to  the  third.  To 
make  a  living  he  went  through  the  drudgery  of  teaching  and 
went  on  writing,  and  as  there  was  no  possibility  of  his  work 
attaining  full  growth  in  publicity,  it  became  more  and  more 
involved,  chimerical,  and  unreal.  ' 

Christophe  dropped  like  a  thunderbolt  into  the  midst  of  his 
dim  crepuscular  life.  lie  was  furious  at  the  wickedness  of 
people  and  Olivicr's  patience. 

"Have  you  no  blood  in  your  veins?"  he  would  say.  "How 
can  you  stand  such  a  life?  You  know  your  own  superiority  to 
these  swine,  and  yet  you  let  them  squeeze  the  life  out  of  you 
without  a  murmur  !  " 

"What  can  I  do?"  Olivier  would  say.  "I  can't  defend  my- 
self. It  revolts  me  to  fight  with  people  I  despise :  I  know  that 
they  can  use  every  weapon  against  me :  and  1  can't.  Xot  only 
should  I  loathe  to  stoop  to  use  the  means  they  employ,  but  I 


374  JEAN-CIIRISTOPHE  IN  PAEIS 

should  be  afraid  of  hurting  them.  When  I  was  a  boy  I  used 
to  let  my  schoolfellows  beat  me  as  much  as  they  liked.  They 
used  to  think  me  a  coward,  and  that  I  was  afraid  of  being  hit. 
I  was  more  afraid  of  hitting  than  of  being  hit.  I  remember 
some  one  saying  to  me  one  day,  when  one  of  my  tormentors 
was  bullying  me :  '  Why  don't  you  stop  it  once  and  for  all, 
and  give  him  a  kick  in  the  stomach  ? '  That  filled  me  with 
horror.  I  would  much  rather  be  thrashed.'" 

"There's  no  blood  in  your  veins,"  said  Christophe.  "And 
on  top  of  that,  all  sorts  of  Christian  ideas !  .  .  .  Your  re- 
ligious education  in  France  is  reduced  to  the  Catechism:  the 
emasculate  Gospel,  the  tame,  boneless  New  Testament.  .  .  . 
Humanitarian  clap-trap,  always  tearful.  .  .  .  And  the 
Revolution,  Jean-Jacques,  Robespierre,  '48,  and,  on  top  of  that, 
the  Jews !  .  .  .  Take  a  dose  of  the  full-blooded  Old  Testa- 
ment every  morning." 

Olivier  protested.  He  had  a  natural  antipathy  for  the  Old 
Testament,  a  feeling  which  dated  back  to  his  childhood,  when 
he  used  secretly  to  pore  over  an  illustrated  Bible,  which  had 
been  in  the  library  at  home,  where  it  was  never  read,  and  the 
children  were  even  forbidden  to  open  it.  The  prohibition  was 
useless !  Olivier  could  never  keep  the  book  open  for  long.  He 
used  quickly  to  grow  irritated  and  saddened  by  it,  and  then  he 
would  close  it:  and  he  would  find  consolation  in  plunging  into 
the  Iliad,  or  the  Odyssey,  or  the  Arabian  Nights. 

"  The  gods  of  the  Iliad  are  men,  beautiful,  mighty,  vicious : 
I  can  understand  them/'  said  Olivier.  "  I  like  them  or  dislike 
them:  even  when  I  dislike  them  1  still  love  them:  I  am  in  love 
with  them.  More  than  once,  with  ratroclus,  I  have  kissed  the 
lovely  feet  of  Achilles  as  he  lay  bleeding.  But  the  God  of  the 
Bible  is  an  old  Jew.  a  maniac,  a  monomaniac,  a  raging  madman, 
who  spends  his  time  in  growling  and  hurling  threats,  and  howl- 
ing like  an  angry  wolf,  raving  to  himself  in  the  confinement  of 
that  cloud  of  his.  1  don't  understand  him.  I  don't  love  him; 
his  perpetual  curses  make  my  head  ache,  and  his  savagery  fills 
me  with  horror : 


THE  HOUSE  375 

"The  burden  of  Moab.   .    .    . 

"  The  burden  of  Damascus.   .    .    . 

"  The  burden  of  Babylon.   .    .    . 

"  The  burden  of  Egypt.   .    .    . 

<(  The  burden  of  the  desert  of  the  sea.   ... 

"The  burden  of  the  valley  of  vision.   .    .    . 

He  is  a  lunatic  who  thinks  himself  judge,  public  prosecutor, 
and  executioner  rolled  into  one,  and,  even  in  the  courtyard  of 
his  prison,  he  pronounces  sentence  of  death  on  the  flowers  and 
the  pebbles.  One  is  stupefied  by  the  tenacity  of  his  hatred, 
which  fills  the  book  with  bloody  cries  .  .  . — 'a  cry  of  de- 
struction, .  .  .  the  cry  is  gone  round  about  the  borders  of 
Moab :  the  howling  thereof  unto  Egiaim,  and  the  howling  thereof 
unto  Beerelim.  .  .  .' 

"  Every  now  and  then  he  takes  a  rest,  and  looks  round  on 
his  massacres,  and  the  little  children  done  to  death,  and  the 
women  outraged  and  butchered :  and  he  laughs  like  one  of  the 
captains  of  Joshua.,  feasting  after  the  sack  of  a  town : 

"'And  the  Lord  of  hosts  shall  make  unto  all  people  a  feast 
of  fat  tilings,  a  feast  of  wine  on  the  Ices,  of  fat  things  full  of 
marrow,  of  wine  on  the  lees  well  refined.  ...  The  sword  of 
the  Lord  is  filled  with  blood,  it  is  made  fat  with  fatness,  with  the 
fat  of  the  kidneys  of  rams.  .  .  .' 

''But  worst  of  all  is  the  perfidy  with  which  this  God  sends 
his  prophet  to  make  men  blind,  so  that  in  due  course  he  may 
have  a  reason  for  making  them  suffer : 

''Make  the  heart  of  this  people  fat,  and  make  their  ears 
heavy  and  shut  their  eyes':  lest  they  see  with  their  eyes  and 
hear  with  their  cars  and  understand  with  their  heart,  and  con- 
vert, and  be  healed. — Lord,  how  long? — L'ntil  the  cities  be 
wasted  without  inhabitants,  and  the  houses  -without  men,  and  the 
land  be  utterly  desolate.  .  .  •.'  Oh!  I  have  never  found  a 
man  so  evil  as  that !  .  .  . 

"  I'm  not  so  foolish  as  to  deny  the  force  of  the  language. 
But  I  cannot  separate  thought  and  form :  and  if  I  do  occa- 


376  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

sionally  admire  this  Hebrew  God,  it  is  with  the  same  sort  of 
admiration  that  I  feel  for  a  viper,  or  a  .  .  .  —  (I'm  trying  in 
vain  to  find  a  Shakespearean  monster  as  an  example :  I  can't  find 
one:  even  Shakespeare  never  begat  such  a  hero  of  Hatred- 
saintly,  and  virtuous  Hatred).  Such  a  book  is  a  terrible  thing. 
Madness  is  always  contagious.  And  that  particular  madness  is 
all  the  more  dangerous  inasmuch  as  it  sets  up  its  own  murderous 
pride  as  an  instrument  of  purification.  England  makes  me 
shudder  when  I  think  that  her  people  have  for  centuries  been 
nourished  on  no  other  fare.  .  .  .  I'm  glad  to  think  that  there 
is  the  dike  of  the  Channel  between  them  and  me.  I  shall  never 
believe  that  a  nation  is  altogether  civilized  as  long  as  the  Bible 
is  its  staple  food." 

"  In  that  case,"  said  Christophe,  "  you  will  have  to  be  just 
as  much  afraid  of  me,  for  I  get  drunk  on  it.  It  is  the  very 
marrow  of  a  race  of  lions.  Stout  hearts  are  those  which  feed 
on  it.  Without  the  antidote  of  the  Old  Testament  the  Gospel 
is  tasteless  and  unwholesome  fare.  The  Bible  is  the  bone  and 
sinew  of  nations  with  the  will  to  live.  A  man  must  fight,  and 
he  must  hate." 

"  I  hate  hatred,"  said  Olivier. 

"  I  only  wish  you  did !  "  retorted  Christophe. 

"  You're  right.  I'm  too  weak  even  for  that.  What  would 
you?  I  can't  help  seeing  the  arguments  in  favor  of  my  ene- 
mies. And  I  say  to  myself  over  and  over  again,  like  Chardin: 
'Gentleness!  Gentleness!'  .  .  ." 

"  What  a  silly  sheep  you  are ! "  said  Christophe.  "  But 
whether  you  like  it  or  not,  I'm  going  to  make  you  leap  the 
ditch  you're  shying  at,  and  I'm  going  to  drag  you  on  and  beat 
the  big  drum  for  you." 

In  the  upshot  he  took  Olivier's  affairs  in  hand  and  set  out 
to  do  battle  for  him.  His  first  efforts  were  not  very  successful. 
He  lost  his  temper  at  the  very  outset,  and  did  his  friend  much 
harm  by  pleading  his  cause :  he  recognized  what  he  had  done 
very  quickly,  and  was  in  despair  at  his  own  clumsiness. 


THE  HOUSE  377 

Olivier  did  not  stand  idly  by.  He  went  and  fought  for  Chris- 
tophe.  In  spite  of  his  fear  and  dislike  of  fighting,  in  spite  of 
his  lucid  and  ironical  mind,  which  scorned  any  sort  of  ex- 
aggeration in  word  and  deed,  when  it  came  to  defending  Chris- 
tophe  he  was  far  more  violent  than  anybody  else,  and  even  than 
Christophe  himself.  He  lost  his  head.  Love  makes  a  man  ir- 
rational, and  Olivier  was  no  exception  to  the  rule. — However, 
he  was  cleverer  than  Christophe.  Though  he  was  uncompro- 
mising and  clumsy  in  handling  his  own  affairs,  when  it  came  to 
promoting  Christophe's  success  he  was  politic  and  even  tricky : 
he  displayed  an  energy  and  ingenuity  well  calculated  to  win 
support:  he  succeeded  in  interesting  various  musical  critics  and 
Maecenases  in  Christophe,  though  he  would  have  been  utterly 
ashamed  to  approach  them  with  his  own  work. 

In  spite  of  everything  they  found  it  very  difficult  to  better 
their  lot.  Their  love  for  each  other  made  them  do  many  stupid 
things.  Christophe  got  into  debt  over  getting  a  volume  of 
Olivier's  poems  published  secretly,  and  not  a  single  copy  was 
sold.  Olivier  induced  Christophe  to  give  a  concert,  and  hardly 
anybody  came  to  it.  Faced  with  the  empty  hall,  Christophe 
consoled  himself  bravely  with  Handel's  quip :  "  Splendid !  My 
music  will  sound  all  the  better.  ..."  But  these  bold  at- 
tempts did  not  repay  the  money  they  cost :  and  they  would  go 
back  to  their  rooms  full  of  indignation  at  the  indifference  of 
the  world. 

In  their  difficulties  the  only  man  who  came  to  their  aid 
was  a  Jew,  a  man  of  forty,  named  Tadclee  Mooch.  He  kept  an 
art-photograph  shop :  but  although  he  was  interested  in  his  trade 
and  brought  much  taste  and  skill  to  bear  on  it,  he  was  interested 
in  so  many  things  outside  it  that  he  was  apt  to  neglect  his  busi- 
ness for  them.  When  he  did  attend  to  his  business  he  was 
chiefly  engaged  in  perfecting  technical  devices,  and  he  would 
lose  his  head  over  new  reproduction  processes,  which,  in  spite 
of  their  ingenuity,  hardly  ever  succeeded,  and  always  cost  him 
a  great  deal  of  money.  He  was  a  voracious  reader,  and  was 


378  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

always  hard  on  the  heels  of  every  new  idea  in  philosophy,  art, 
science,  and  politics :  he  had  an  amazing  knack  of  finding  out 
men  of  originality  and  independence  of  character:  it  was  as 
though  he  answered  to  their  magnetism.  He  was  a  sort  of  con- 
necting-link between  Olivier's  friends,  who  were  all  as  isolated 
as  himself,  and  all  working  in  their  several  directions.  He 
used  to  go  from  one  to  the  other,  and  through  him  there  was 
established  between  them  a  complete  circuit  of  ideas,  though 
neither  he  nor  they  had  any  notion  of  it. 

When  Olivier  first  proposed  to  introduce  him  to  Christophe, 
Christophe  refused :  he  was-  sick  of  his  experiences  with  the  tribe 
of  Israel.  Olivier  laughed  and  insisted  on  it,  saying  that  he 
knew  no  more  of  the  Jews  than  he  did  of  France.  At  last 
'Christophe  consented,  but  when  he  saw  Taddee  Mooch  he  made 
a  face.  In  appearance  Mooch  was  extraordinarily  Jewish :  he 
was  the  Jew  as  he  is  drawn  by  those  who  dislike  the  race,:  short, 
bald,  badly  built,  with  a  greasy  nose  and  heavy  eyes  goggling 
behind  large  spectacles:  his  face  was  hidden  by  a  rough,  black, 
scrubby  beard :  he  had  hairy  hands,  long  arms,  and  short  bandy 
legs:  a  little  Syrian  Baal.  But  he  had  such  a  kindly  expression 
that  Christophe  was  touched  by  it.  Above  all,  he  was  very 
simple,  and  never  talked  too  much.  He  never  paid  exaggerated 
compliments,  but  just  dropped  the  right  word,  pat.  He  was 
very  eager  to  be  of  service,  and  before  any  kindness  was  asked 
of  him  it  would  be  done.  He  came  often,  too  often;  and  he 
almost  always  brought  good  news :  work  for  one  or  other  of 
them,  a  commission  for  an  article  or  a  lecture  for  Olivier,  or 
music-lessons  for  Christophe.  He  never  stayed  long.  It  was  a 
sort  of  affectation  with  him  never  to  intrude.  Perhaps  lie  saw 
Christophe's  irritation,  for  his  first  impulse  was  always  towards 
an  ejaculation  of  impatience  when  he  saw  the  bearded  face  of  the 
Carthaginian  idol, —  (he  used  to  call  him  "Moloch") — appeal- 
round  the  door:  but  the  next  moment  it  would  be  gone,  and  he 
would  feel  nothing  but  gratitude  for  bis  perfect  kindness. 

Kindness  is  not  a  rare  quality  with  the  Jews:  of  all  the 
virtues  it  is  the  most  readily  admitted  among  them,  even  when 


THE  HOUSE  379 

they  do  not  practise  it.  Indeed,  in  most  of  them  it  remains 
negative  or  neutral :  indulgence,  indifference,  dislike  for  hurting 
anybody,  ironic  tolerance.  With  Mooch  it  was  an  active,  passion. 
He  was  always  ready  to  devote  himself  to  some  cause  or  person : 
to  his  poor  co-religionists,  to  the  Russian  refugees,  to  the  op- 
pressed of  every  nation,  to  unfortunate  artists,  to  the,  allevia- 
tion of  every  kind  of  misfortune,  to  every  generous  cause.  His 
purse  was  always  open :  and  however  thinly  lined  it  might  be, 
he  could  always  manage  to  squeeze  a  mite  out  of  it:  when  it 
was  empty  he  would  squeeze  the  mite  out  of  some  one  else's 
purse :  if  he  could  do  any  one  a  service  no  pains  were  too  great 
for  him  to  take,  no  distance  was  too  far  for  him  to  go.  He  did 
it  simply — with  exaggerated  simplicity.  He  was  a  little  apt  to 
talk  too  much  about  his  simplicity  and  sincerity :  but  the  great 
thing  was  that  he  was  both  simple  and  sincere. 

Christophe  was   torn  between   irritation  and   sympathy   with 
Mooch,  and  one  day  he  said  an  innocently  cruel  thing,  though 
he  said  it  with  the.  air  of  a  spoiled  child.     Mooch's  kindness  had 
touched  him,  and  he  took  his  hands  affectionately  and  said : 
"  What  a  pity !    .    .    .      What  a  pity  it  is  that  you  are  a  Jew  !  " 
Olivier  started   and  blushed,   as   though  the   shaft  had   been 
leveled  at  himself.    He  was  most  unhappy,  and  tried  to  heal  the 
wound  his  friend  had  dealt. 

Mooch  smiled,  with  sad  irony,  and  replied  calmly: 
"  It  is  an  even  greater  misfortune  to  be  a  man." 
To  Christophe  the  remark  was  nothing  but  the  whim  of  a 
moment.  But  its  pessimism  cut  deeper  than  he  imagined:  and 
Olivier,  with  his  subtle  perception,  felt  it  intuitively.  Beneath 
the  Mooch  of  their  acquaintance  there  was  another  different 
Mooch,  who  was  in  many  ways  exactly  the  opposite.  His  ap- 
parent nature  Avas  the  result  of  a  long  struggle  with  his  real 
nature.  Though  he  was  apparently  so  simple  he  had  a  dis- 
torted mind:  when  he  gave  way  to  it  he  was  forced  to  complicate 
simple  things  and  to  endow  his  most  genuine  feelings  with  a 
deliberately  ironical  character.  Though  he  was  apparently 
modest  and,  if  anything,  too  humble,  at  heart  he  was  proud. 


380  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

and  knew  it,  and  strove  desperately  to  whip  it  out  of  himself. 
His  smiling  optimism,  his  incessant  activity,  his  perpetual  busi- 
ness in  helping  others,  were  the  mask  of  a  profound  nihilism,  a 
deadly  despondency  which  dared  not  see  itself  face  to  face. 
Mooch  made  a  show  of  immense  faith  in  all  sorts  of  things :  in 
the  progress  of  humanity,  in  the  future  of  the  pure  Jewish  spirit, 
in  the  destiny  of  France,  the  soldier  of  the  new  spirit — (he  was 
apt  to  identify  the  three  causes).  Olivier  was  not  taken  in  by 
it,  and  used  to  say  to  Christophe : 

"  At  heart  he  believes  in  nothing." 

With  all  his  ironical  common  sense  and  calmness  Mooch  was 
a  neurasthenic  who  dared  not  look  upon  the  void  within  himself. 
He  had  terrible  moments  when  he  felt  his  nothingness :  some- 
times he  would  wake  suddenly  in  the  middle  of  the  night 
screaming  with  terror.  And  he  would  cast  about  for  things 
to  do,  like  a  drowning  man  clinging  to  a  life-buoy. 

It  is  a  costly  privilege  to  be  a  member  of  a  race  which  is  ex- 
ceeding old.  It  means  the  bearing  of  a  frightful  burden  of  the 
past,  trials  and  tribulations,  weary  experience,  disillusion  of 
mind  and  heart, — all  the  ferment  of  immemorial  life,  at  the 
bottom  of  which  is  a  bitter  deposit  of  irony  and  boredom.  .  .  . 
Boredom,  the  immense  boredom  of  the  Semites,  which  has 
nothing  in  common  with  our  Aryan  boredom,  though  that,  too, 
makes  us  suffer;  while  it  is  at  least  traceable  to  definite  causes, 
and  vanishes  when  those  causes  cease  to  exist :  for  in  most  cases 
it  is  only  the  result  of  regret  that  we  cannot  have  what  we  want, 
But  in  some  of  the  Jews  the  very  source  of  joy  and  life  is  tainted 
with  a  deadly  poison.  They  have  no  desire,  no  interest  in  any- 
thing :  no  ambition,  no  love,  no  pleasure.  Only  one  thing  con- 
tinues to  exist,  not  intact,  but  morbid  and  fine-drawn,  in  these 
men  uprooted  from  the  East,  worn  out  by  the  amount  of  energy 
they  have  had  to  give  out  for  centuries,  longing  for  quietude, 
without  having  the  power  to  attain  it :  thought,  endless  analysis, 
which  forbids  the  possibility  of  enjoyment,  and  leaves  them  no 
courage  for  action.  The  most  energetic  among  them  set  them- 
selves parts  to  play,  and  play  them,  rather  than  act  on  their 


THE  HOUSE  381 

own  account.  It  is  a  strange  thing  that  in  many  of  them — 
and  not  in  the  least  intelligent  or  the  least  seriously  minded — • 
this  lack  of  interest  in  life  prompts  the  impulse,  or  the  un- 
avowed  desire,  to  act  a  part,  to  play  at  life, — the  only  means 
they  know  of  living ! 

Mooch  was  an  actor  after  his  fashion.  He  rushed  about  to 
try  to  deaden  his  senses.  But  whereas  most  people  only  bestir 
themselves  for  selfish  reasons,  he  was  restlessly  active  in  pro- 
curing the  happiness  of  others.  His  devotion  to  Christophe  was 
both  touching  and  a  bore.  Christophe  would  snub  him  and 
then  immediately  be  sorry  for  it.  But  Mooch  never  bore  him 
any  ill-will.  Xothing  abashed  him.  Xot  that  he  had  any 
ardent  affection  for  Christophe.  It  was  devotion  that  he  loved 
rather  than  the  men  to  whom  he  devoted  himself.  They  were 
only  an  excuse  for  doing  good,  for  living. 

He  labored  to  such  effect  that  he  managed  to  induce  Hecht  to 
publish  Christophe's  David  and  some  other  compositions.  Hecht 
appreciated  Christophe's  talent,  but  he  was  in  no  hurry  to 
reveal  it  to  the  world.  It  was  not  until  he  saw  that  Mooch 
was  on  the  point  of  arranging  the  publication  at  his  own  ex- 
pense with  another  firm  that  he  took  the  initiative  out  of  vanity. 

And  on  another  occasion,  when  things  were  very  serious  and 
Olivier  was  ill  and  they  had  no  money,  Mooch  thought  of  going 
to  Felix  Weil,  the  rich  archeologist,  who  lived  in  the  same 
house.  Mooch  and  Weil  were  acquainted,  but  had  little  sym- 
pathy with  one  another.  They  were  too  different :  Mooch's  rest- 
lessness and  mysticism  and  revolutionary  ideas  and  "  vulgar  " 
manners,  which,  perhaps,  he  exaggerated,  were  an  incentive  to 
the  irony  of  Felix  Weil,  with  his  calm,  mocking  temper,  his  dis- 
tinguished manners  and  conservative  mind.  They  had  only  one 
thing  in  common :  they  were  both  equally  lacking  in  any  pro- 
found interest  in  action :  and  if  they  did  indulge  in  action,  it 
was  not  from  faith,  but  from  their  tenacious  and  mechanical 
vitality.  But  neither  was  prepared  to  admit  it :  they  preferred 
to  give  their  minds  to  the  parts  they  were  playing,  and  their 
different  parts  had  very  little  in  common.  And  so  Mooch  was 


382  JEAN-CHKISTOPHE  IN  PAKIS 

quite  coldly  received  by  Weil :  when  he  tried  to  interest  him  in 
the  artistic  projects  of  Olivier  and  Christophe,  he  was  brought 
up  sharp  against  a  mocking  skepticism.  Mooch's  perpetual  em- 
barkations for  one  Utopia  or  another  were  a  standing  joke  in 
Jewish  society,  where  he  was  regarded  as  a  dangerous  visionary. 
But  on  this  occasion,  as  on  so  many  others,  he  was  not  put  out : 
and  he  went  on  speaking  about  the  friendship  of  Christophe 
and  Olivier  until  he  roused  Weil's  interest.  He  saw  that  and 
went  on. 

He  had  touched  a  responsive  chord.  The  friendless  solitary 
old  man  worshiped  friendship :  the  one  great  love  of  his  life 
had  been  a  friendship  which  he  had  left  behind  him :  it  was  his 
inward  treasure :  when  he  thought  of  it  he  felt  a  better  man. 
He  had  founded  institutions  in  his  friend's  name,  and  had 
dedicated  his  books  to  his  memory.  He  was  touched  by  what 
Mooch  told  him  of  the  mutual  tenderness  of  Christophe  and 
Olivier.  His  own  story  had  been  something  like  it.  His  lost 
friend  had  been  a  sort  of  elder  brother  to  him.  a  comrade  of 
youth,  a  guide  whom  he  had  idolized.  That  friend  had  been 
one  of  those  young  Jews,  burning  with  intelligence  and  gener- 
ous ardor,  who  suffer  from  the  hardness  of  their  surroundings, 
and  set  themselves  to  uplift  their  race,  and,  through  their  race, 
the  world,  and  burn  hotly  into  llame,  and,  like  a  torch  of  resin, 
flare  for  a  few  hours  and  then  die.  The  flame  of  his  life  had 
kindled  the  apathy  of  young  Weil.  He  had  raised  him  from 
the  earth.  While  his  friend  was  alive  Weil  had  inarched  by 
his  side  in  the  shining  light  of  his  stoical  faith, —  faith  in 
science,  in  the  power  of  the  spirit,  in  a  future  happiness, — the 
rays  of  which  were  shed  upon  everything  with  which  that  mes- 
sianic soul  came  in  contact.  When  he  was  left  alone,  in  his 
weakness  and  irony,  Weil  fell  from  the  heights  of  that  idealism 
into  the  sands  of  that  Book  of  Ecclesiastes,  which  exists  in  the 
mind  of  every  Jew  and  saps  his  spiritual  vitality.  But  he  had 
never  forgotten  the  hours  spent  in  the  light  with  his  friend: 
jealously  he  guarded  its  clarity,  now  almost  entirely  faded. 
He  had  never  spoken  of  him  to  a  soul,  not  even  to  his  wife, 


THE  HOUSE  383 

whom  he  loved:  it  was  a  sacred  thing.  And  the  old  man,  who 
was  considered  prosaic  and  dry  of  heart,  and  nearing  the  end 
of  his  life,  used  to  say  to  himself  the  bitter  and  tender  words  of 
a  Brahmin  of  ancient  India : 

"  The  poisoned  tree  of  the  world  puts  forth  two  fruits  sweeter 
than  the  waters  of  the  fountain  of  life:  one  is  poetry,  the  other, 
friendship." 

From  that  time  on  he  took  an  interest  in  Christophe  and 
Olivier.  He  knew  how  proud  they  were,  and  got  Mooch,  with- 
out saying  anything,  to  send  him  Olivier's  volume  of  poems, 
which  had  just  been  published :  and,  without  the  two  friends 
having  anything  to  do  with  it,  without  their  having  even  the 
smallest  idea  of  what  he  was  up  to,  he  managed  to  get  the 
Academy  to  award  the  book  a  prize,  which  came  in  the  nick 
of  time  to  help  them  in  their  difficulty. 

When  Christophe  discovered  that  such  unlooked-for  assistance 
came  from  a  man  of  whom  he  was  inclined  to  think  ill,  he  re- 
gretted all  the  unkind  things  he  had  said  or  thought  of  him : 
he  gulped  down  his  dislike  of  calling,  and  went  and  thanked 
him.  His  good  intentions  met  with  no  reward.  Old  Weil's 
irony  was  excited  by  Christophe's  young  enthusiasm,  although 
he  tried  hard  to  conceal  it  from  him,  and  they  did  not  get  on  at 
all  well. 

That  very  day,  when  Christophe  returned,  irritated,  though 
still  grateful,  to  his  attic,  after  his  interview  with  Weil,  he 
found  Mooch  there,  doing  Olivier  some  fresh  act  of  service, 
and  also  a  review  containing  a  disparaging  article  on  his  music 
by  Lucien  Levy-Cceur; — it  was  not  written  in  a  vein  of  frank 
criticism,  but  took  the  insultingly  kindly  line  of  chaffing  him 
and  banteringly  considering  him  alongside  certain  third-rate  and 
fourth-rate  musicians  whom  he  loathed. 

"  You  see,"  said  Christophe  to  Olivier,  after  Mooch  had 
gone,  "  we  always  have  to  deal  with  Jews,  nothing  but  Jews ! 
Perhaps  we're  Jews  ourselves?  Do  tell  me  that  we're  not. 
We  seem  to  attract  them.  We're  always  knocking  up  against 
them,  both  friends  and  foes." 


384  JEA3ST-CHBISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

"  The  reason  is,"  said  Olivier.  "  that  they  are  more  intelligent 
than  the  rest.  The  Jews  are  almost  the  only  people  in  France 
to  whom  a  free  man  can  talk  of  new  and  vital  things.  The  rest 
are  stuck  fast  in  the  past  among  dead  things.  Unfortunately 
the  past  does  not  exist  for  the  Jews,  or  at  least  it  is  not  the 
same  for  them  as  for  us.  With  them  we  can  only  talk  about  the 
things  of  to-day:  with  our  fellow-countrymen  we  can  only  dis- 
cuss the  things  of  yesterday.  Look  at  the  activity  of  the  Jews 
in  every  kind  of  way :  commerce,  industry,  education,  science, 
philanthropy,  art.  ..." 
.  "  Don't  let's  talk  about  art,"  said  Christophe. 

"I  don't  say  that  I  am  always  in  sympathy  with  what  they 
do :  very  often  I  detest  it.  But  at  least  they  are  alive,  and  can 
understand  men  who  are  alive.  It  is  all  very  well  for  us  to 
criticise  and  make  fun  of  the  Jews,  and  speak  ill  of  them.  We 
can't  do  without  them." 

"  Don't  exaggerate,"  said  Christophe  jokingly.  "  I  could  do 
without  them  perfectly." 

"  You  might  go  on  living  perhaps.  But  what  good  would 
that  be  to  you  if  your  life  and  your  work  remained  unknown, 
as  they  probably  would  without  the  Jews?  Would  the  mem- 
bers of  your  own  religion  come  to  your  assistance?  The  Cath- 
olic Church  lets  the  best  of  its  members  perish  without  raising 
a  hand  to  help  them.  Men  who  arc  religious  from  the  very 
bottom  of  their  hearts,  men  who  give  their  lives  in  the  defense 
of  God, — if  they  have  dared  to  break  away  from  Catholic  do- 
minion and  shake  oil  the  authority  of  Rome, — at  once  find  the 
unworthy  mob  who  call  themselves  Catholic  not  only  indiirerent, 
but  hostile:  they  condemn  them  to  silence,  and  abandon  them 
to  the  mercy  of  the  common  enemy.  If  a  man  of  independent 
spirit,  be  he  never  so  great  and  Christian  at  heart,  is  not  a 
Christian  as  a  matter  of  obedience,  it  i.s  nothing  to  the  Catholics 
that  in  him  is  incarnate  all  that  is  most  pure  and  most  truly 
divine  in- their  faith.  He  is  not  of  the  pack,  the  blind  and  deaf 
sect  which  refuses  to  think  for  itself.  lie  is  cast  out,  and  the 
rest  rejoice  to  see  him  suffering  alone,  torn  to  pieces  by  the 


THE  HOUSE  385 

enemy.,  and  crying  for  help  to  those  who  are  his  brothers,  for 
whose  faith  he  is  done  to  death.  In  the  Catholicism  of  to-day 
there  is  a  horrible,  death-dealing  power  of  inertia.  It  would 
find  it  far  easier  to  forgive  its  enemies  than  those  who  wish  to 
awake  it  and  restore  it  to  life.  .  .  .  My  dear  Christophe, 
where  should  we  be,  and  what  should  we  do— we,  who  are 
Catholics  by  birth,  we,  who  have  shaken  free,  without  the  little 
band  of  free  Protestants  and  Jews?  The  Jews  in  Europe  of 
to-day  are  the  most  active  and  living  agents  of  good  and  evil. 
They  carry  hither  and  thither  the  pollen  of  thought.  Have  not 
your  worst  enemies  and  your  friends  from  the  very  beginning 
been  Jews  ? " 

"  That's  true,"  said  Christophe.  "  They  have  given  me  en- 
couragement and  help,  and  said  things  to  me  which  have  given 
me  new  life  for  the  struggle,  by  showing  me  that  I  was  under- 
stood. No  doubt  very  few  of  my  friends  have  remained  faith- 
ful to  me:  their  friendship  was  but  a  fire  of  straw.  No  matter! 
That  fleeting  light  is  a  great  thing  in  darkness.  You  are  right : 
we  mustn't  be  ungrateful." 

"  We  must  not  be  stupid,  either,"  replied  Olivier.  "  We  must 
not  mutilate  our  already  diseased  civilization  by  lopping  off 
some  of  its  most  living  branches.  If  we  were  so  unfortunate  as 
to  have  the  Jews  driven  from  Europe,  we  should  be  left  so  poor 
in  intelligence  and  power  for  action  that  we  should  be  in  danger 
of  utter  bankruptcy.  In  France  especially,  in  the  present  con- 
dition of  French  vitality,  their  expulsion  would  mean  a  more 
deadly  drain  on  the  blood  of  the  nation  than  the  expulsion  of 
the  Protestants  in  the  seventeenth  century. — No  doubt,  for  the 
time  being,  they  do  occupy  a  position  out  of  all  proportion  to 
their  true  merit.  They  do  take  advantage  of  the  present  moral 
and  political  anarchy,  which  in  no  small  degree  they  help  to 
aggravate,  because  it  suits  them,  and  because  it  is  natural  to 
them  to  do  so.  The  best  of  them,  like  our  friend  'Mooch,  make 
the  mistake,  in  all  sincerity,  of  identifying  the  destiny  of  France 
with  their  Jewish  dreams,  which  are  often  more  dangerous  than 
useful.  But  you  can't  blame  them  for  wanting  to  build  France 


386  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IX  PARIS 

in  their  own  image :  it  means  that  they  love  the  country.  If 
their  love  becomes  a  public  danger,  all  we  have  to  do  is  to  de- 
fend ourselves  and  keep  them  in  their  place,  which,  in  France, 
is  the  second.  Not  that  I  think  their  race  inferior  to  ours: — 
(all  these  questions  of  the  supremacy  of  races  are  idiotic  and  dis- 
gusting).— But  we  cannot  admit  that  a  foreign  race  which  has 
not  yet  been  fused  into  our  own,  can  possibly  know  better  than 
we  do  what  suits  us.  The  Jews  are  well  off  in  France :  I  am 
glad  of  it :  but  they  must  not  think  of  turning  France  into 
Judea !  An  intelligent  and  strong  Government  which  was  able 
to  keep  the  Jews  in  their  place  would  make  them  one  of  the 
most  useful  instruments  for  the  building  of  the  greatness  of 
France:  and  it  would  be  doing  both  them  and  us  a  great 
service.  These  hypernervous,  restless,  and  unsettled  creatures 
need  the  restraint  of  law  and  the  firm  hand  of  a  just  master,  in 
whom  there  is  no  weakness,  to  curb  them.  The  Jews  are  like 
women :  admirable  when  they  are  reined  in ;  but,  with  the  Jews 
as  with  women,  their  use  of  mastery  is  an  abomination,  and 
those  who  submit  to  it  present  a  pitiful  and  absurd  spectacle." 

In  spite  of  their  love  for  each  other,  and  the  intuitive  knowl- 
edge that  came  with  it,  there  were  many  things  which  Christophe 
and  Olivier  could  not  understand  in  each  other,  things,  too, 
which  shocked  them.  In  the  beginning  of  their  friendship, 
when  each  tried  instinctively  only  to  suffer  the  existence  of 
those  qualities  in  himself  which  were  most  like  the  qualities 
of  his  friend,  they  never  remarked  them.  It  was  only  gradu- 
ally that  the  different  aspects  of  their  two  nationalities  appeared 
on  the  surface  again,  more  sharply  defined  than  before :  for 
being  in  contrast,  each  showed  the  other  up.  There  were  mo- 
ments of  difficulty,  moments  when  they  clashed,  which,  with  all 
their  fond  indulgence,  they  could  not  altogether  avoid. 

Sometimes  they  misunderstood  each  other.  Olivier's  mind 
was  a  mixture  of  faith,  liberty,  passion,  irony,  and  universal 
doubt,  for  which  Christophe  could  not  find  any  working  formula. 

Olivier,  on  his  part,  was  distressed  by  Christophe's  lack  of 


THE  HOUSE  387 

psychology :  being  of  an  old  intellectual  stock,  and  therefore 
aristocratic,  he  was  moved  to  smile  at  the  awkwardness  of  such 
a  vigorous,  though  lumbering  and  single  mind,  which  had  no 
power  of  self-analysis,  and  was  always  being  taken  in  by  others 
and  by  itself.  Christophe's  sentimentality,  his  noisy  outbursts, 
his  facile  emotions,  used  sometimes  to  exasperate  Olivier,  to 
whom  they  seemed  absurd.  ISTot  to  speak  of  a  certain  worship 
of  force,  the  German  conviction  of  the  excellence  of  fist-moral- 
ity, Faustrecht,  to  which  Olivier  and  his  countrymen  had  good 
reason  for  not  subscribing. 

And  Christophe  could  not  bear  Olivier's  irony,  which  used 
sometimes  to  make  him  furious  with  exasperation :  he  could  not 
bear  his  mania  for  arguing,  his  perpetual  analysis,  and  the 
curious  intellectual  immorality,  which  was  surprising  in  a  man 
who  set  so  much  store  by  moral  purity  as  Olivier,  and  arose  from 
the  very  breadth  of  his  mind,  to  which  every  kind  of  negation 
was  detestable, — so  that  he  took  a  delight  in  the  contemplation 
of  ideas  the  opposite  of  his  own.  Olivier's  outlook  on  things 
was  in  some  sort  historical  and  panoramic:  it  was  so  necessary 
for  him  to  understand  everything  that  he  always  saw  reasons 
both  for  and  against,  and  supported  each  in  turn,  according  as 
the  opposite  thesis  was  put  forward :  and  so  amid  such  contradic- 
tions he  lost  his  way.  He  would  leave  Christophe  hopelessly 
perplexed.  It  was  not  that  he  had  any  desire  to  contradict  or 
any  taste  for  paradox:  it  was  an  imperious  need  in  him  for 
justice  and  common  sense :  he  was  exasperated  by  the  stupidity 
of  any  assumption,  and  he  had  to  react  against  it.  The  crude- 
ness  with  which  Christophe  judged  immoral  men  and  actions, 
by  seeing  everything  as  much  coarser  and  more  brutal  than  it 
really  was,  distressed  Olivier,  who  was  just  as  moral,  but  was 
not  of  the  same  unbending  steel:  he  allowed  himself  to  lie 
tempted,  colored,  and  molded  by  outside  influences.  He  would 
protest  against  Christophe's  exaggerations  and  fly  off  into  ex- 
aggeration in  the  opposite  direction.  Almost  every  day  this 
perverseness  of  mind  would  make  him  take  up  the  cudgels  for 
his  adversaries  against  his  friends.  Christophe  would  lose  his 


388  JEAN-CHPJSTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

temper.  He  would  cry  out  upon  Olivier's  sophistry  and  his  in- 
dulgence of  hateful  things  and  people.  Olivier  would  smile :  he 
knew  the  utter  absence  of  illusion  that  lay  behind  his  indulgence : 
he  knew  that'  Christophe  believed  in  many  more  things  than 
he  did,  and  had  a  greater  power  of  acceptance !  But  Chris- 
tophe would  look  neither  to  the  right  hand  nor  the  left,  but 
went  straight  ahead.  He  was  especially  angry  with  Parisian 
"  kindness." 

"  Their  great  argument,  of  which  they  are  so  proud,  in 
favor  of  '  pardoning '  rascals,  is,"  he  would  say,  "  that  all 
rascals  are  sufficiently  unhappy  in  their  wickedness,  or  that  they 
are  irresponsible  or  diseased.  ...  In  the  first  place,  it  is 
not  true  that  those  who  do  evil  are  unhappy.  That's  a  moral 
idea  in  action,  a  silly  melodramatic  idea,  stupid,  empty 
optimism,  such  as  you  find  in  Scribe  and  Capus.—  (Scribe  and 
Capus,  your  Parisian  great  men,  artists  of  whom  your  pleasure- 
seeking,  vulgar  society  is  worthy,  childish  hypocrites,  too 
cowardly  to  face  their  own  ugliness). — It  is  quite  possible  for  a 
rascal  to  be  a  happy  man.  He  has  every  chance  of  being  so. 
And  as  for  his  irresponsibility,  that  is  an  idiotic  idea.  Do 
have  the  courage  to  face  the  fact  that  Nature  does  not  care  a 
rap  about  good  and  evil,  and  is  so  far  malevolent  that  a  man  may 
easily  be  a  criminal  and  yet  perfectly  sound  in  mind  and  body. 
Virtue  is  not  a  natural  tiling.  It  is  the  work  of  man.  It  is 
his  duty  to  defend  it.  Human  society  has  been  built  up  by  a 
few  men  who  were  stronger  and  greater  than  the  rest.  It  is 
their  duty  to  see  that,  the  work  of  so  many  ages  of  frightful 
struggles  is  not  spoiled  by  the  cowardly  rabble." 

At  bottom  there  was  no  great  difference  between  these  ideas 
and  Olivier's:  but,  by  a  secret  instinct  for  balance  and  propor- 
tion, he  was  never  so  dilettante  as  when  he  heard  provocative 
words  thrown  out. 

"  Don't  get  so  excited,  my  friend,"  he  Avould  say  to  Chris- 
tophe. "  Let  the  world  hug  its  vices.  Like  the  friends  in  the 
'Decameron,'  let  us  breathe  in  peace  the  balmy  air  of  the 
gardens  of  thought,  while  under  the  cypress-hill  and  the  tall, 


THE  HOUSE  389 

shady  pines,  twined  about  with  roses,  Florence  is  devastated  by 
the  black  plague." 

He  would  amuse  himself  for  days  together  by  pulling  to 
pieces  art,  science,  philosophy,  to  find  their  hidden  wheels :  so 
he  came  by  a  sort  of  Pyrrhonism.,  in  which  everything  that  was 
became  only  a  figment  of  the  mind,  a  castle  in  the  air,  which  had 
not  even  the  excuse  of  the  geometric  symbols,  of  being  necessary 
to  the  mind.  Christophe  would  rage  against  his  pulling  the 
machine  to  pieces : 

"  It  was  going  quite  well :  you'll  probably  break  it.  Then 
how  will  you  be  better  off?  What  are  you  trying  to  prove? 
That  nothing  is  nothing?  Good  Lord!  I  know  that.  It  is 
because  nothingness  creeps  in  upon  us  from  every  side  that  we 
fight.  Nothing  exists  ?  I  exist.  There's  no  reason  for  doing 
anything?  I'm  doing  what  I  can.  If  people  like  death,  let 
them  die!  For  my  part,  I'm  alive,  and  I'm  going  to  live.  My 
life  is  in  one  scale  of  the  balance,  my  mind  and  thought  in  the 
other.  ...  To  hell  with  thought !  " 

He  would  fly  off  with  his  usual  violence,  and  in  their  argu- 
ment he  would  say  things  that  hurt.  Hardly  had  he  said  them 
than  he  was  soriy.  He  would  long  to  withdraw  them :  but  the 
harm  was  done.  Olivier  was  very  sensitive:  his  skin  was  easily 
barked :  a  harsh  word,  especially  if  it  came  from  some  one  he 
loved,  hurt  him  terribly,  lie  was  too  proud  to  say  anything, 
and  would  retire  into  himself.  And  he  would  see  in  his  friend 
those  sudden  flashes  of  unconscious  egoism  which  appear  in  every 
great  artist.  Sometimes  he  would  feel  that  his  life  was  no  great 
thing  to  Christophe  compared  with  a  beautiful  piece  of  music: — 
(Christophe  hardly  troubled  to  disguise  the  fact). — lie  would 
understand  and  see  that  Christophe  was  right :  but  it  made 
him  sad. 

And  then  there  were  in  Christophers  nature  all  sorts  of  dis- 
ordered elements  which  eluded  Olivier  and  made  him  uneasy. 
He  used  to  have  sudden  fits  of  a  freakish  and  terrible  humor. 
For  days  together  he  would  not  speak:  or  he  would  break  out  in 
diabolically  malicious  moods  and  try  deliberately  to  hurt. 


390  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PAEIS 

Sometimes  he  would  disappear  altogether  and  be  seen  no  more 
for  the  rest  of  the  day  and  part  of  the  night.  Once  he  stayed 
away  for  two  whole  days.  God  knows  what  he  was  up  to!  He 
was  not  very  clear  about  it  himself.  .  .  .  The  truth  was  that 
his  powerful  nature,  shut  up  in  that  narrow  life,  and  those  small 
rooms,  as  in  a  hen-coop,  every  now  and  then  reached  bursting- 
point.  His  friend's  calmness  maddened  him :  then  he  would 
long  to  hurt  him,  to  hurt  some  one.  He  would  have  to  rush 
away,  and  wear  himself  out.  He  would  go  striding  through 
the  streets  of  Paris  and  the  outskirts  in  the  vague  quest  of  ad- 
venture, which  sometimes  he  found :  and  he  would  not  have 
been  sorry  to  meet  with  some  rough  encounter  which  would 
have  given  him  the  opportunity  of  expending  some  of  his  super- 
fluous energy  in  a  brawl.  ...  It  was  hard  for  Olivier,  with 
his  poor  health  and  weakness  of  body,  to  understand.  Chris- 
tophe  was  not  much  nearer  understanding  it.  He  would  wake 
up  from  his  aberrations  as  from  an  exhausting  dream, — a  little 
uneasy  and  ashamed  of  what  he  had  been  doing  and  might  yet 
do.  But  when  the  fit  of  madness  was  over  he  would  feel  like  a 
great  sky  washed  by  the  storm,  purged  of  every  taint,  serene, 
and  sovereign  of  his  soul.  He  would  be  more  tender  than  ever 
with  Olivier,  and  bitterly  sorry  for  having  hurt  him.  He  would 
give  up  trying  to  account  for  their  little  quarrels.  The  wrong 
was  not  always  on  his  side :  but  he  would  take  all  the  blame  upon 
himself,  and  put  it  down  to  his  unjust  passion  for  being  right; 
and  he  would  think  it  better  to  be  wrong  with  his  friend  than  to 
be  right,  if  right  were  not  on  his  side. 

Their  misunderstandings  were  especially  grievous  when  they 
occurred  in  the  evening,  so  that  the  two  friends  had  to  spend 
the  night  in  disunion,  which  meant  that  both  of  them  were 
morally  upset.  Christophe  would  get  up  and  scribble  a  note 
and  slip  it  under  Olivier's  door :  and  next  day  as  soon  as  he 
woke  up  he  would  beg  his  pardon.  Sometimes,  even,  he  would 
knock  at  his  door  in  the  middle  of  the  night :  he  could  not 
bear  to  wait  for  the  day  to  come  before  he  humbled  himself. 
As  a  rule,  Olivier  would  be  just  as  unable  to  sleep.  He  knew 


THE  HOUSE  391 

that  Christophe  loved  him,  and  had  not  wished  to  hurt  him :  but 
he  wanted  to  hear  him  say  so.  Christophe  would  say  so,  and 
then  the  whole  thing  would  be  forgotten.  Then  they  would  be 
pacified.  Delightful  state !  How  well  they  would  sleep  for  the 
rest  of  the  night ! 

"  Ah !  "  Olivier  would  sigh.  "  How  difficult  it  is  to  under- 
stand each  other !  " 

"  But  is  it  necessary  always  to  understand  each  other  ? " 
Christophe  would  ask.  "  I  give  it  up.  We  only  need  love  each 
other." 

All  these  petty  quarrels  which,  with  anxious  tenderness,  they 
would  at  once  find  ways  of  mending,  made  them  almost  dearer 
to  each  other  than  before.  When  they  were  hotly  arguing  An- 
toinette would  appear  in  Olivier's  eyes.  The  two  friends  would 
pay  each  other  womanish  attentions.  Christophe  never  let 
Olivier's  birthday  go  by  without  celebrating  it  by  dedicating  a 
composition  to  him,  or  by  the  gift  of  flowers,  or  a  cake,  or  a 
little  present,  bought  Heaven  knows  how! — (for  they  often  had 
no  money  in  the  house) — Olivier  would  tire  his  eyes  out  with 
copying  out  Christophe's  scores  at  night  and  by  stealth. 

Misunderstandings  between  friends  are  never  very  serious  so 
long  as  a  third  party  does  not  come  between  them. — But  that 
was  bound  to  happen :  there  are  too  many  people  in  this  world 
ready  to  meddle  in  the  affairs  of  others  and  make  mischief  be- 
tween them. 

Olivier  knew  the  Stevens,  whom  Christophe  rarely  visited, 
and  he  too  had  been  attracted  by  Colette.  The  reason  why 
Christophe  had  not  met  him  in  the  girl's  little  court  was  that 
just  at  that  time  Olivier  was  suffering  from  his  sister's  death, 
and  had  shut  himself  up  with  his  grief  and  saw  no  one.  Colette, 
on  her  part,  did  not  go  out  of  her  way  to  see  him  :  she  liked 
Olivier,  but  she  did  not  like  unhappy  people :  she  used  to  de- 
clare that  she  was  so  sensitive  that  she  could  not  bear  the  sight 
of  sorrow :  she  waited  until  Olivier's  sorrow  was  over  before  she 
remembered  his  existence.  When  she  heard  that  he  seemed  to 


392  JEAN-CHKISTOPHE  IN  PAB1S 

be  himself  again,  and  that  there  was  no  danger  of  infection,  she 
made  bold  to  beckon  him  to  her.  Olivier  did  not  need  much 
inducement  to  go.  lie  was  shy  but  he  liked  society,  and  he 
was  easily  led :  and  he  had  a  weakness  for  Colette.  When  he 
told  Christophe  of  his  intention  of  going  back  to  her,  Chris- 
tophe,  who  had  too  much  respect  for  his  friend's  liberty  to 
express  any  adverse  opinion,  just  shrugged  his  shoulders  and 
said  jokingly: 

"  Go,  dear  boy,  if  it  amuses  you." 

But  nothing  would  have  induced  him  to  follow  his  example. 
He  had  made  up  his  mind  to  have  nothing  more  to  do  with  a 
coquette  like  Colette  or  the  world  she  lived  in.  Not  that  he  was 
a  misogynist:  far  from  it.  He  had  a  very  tender  feeling  for 
all  the  young  women  who  worked  for  their  living,  the  factory- 
hands,  and  typists,  and  Government  clerks,  who  are  to  be  seen 
every  morning,  half  awake,  always  a  little  late,  hurrying  to  their 
workshops  and  offices.  -It  seemed  to  him  that  a  woman  was 
only  in  possession  of  all  her  senses  when  she  was  working  and 
struggling  for  her  own  individual  existence,  by  earning  her  daily 
bread  and  her  independence.  And  it  seemed  to  him  that  only 
then  did  she  possess  all  her  charm,  her  alert  suppleness  of  move- 
ment, the  awakening  of  all  her  senses,  her  integrity  of  life  and 
will.  He  detested  the  idle,  pleasure-seeking  woman,  who  seemed 
to  him  to  be  only  an  overfed  animal,  perpetually  in  the  act  of 
digestion,  bored,  browsing  over  unwholesome  dreams.  Olivier, 
i,  on  the  contrary,  adored -the  far  nicnte  of  women,  their  charm, 
|  like  the  charm  of  flowers,  living  only  to  be  beautiful  and  to 
n\  perfume  the  air  about  them.  He  was  more  of  an  artist :  Chris- 
tophe was  more  human.  Unlike  Colette,  Christophe  loved  other 
people  in  proportion  as  they  shared  in  the  suffering  of  the  world. 
So,  between  him  and  them  there  was  a  bond  of  brotherly  com- 
passion. 

Colette  was  particularly  anxious  to  see  Olivier  again,  after 
she  heard  of  his  friendship  with  Christophe:  for  she  was  curi- 
ous to  hear  the  details.  She  was  rather  angry  with  Christophe 
for  the  disdainful  manner  in  which  he  seemed  to  have  for- 


THE  HOUSE  393 

gotten  her:  and,  though  she  had  no  desire  for  revenge, —  (it  was 
not  worth  the  trouble :  and  revenge  does  mean  a  certain  amount 
of  trouble), — she  would  have  been  very  glad  to  pay  him  out. 
She  was  like  a  cat  that  bites  the  hand  that  strokes  it.  She  had 
an  ingratiating  way  with  her,  and  she  had  no  difficulty  in  get- 
ting Olivier  to  talk.  Nobody  could  be  more  clear-sighted  than 
he,  or  less  easily  taken  in  by  people,  when  he  was  away  from 
them :  but  nobody  could  be  more  naively  confiding  than  he  when 
he  was  with  a  woman  whose  eyes  smiled  kindly  at  him.  Colette 
displayed  so  genuine  an  interest  in  his  friendship  with  Chris- 
tophe  that  he  went  so  far  as  to  tell  her  the  whole  story,  and 
even  about  certain  of  their  amicable  misunderstandings,  which, 
at  a  distance,  seemed  amusing,  and  he  took  the  whole  blame  for 
them  on  himself.  He  also  confided  to  Colette  Christopbc's 
artistic  projects,  and  also  some  of  his  opinions — which  wore  not 
altogether  flattering — concerning  France  and  the  French. 
Nothing  that  he  told  her  was  of  any  great  importance  in  it- 
self, but  Colette  repeated  it  all  at  once,  and  adapted  it  partly 
to  make  the  story  more  spicy,  and  partly  to  satisfy  her  secret 
feeling  of  malice  against  Christophe.  And  as  the  first  person  to 
receive  her  confidence  was  naturally  her  inseparable  Lucien 
Levy-Coeur,  who  had  no  reason  for  keeping  it  secret,  the  story 
went  the  rounds,  and  was  embellished  by  the  way:  a  note  of 
ironic  pity  for  Olivier,  who  was  represented  as  a  victim,  was 
introduced,  and  he  cut  rather  a  sorry  figure.  It  seemed  unlikely 
that  the  story  could  be  very  interesting  to  anybody,  since  the 
heroes  of  it  were  very  little  known:  but  a  Parisian  takes  an  in- 
terest in  everything  that  does  not  concern  him.  So  much  so. 
that  one  day  Christophe  heard  the  story  from  the  lips  of  Madame 
Eoussin.  She  met  him  one  day  at  a  concert,  and  asked  him  if 
it  were  true  that  he  had  quarreled  with  that  poor  Olivier 
Jeannin :  and  she  asked  about  his  work,  and  alluded  to  things 
which  he  believed  were  known  only  to  himself  and  Olivier. 
And  when  he  asked  her  how  she  had  come  bv  her  information, 
she  said  she  had  had  it  from  Lucien  Levy-Coeur.  who  had  had 
it  direct  from  Olivier. 


394  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PAEIS 

The  blow  overwhelmed  Christophe.  Violent  and  uncritical 
as  he  was,  it  never  occurred  to  him  to  think  how  utterly  fan- 
tastic the  story  was :  he  only  saw  one  thing :  his  secrets  which 
he  had  confided  to  Olivier  had  been  betrayed — betrayed  to 
Lucien  Levy-Cceur.  He  could  not  stay  to  the  end  of  the  con- 
cert :  he  left  the  hall  at  once.  Around  him  all  was  blank  and 
dark.  In  the  street  he  narrowly  escaped  being  run  over.  He 
said  to  himself  over  and  over  again :  "  My  friend  has  betrayed 
me!  .  .  ." 

Olivier  was  with  Colette.  Christophe  locked  the  door  of 
his  room,  so  that  when  Olivier  came  in  he  could  not  have  his 
usual  talk  with  him.  He  heard  him  come  in  a  few  moments 
later  and  try  to  open  the  door,  and  whisper  "  Good-night " 
through  the  keyhole :  he  did  not  stir.  He  was  sitting  on  his  bed 
in  the  dark,  holding  his  head  in  his  hands,  and  saying  over  and 
over  again :  "  My  friend  has  betrayed  me !  .  .  . " :  and  he 
stayed  like  that  half  through  the  night.  Then  he  felt  how  dearly 
he  loved  Olivier:  for  he  was  not  angry  with  him  for  having 
betrayed  him :  he  only  suffered.  Those  whom  we  love  have  ab- 
solute rights  over  us,  even  the  right  to  cease  loving  us.  We 
cannot  bear  them  any  ill-will;  we  can  only  be  angry  with  our- 
selves for  being  so  unworthy  of  love  that  it  must  desert  us. 
There  is  mortal  anguish  in  such  a  state  of  mind — anguish  which 
destroys  the  will  to  live. 

Next  morning,  when  he  saw  Olivier,  he  did  not  tell  him  any- 
thing :  he  so  detested  the  idea  of  reproaching  him, — reproaching 
him  for  having  abused  his  confidence  and  flung  his  secrets  into 
the  enemy's  maw, — that  he  could  not  find  a  single  word  to  say 
to  him.  But  his  face  said  what  he  could  not  speak:  his  ex- 
pression was  icy  and  hostile.  Olivier  was  struck  dumb  :  he  could 
not  understand  it.  He  tried  timidly  to  discover  what  Chris- 
tophe had  against  him.  Christophe  turned  away  from  him 
brutally,  and  made  no  reply.  Olivier  was  hurt  in  his  turn,  and 
said  no  more,  and  gulped  down  his  distress  in  silence.  They  did 
not  see  each  other  again  that  day. 

Even  if  Olivier  had  made  him  suffer  a  thousand  times  more, 


THE  HOUSE  395 

Chrlstophe  would  never  have  done  anything  to  avenge  himself, 
and  he  would  have  done  hardly  anything  to  defend  himself: 
Olivier  was  sacred  to  him.  But  it  was  necessary  that  the  in- 
dignation he  felt  should  be  expended  upon  some  one :  and  since 
that  some  one  could  not  be  Olivier,  it  was  Lucien  Levy-Cceur. 
With  his  usual  passionate  injustice  he  put  upon  him  the  re- 
sponsibility for  the  ill-doing  which  he  attributed  to  Olivier : 
and  he  suffered  intolerable  pangs  of  jealousy  in  the  thought 
that  such  a  man  as  that  could  have  robbed  him  of  his  friend's 
affection,  just  as  he  had  previously  ousted  him  from  his  friend- 
ship with  Colette  Stevens.  To  bring  his  exasperation  to  a  head, 
that  very  day  he  happened  to  see  an  article  by  Lucien  Levy- 
Cceur  on  a  performance  of  Fidelia.  In  it  he  spoke  of  Beethoven 
in  a  bantering  way,  and  poked  fun  at  his  heroine.  Christophe 
was  as  alive  as  anybody  to  the  absurdities  of  the  opera,  and  even 
to  certain  mistakes  in  the  music.  He  had  not  always  dis- 
played an  exaggerated  respect  for  the  acknowledged  master  him- 
self. But  he  set  no  store  by  always  agreeing  with  his  own 
opinions,  nor  had  he  any  desire  to  be  Frenchily  logical.  He 
was  one  of  those  men  who  are  quite  ready  to  admit  the  faults 
of  their  friends,  but  cannot  bear  anybody  else  to  do  so.  And, 
besides,  it  was  one  thing  to  criticise  a  great  artist,  however  bit- 
terly, from  a  passionate  faith  in  art,  and  even — (one  may  say)  — 
from  an  uncompromising  love  for  his  fame  and  intolerance  of 
anything  mediocre  in  his  work, — and  another  thing,  as  Lucien 
Levy-Cceur  did,  only  to  use  such  criticism  to  flatter  the  base- 
ness of  the  public,  and  to  make  the  gallery  laugh,  by  an  exhibi- 
tion of  wit  at  the  expense  of  a  great  man.  Again,  free  though 
Christophe  was  in  his  judgments,  there  had  always  been  a  cer- 
tain sort  of  music  which  he  had  tacitly  left  alone  and  shielded  : 
music  which  was  not  to  be  tampered  with :  that  music,  which 
was  higher  and  better  than  music,  the  music  of  an  absolutely 
pure  soul,  a  great  health-giving  soul,  to  which  a  man  could  turn 
for  consolation,  strength,  and  hope.  Beethoven's  music  was  in 
the  category.  To  see  a  puppy  like  Levy-Conn-  insulting 
Beethoven  made  him  blind  with  anger.  It  was  no  longer  a 


396  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

question  of  art,  but  a  question  of  honor;  everything  that  makes 
life  rare,  love,,  heroism,  passionate  virtue,  the  good  human 
longing  for  self-sacrifice,  was  at  stake.  The  Godhead  itself  was 
imperiled!  There  was  no  room  for  argument.  It  is  as  im- 
possible to  suffer  that  to  be  besmirched  as  to  hear  the  woman 
you  respect  and  love  insulted:  there  is  but  one  thing  to  do,  to 
hate  and  kill.  .  .  .  What  is  there  to  say  when  the  insulting 
blackguard  was,  of  all  men,  the  one  whom  Christophe  most 
despised  ? 

And,  as  luck  would  have  it,  that  very  evening  the  two  men 
came  face  to  face. 

To  avoid  being  left  alone  with  Olivier,  contrary  to  his  habit, 
Christophe  went  to  an  At  Home  at  the  TCoussins'.  He  was  asked 
to  play.  He  consented  unwillingly.  However,  after  a  moment 
or  two  he  became  absorbed  in  the  music  he  was  playing,  until, 
glancing  up,  he  saw  Lucien  Levy-Cceur  standing  in  a  little 
group,  watching  him  with  an  ironical  stare.  He  stopped  short 
in  the  middle  of  a  bar :  he  got  up  and  turned  away  from  the 
piano.  There  was  an  awkward  silence.  Madame  Uoussin  came 
up  to  Christophe  in  her  surprise  and  smiled  forcedly;  and,  very 
cautiously,— for  she  was  not  sure  whether  the  piece  was  finished 
or  not, — she  asked  him  : 

"Won't  you  go  on,  Monsieur  KrafTt?" 

"  I've  finished,"  he  replied  curtly. 

He  had  hardly  said  it  than  he  became  conscious  of  his  rude- 
ness: but,  instead  of  making  him  more  restrained,  it  only  ex- 
cited him  the  more.  He  paid  no  heed  to  the  amused  attention 
of  his  auditors,  but  went  and  sat  in  a  corner  of  the  room  from 
which  he  could  follow  Lucien  Levy-Ccours  movements.  His 
neighbor,  an  old  general,  with  a  pinkish,  sleepy  face,  light-blue 
eyes,  and  a  childish  expression,  thought  it  incumbent  on  him 
to  compliment  him  on  the  originality  of  his  music.  Christophe 
bowed  irritably,  and  growled  out  a  few  inarticulate  sounds.  The 
general  went  on  talking  with  effusive  politeness  and  a  gentle, 
meaningless  smile:  and  he  wanted  Christophe  to  explain  how  ho 


THE  HOUSE  397 

could  play  such  a  long  piece  of  music  from  memory.  Christophe 
fidgeted  impatiently,  and  thought  wildly  of  knocking  the  old  gen- 
tleman off  the  sofa.  He  wanted  to  hear  what  Lucien  Levy-Cceur 
was  saying:  he  was  waiting  for  an  excuse  for  attacking  him. 
For  some  moments  past  he  had  been  conscious  that  he  was  going 
to  make  a  fool  of  himself:  but  no  power  on  earth  could  have 
kept  him  from  it.— Lucien  Levy-Cceur,  in  his  high  falsetto 
voice,  was  explaining  the  aims  and  secret  thoughts  of  great 
artists  to  a  circle  of  ladies.  During  a  moment  of  silence  Chris- 
.tophe  heard  him  talking  about  the  friendship  of  Wagner  and 
King  Ludwig,  with  all  sorts  of  nasty  innuendoes. 

"  Stop ! "  he  shouted,  bringing  his  fist  down  on  the  table  by 
his  side. 

Everybody  turned  in  amazement.  Lucien  Levy-Cceur  met 
Christophe's  eyes  and  paled  a  little,  and  said  : 

"  Were  you  speaking  to  me?" 

"  You  hound !   .    .    .     Yes,"  said  Christophe. 

He  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"  You  soil  and  sully  everything  that  is  great  in  the  world," 
he  went  on  furiously.  "  There's  the  door !  Get  out,  you  cur, 
or  I'll  fling  you  through  the  window !  " 

He  moved  towards  him.  The  ladies  moved  aside  screaming. 
There  was  a  moment  of  general  confusion.  Christophe  was 
surrounded  at  once.  Lucien  Levy-Cumr  had  half  risen  to  his 
feet:  then  he  resumed  his  careless  attitude  in  his  chair.  Jle 
called  a  servant  who  was  passing  and  gave  him  a  eard :  and  he 
went  on  with  his  remarks  as  though  nothing  had  happened:  but 
his  eyelids  were  twitching  nervously,  and  his  eyes  blinked  as  lie 
looked  this  way  and  that  to  see  how  people  had  taken  it,  Kous- 
sin  had  taken  his  stand  in  front  of  Christophe'.  and  he  took  him 
by  the  lapel  of  his  coat  and  urged  him  in  the  direction  of  the 
door.  Christophe  hung  his  head  in  his  anger  and  shame,  and 
his  eyes  saw  nothing  but  the  wide  expanse  of  shirt- front,  and 
kept  on  counting  the  diamond  studs :  and  he  could  feel  the  big 
man's  breath  on  his  cheek. 

"Come,  come,  mv  dear  fellow!"  said  Roussin.     "What's  the 


398  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PAEIS 

matter  with  you?  Where  are  your  manners?  Control  your- 
self !  Do  you  know  where  you  are  ?  Come,  come,  are  you 
mad?" 

"  I'm  damned  if  I  ever  set  foot  in  your  house  again!"  said 
Christophe,  breaking  free :  and  he  reached  the  door. 

The  people  prudently  made  way  for  him.  In  the  cloak-room 
a  servant  held  out  a  salver.  It  contained  Lucien  Levy-Cceur's 
card.  He  took  it  without  understanding  what  it  meant,  and 
read  it  aloud :  then,  suddenly,  snorting  with  rage,  he  fumbled 
in  his  pockets :  mixed  up  with  a  varied  assortment  of  things,  he 
pulled  out  three  or  four  crumpled  dirty  cards: 

"  There !  There !  "  he  said,  flinging  them  on  the  salver  so 
violently  that  one  of  them  fell  to  the  ground. 

He  left  the  house. 

Olivier  knew  nothing  about  it.  Christophe  chose  as  his  wit- 
nesses the  first  men  of  his  acquaintance  who  turned  up,  the 
musical  critic,  Theophile  Goujart,  and  a  German,  Doctor  Barth, 
an  honorary  lecturer  in  a  Swiss  University,  whom  he  had  met 
one  night  in  a  cafe ;  he  had  made  friends  with  him,  though  they 
had  little  in  common:  but  they  could  talk  to  each  other  about 
Germany.  After  conferring  with  Lucien  Levy-Cceur's  wit- 
nesses, pistols  were  chosen.  Christophe  was  absolutely  ignorant 
about  the  use  of  arms,  and  Goujart  told  him  it  would  not  be  a 
bad  thing  for  him  to  go  and  have  a  few  lessons :  but  Christophe 
refused,  and  while  he  was  waiting  for  the  day  to  come  went  on 
with  his  work. 

But  his  mind  was  distracted.  He  had  a  fixed  idea,  of  which 
he  was  dimly  conscious,  while  it  kept  buzzing  in  his  head  like  a 
bad  dream.  ...  "It  was  unpleasant,  yes,  very  unpleasant. 
.  .  .  What  was  unpleasant  ? — Oh !  the  duel  to-morrow.  .  .  . 
Just  a  joke !  Nobody  is  ever  hurt.  .  .  .  But  it  was  pos- 
sible. .  .  .  Well,  then,  afterwards?  .  .  .  Afterwards,  that 
was  it,  afterwards.  ...  A  cock  of  the  finger  by  that  swine 
who  hates  me  may  wipe  out  my  life.  ...  So  be  it!  .  .  .— 
Yes,  to-morrow,  in  a  day  or  two,  I  may  be  lying  in  the  loathsome 


THE  HOUSE  399 

soil  of  Paris.  .  .  . — Bah!  Here  or  anywhere,  what  does  it 
matter !  .  .  .  Oh  !  Lord :  I'm  not  going  to  play  the  coward ! — 
No,  but  it  would  be  monstrous  to  waste  the  mighty  world  of 
ideas  that  I  feel  springing  to  life  in  me  for  a  moment's  folly. 
.  .  .  What  rot  it  is,  these  modern  duels  in  which  they  try  to 
equalize  the  chances  of  the  two  opponents !  That's  a  fine  sort 
of  equality  that  sets  the  same  value  on  the  life  of  a  mountebank 
as  an  mine!  Why  don't  they  let  us  go  for  each  other  with  fists 
and  cudgels?  There'd  be  some  pleasure  in  that.  But  this  cold- 
blooded shooting !  .  .  .  And.  of  course,  he  knows  how  to 
shoot,  and  I  have  never  had  a  pistol  in  my  hand.  .  .  .  They 
are  right:  I  must  learn.  .  .  .  He'll  try  to  kill  me.  I'll  kill 
him." 

He  went  out.  There  was  a  range  a  few  yards  away  from 
the  house.  Christophe  asked  for  a  pistol,  and  had  it  explained 
how  he  ought  to  hold  it.  With  his  first  shot  he  almost  killed 
his  instructor :  he  went  on  with  a  second  and  a  third,  and  fared 
no  better :  he  lost  patience,  and  went  from  bad  to  worse.  A  few 
young  men  were  standing  by  watching  and  laughing.  He  paid  no 
heed  to  them.  With  his  German  persistency  he  went  on  trying, 
and  was  so  indifferent  to  their  laughter  and  so  determined  to 
succeed  that,  as  always  happens,  his  blundering  patience  roused 
interest,  and  one  of  the  spectators  gave  him  advice.  In  spite  of 
his  usual  violence  he  listened  to  everything  with  childlike  docil- 
ity; he  managed  to  control  his  nerves,  which  were  making  his 
hand  tremble:  he  stiffened  himself  and  knit  his  brows:  the 
sweat  was  pouring  down  his  cheeks :  he  said  not  a  word :  but 
every  now  and  then  he  would  give  way  to  a  gust  of  anger,  and 
then  go  on  shooting.  He  stayed  there  for  a  couple  of  hours. 
At  the  end  of  that  time  he  hit  the  bull's-eye.  Few  things  could 
have  been  more  absorbing  than  the  sight  of  such  a  power  of  will 
mastering  an  awkward  and  rebellions  body.  It  inspired  re- 
spect. Some  of  those  who  had  scoffed  at  the  outset  had  gone, 
and  the  others  were  silenced  one  by  one,  and  had  not  been  able 
to  tear  themselves  away.  They  took  off  their  hats  to  Chris- 
tophe when  he  went  away. 


400  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IX  PAEIS 

When  he  reached  home  Christophe  found  his  friend  Mooch 
waiting  anxiously.  Mooch  had  heard  of  the  quarrel,  and  had 
come  at  once :  he  wanted  to  know  how  it  had  originated.  In 
spite  of  Christophe's  reticence  and  desire  not  to  attach  any 
blame  to  Olivier,  he  guessed  the  reason.  He  was  very  cool- 
headed,  and  knew  both  the  friends,  and  had  no  doubt  of  Olivier's 
innocence  of  the  treachery  ascribed  to  iiim.  He  looked  into  the 
matter,  and  had  no  difficulty  in  rinding  out  that  the  whole 
trouble  arose  from  the  scandal-mongcring  of  Colette  and  Lucien 
Levy-Cceur.  He  rushed  back  with  his  evidence  to  Christophe, 
thinking  that  he  could  in  that  way  prevent  the  duel.  But  the 
result  was  exactly  the  opposite  of  what  he  expected :  Chris- 
tophe was  only  the  more  rancorous  against  Levy-Coeur  when  he 
learned  that  it  was  through  him  that  he  had  come  to  doubt  his 
friend.  To  get  rid  of  Mooch,  who  kept  on  imploring  him  not 
to  fight,  he  promised  him  everything  he  asked.  But  he  had 
made  up  his  mind.  He  was  quite  happy  now :  he  was  going  to 
fight  for  Olivier,  not  for  himself! 

A  remark  made  by  one  of  the  seconds  as  the  carriage  was 
going  along  a  road  through  the  woods  suddenly  caught  Chris- 
tophe's attention.  He  tried  to  find  out  what  they  were  think- 
ing, and  saw  how  little  they  really  cared  about  him.  Professor 
Barth  was  wondering  when  the  affair  would  be  over,  and  whether 
he  would  be  back  in  time  to  finish  a  piece  of  work  he  had  be- 
gun on  the  manuscripts  in  the  Hibliotluque  National  e.  Of 
Christophe's  three  companions,  he  was  the  most  interested  in  the 
result  of  the  encounter  as  a  matter  of  German  national  pride. 
Goujart  paid  no  attention  either  to  Christophe  or  the  other  Ger- 
man, but  discussed  certain  scabrous  subjects  in  connection  with 
the  coarser  branches  of  physiology  with  Dr.  Juliien,  a  young 
physician  from  Toulouse,  who  had  recently  come  to  live  next 
door  to  Christophe,  and  occasionally  borrowed  his  spirit-lamp, 
or  his  umbrella,  or  his  coffee-cups,  which  lie  invariably  returned 
broken.  In  return  he  gave  him  free  consultations,  tried  medi- 
cines on  him,  and  laughed  at  his  simplicity.  Under  his  im- 
passive manner,  that  would  have  well  become  a  Castilian  hidalgo, 


THE  HOUSE  401 

there  was  a  perpetual  love  of  teasing.  He  was  highly  delighted 
with  the  adventure  of  the  duel,  which  struck  him  as  sheer 
burlesque:  and  he  was  amusing  himself  with  fancying  the  mess 
that  Christophe  would  make  of  it.  He  thought  it  a  great  joke 
to  be  driving  tli rough  the  woods  at  the  expense  of  good  old 
Krafft. — That,  clearly,  was  what  was  in  the  minds  of  the  trio: 
they  regarded  it  as  a  jolly  excursion  which  cost  them  nothing. 
Xot  one  of  them  attached  the  least  importance  to  the  duel.  Rut, 
on  the  other  hand,  they  were  just  as  calmly  prepared  for  any- 
thing that  might  come  of  it. 

They  reached  the  appointed  spot  before  the  others.  It  was  a 
little  inn  in  the  heart  of  the  forest.  It  was  a  pleasure-resort, 
more  or  less  unclean,  to  which  Parisians  used  to  resort  to  cleanse 
their  honor  when  the  dirt  on  it  became  too  apparent.  The 
hedges  were  bright  with  the  pure  flowers  of  the  eglantine.  Fn 
the  shade  of  the  bronze-leaved  oak-trees  there  were  rows  of  little 
tables.  At  one  of  these  tables  were  seated  three  bicyclists :  a 
painted  woman,  in  knickerbockers,  with  black  socks :  and  two 
men  in  flannels,  who  were  stupefied  by  the  heat,  and  every  now 
and  then  gave  out  growls  and  grunts  as  though  they  had  for- 
gotten how  to  speak. 

The  arrival  of  the  carriage  produced  a  little  \nr///.  of  excite- 
ment in  the  inn.  Goujart,  who  knew  the  house  and  the  people 
of  old,  declared  that  he  would  look  after  everything.  Rarth 
dragged  Christophe  into  an  arbor  and  ordered  beer.  The  air 
was  deliciously  warm  and  soft,  and  resounding  with  the  buz/ing 
of  bees.  Christophe  forgot  why  he  had  come.  Rarth  emptied 
the  bottle,  and  said^  after  a  short  silence : 

"  1  know  what  HI  do." 

He  drank  and  went  on: 

"I  shall  have  plenty  of  time:  I'll  go  on  to  Versailles  when 
it's  all  over/' 

Goujart  was  heard  haggling  with  the  landlady  over  the  price 
of  the  dueling-ground.  Jullien  had  not  been  wasting  his  rime: 
as  he  passed  near  the  bicyclists  he  broke  into  noisy  and  ecstatic 
comment  on  the  woman's  bare  le«;s:  and  there  was  exchanged  a 


402  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

perfect  deluge  of  filthy  epithets  in  which  Jullien  did  not  come  off 
worst.  Earth  said  in  a  whisper : 

"  The  French  are  a  low-minded  lot.  Brother,  I  drink  to 
your  victory." 

He  clinked  his  glass  against  Christophe's.  Christophe  was 
dreaming :  scraps  of  music  were  floating  in  his  mind,  mingled 
with  the  harmonious  humming  of  insects.  He  was  very  sleepy. 

The  wheels  of  another  carriage  crunched  over  the  gravel  of 
the  drive.  Christophe  saw  Lucien  Levy-Cceur's  pale  face,  with 
its  inevitable  smile :  and  his  anger  leaped  up  in  him.  He  got 
up,  and  Earth  followed  him. 

Levy-Cceur,  with  his  neck  swathed  in  a  high  stock,  was 
dressed  with  a  scrupulous  care  which  was  strikingly  in  contrast 
with  his  adversary's  untidiness.  He  was  followed  by  Count 
Bloch,  a  sportsman  well  known  for  his  mistresses,  his  collec- 
tion of  old  pyxes,  and  his  ultra-Royalist  opinions, — Leon  Money, 
another  man  of  fashion,  who  had  reached  his  position  as  Deputy 
through  literature,  and  was  a  writer  from  political  ambition :  he 
was  young,  bald,  clean-shaven,  with  a  lean  bilious  face :  he  had 
a  long  nose,  round  eyes,  and  a  head  like  a  bird's, — and  Dr.  Em- 
manuel, a  fine  type  of  Semite,  well-meaning  and  cold,  a  mem- 
ber of  the  Academy  of  Medicine,  a  chief-surgeon  in  a  hospital, 
famous  for  a  number  of  scientific  books,  and  the  medical  skep- 
ticism which  made  him  listen  with  ironic  pity  to  the  plaints 
of  his  patients  without  making  the  least  attempt  to  cure 
them. 

The  newcomers  saluted  the  other  three  courteously.  Chris- 
tophe barely  responded,  but  was  annoyed  by  the  eagerness  and 
the  exaggerated  politeness  with  which  they  treated  Levy-Coour's 
seconds.  Jullien  knew  Emmanuel,  and  Goujart  knew  Money, 
and  they  approached  them  obsequiously  smiling.  Money 
greeted  them  with  cold  politeness  and  Emmanuel  jocularly  and 
without  ceremony.  As  for  Count  Bloch,  he  stayed  by  Levy- 
Cceur,  and  with  a  rapid  glance  he  took  in  the  condition  of  the 
clothes  and  linen  of  the  three  men  of  the  opposing  camp,  and, 
hardly  opening  his  lips,  passed  abrupt  humorous  comment  on 


THE  HOUSE  403 

them  with  his  friend, — and  both  of  them  stood  calm  and 
correct. 

Lucien  Levy-Cceur  stood  at  his  ease  waiting  for  Count  Bloch, 
who  had  the  ordering  of  the  duel,  to  give  the  signal.  He 
regarded  the  affair  as  a  mere  formality.  He  was  an  excellent 
shot,  and  was  fully  aware  of  his  adversary's  want  of  skill.  He 
would  not  be  foolish  enough  to  make  use  of  his  advantage  and 
hit  him,  always  supposing,  as  was  not  very  probable,  that  the 
seconds  did  not  take  good  care  that  no  harm  came  of  the  en- 
counter: for  he  knew  that  nothing  is  so  stupid  as  to  let  an 
enemy  appear  to  be  a  victim,  when  a  much  surer  and  better 
method  is  to  wipe  him  out  of  existence  without  any  fuss  being 
made.  But  Christophe  stood  waiting,  stripped  to  his  shirt, 
which  was  open  to  reveal  his  thick  neck,  while  his  sleeves  were 
rolled  up  to  show  his  strong  wrists,  head  down,  with  his  eyes 
glaring  at  Levy-Cceur:  he  stood  taut,  with  murder  written  im- 
placably on  every  feature:  and  Count  Bloch,  who  watched  him 
carefully,  thought  what  a  good  thing  it  was  that  civilization 
had  as  far  as  possible  suppressed  the  risks  of  fighting. 

After  both  men  had  fired,  of  course  without  result,  the  sec- 
onds hurried  forward  and  congratulated  the  adversaries.  Honor 
was  satisfied. — Xot  so  Christophe.  He  stayed  there,  pistol  in 
hand,  unable  to  believe  that  it  was  all  over.  lie  was  quite 
ready  to  repeat  his  performance  at  the  range  the  evening  before, 
and  go  on  shooting  until  one  or  other  of  them  had  hit  the 
target.  When  he  heard  Goujart  proposing  that  he  should  shake 
hands  with  his  adversary,  who  advanced  chivalrously  towards 
him  with  his  perpetual  smile,  he  was  exasperated  by  the  pretense 
of  the  whole  thing.  Angrily  he  hurled  his  pistol  away,  pushed 
Goujart  aside,  and  flung  himself  upon  Lucien  Levy-Camr. 
They  were  hard  put  to  it  to  keep  him  from  going  on  with  the 
fight  with  his  fists. 

The  seconds  intervened  while  Levy-Cceur  escaped.  Chris- 
tophe broke  away  from  them,  and,  without  listening  to  their 
laughing  expostulation,  he  strode  along  in  the  direction  of  the 
forest,  talking  loudly  and  gesticulating  wildly.  He  did  not 


404  JEAN-CHKISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

even  notice  that  lie  had  left  his  hat  and  coat  on  the  dueling- 
ground.  He  plunged  into  the  woods.  He  heard  his  seconds 
laughing  and  calling  him:  then  they  tired  of  it,  and  did  not 
worry  about  him  any  more.  Ver}-  soon  he  heard  the  wheels 
of  the  carriages  rumbling  away  and  away,  and  knew  that  they 
had  gone.  He  was  left  alone  among  the  silent  trees.  His  fury 
had  subsided.  He  flung  himself  down  on  the  ground  and 
sprawled  on  the  grass. 

Shortly  afterwards  Mooch  arrived  at  the  inn.  He  had  been 
pursuing  Christophe  since  the  early  morning.  He  was  told 
that  his  friend  was  in  the  woods,  and  went  to  look  for  him. 
He  beat  all  the  thickets,  and  awoke  all  the  echoes,  and  was 
going  away  in  despair  when  he  heard  him  singing:  he  found 
his  way  by  the  voice,  and  at  last  came  upon  him  in  a  little 
clearing  with  his  arms  and  legs  in  the  air,  rolling  about  like 
a  young  calf.  When  Christophe  saw  him  he  shouted  merrily, 
called  him  "  dear  old  Moloch,"  and  told  him  how  he  had  shot 
his  adversary  full  of  holes  until  he  was  like  a  sieve :  he  made 
him  tuck  in  his  tuppenny,  and  then  join  him  in  a  game  of 
leap-frog :  and  when  he  jumped  over  him  he  gave  him  a  terrific 
thump.  Mooch  was  not  very  good  at  it,  but  he  enjoyed  the 
game  almost  as  much  as  Christophe. — They  returned  to  the  inn 
arm-in-arm,  and  caught  the  train  back  to  Paris  at  the  nearest 
station. 

Olivier  knew  nothing  of  what  had  happened.  He  was  sur- 
prised at  Christophe's  tenderness :  he  could  not  understand  his 
sudden  change.  It  was  not  until  the  next  day,  when  he  saw  the 
newspapers,  that  he  knew  that  Christophe  had  fought  a  duel. 
It  made  him  almost  ill  to  think  of  the  danger  that  Chris- 
tophe had  run.  He  wanted  to  know  why  the  duel  had  been 
fought.  Christophe  refused  to  tell  him  anything.  When  he 
was  pressed  he  said  with  a  laugh: 

"It  was   for   you." 

Olivier  could  not  get  a  word  more  out  of  him.  Mooch  told 
him  all  about  it.  Olivier  was  horrified,  quarreled  with  Colette. 
and  begged  Christophe  to  forgive  his  imprudence.  Christophe 


THE  HOUSE  405 

•was  incorrigible,   and   quoted    for   his   benefit   an    old    French 
saying,  which  he  adapted  so  as  to  infuriate  poor  Mooch,  who 
was  present  to  share  in  the  happiness  of  the  friends : 
"  My  dear  boy,  let  this  teach  you  to  be  careful.   .    .    . 

•'  From  an  idle  chattering  girl, 
From  a  loheedling,  hypocritical  Jew, 
From  a  painted  friend, 
From  a  familiar  foe, 
And  from  flat  wine, 
Libera,  Nos,  Dotnine!" 

Their  friendship  was  re-established.  The  danger  of  losing 
it,  which  had  come  so  near,  made  it  only  the  more  dear.  Their 
small  misunderstandings  had  vanished  :  the  very  differences  be- 
tween them  made  them  more  attractive  to  each  other.  In  his 
own  soul  Christophe  embraced  the  souls  of  the  two  countries, 
harmoniously  united.  He  felt  that  his  heart  was  rich  and 
full :  and,  as  usual  with  him,  his  abundant  happiness  expressed 
itself  in  a  flow  of  music. 

Olivier  marveled  at  it.  Being  too  critical  in  mind,  he  was 
never  far  from  believing  that  music,  which  he  adored,  had 
said  its  last  word.  He  was  haunted  by  the  morbid  idea  that 
decadence  must  inevitably  succeed  a  certain  degree  of  progress: 
and  he  trembled  lest  the  lovely  art,  which  made  him  love  life, 
should  stop  short,  and  dry  up,  and  disappear  into  the  ground. 
Christophe  would  scoff  at  such  pusillanimous  ideas.  In  a 
spirit  of  contradiction  he  would  pretend  that  nothing  had  been 
done  before  he  appeared  on  the  scene,  and  that  everything  re- 
mained to  be  done.  Olivier  would  instance  French  music. 
which  seemed  to  have  reached  a  point  of  perfection  and  ultimate 
civilization  beyond  which  there  could  not  possibly  be  anything. 
Christophe  would  shrug  his  shoulders: 

"French  music?  .  .  .  There  has  never  been  any.  .  .  . 
And  yet  you  have  such  fine  things  to  do  in  the  world  !  You 
can't  really  be  musicians,  or  you  would  have  discovered  that 
Ah!  if  only  I  were  a  Frenchman!  . 


406  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

And  he  would  set  out  all  the  things  that  a  Frenchman  might 
turn  into  music : 

"  You  involve  yourselves  in  forms  which  do  not  -  suit  you, 
and  you  do  nothing  at  all  with  those  which  are  admirably 
fitted  for  your  use.  You  are  a  people  of  elegance,  polite  poetry, 
beautiful  gestures,  beautiful  walking  movements,  beautiful  at- 
titudes, fashion,  clothes,  and  you  never  write  ballets  nowadays, 
though  you  ought  to  be  able  to  create  an  inimitable  art  of 
poetic  dancing.  .  .  .> — You  are  a  people  of  laughter  and 
comedy,  and  you  never  write  comic  operas,  or  else  you  leave  it  to 
minor  musicians,  the  confectioners  of  music.  Ah !  if  I  were  a 
Frenchman  I  would  set  Rabelais  to  music,  I  would  write  comic 
epics.  .  .  . — You  are  a  people  of  story-tellers,  and  you  never 
write  novels  in  music:  (for  I  don't  count  the  feuilletons  of 
Gustave  Charpentier).  You  make  no  use  of  your  gift  of 
psychological  analysis,  your  insight  into  character.  Ah !  if  I 
were  a  Frenchman  I  would  give  you  portraits  in  music.  .  .  . 
(Would  you  like  me  to  sketch  the  girl  sitting  in  the  garden 
under  the  lilac?).  ...  I  would  write  you  Stendhal  for  a 
string  quartet.  .  .  . — You  are  the  greatest  democracy  in 
Europe,  and  you  have  no  theater  for  the  people,  no  music  for 
the  people.  Ah !  if  I  were  a  Frenchman,  I  would  set  your 
Revolution  to  music :  the  14th  July,  the  10th  August,  Valmy, 
the  Federation.  I  would  express  the  people  in  music !  Not  in 
the  false  form  of  Wagnerian  declamation.  I  want  symphonies, 
choruses,  dances.  Not  speeches !  I'm  sick  of  them.  There's 
no  reason  why  people  should  always  be  talking  in  a  music  drama  ! 
Bother  the  words !  Paint  in  bold  strokes,  in  vast  symphonies 
with  choruses,  immense  landscapes  in  music,  Homeric  and 
Biblical  epics,  fire,  earth,  water,  and  sky,  all  bright  and  shining, 
the  fever  which  makes  hearts  burn,  the  stirring  of  the  instincts 
and  destinies  of  a  race,  the  triumph  of  Rhythm,  the  emperor 
of  the  world,  who  enslaves  thousands  of  men,  and  hurls  armies 
down  to  death.  .  .  .  Music  everywhere,  music  in  everything ! 
If  you  were  musicians  you  would  have  music  for  every  one  of 
your  public  holidays,  for  your  official  ceremonies,  for  the  trades 


THE  HOUSE  407 

unions,  for  the  student  associations,  for  your  family  festivals. 
.  .  .  But,  above  all,  above  all,  if  you  were  musicians,  you 
would  make  pure  music,  music  which  has  no  definite  meaning, 
music  which  has  no  definite  use,  save  only  to  give  warmth, 
and  air,  and  life.  Make  sunlight  for  yourselves!  Sat  prata. 
.  .  .  (What  is  that  in  Latin?).  .  .  .  There  has  been  rain 
enough.  Your  music  gives  me  a  cold.  One  can't  see  in  it : 
light  your  lanterns.  .  .  .  You  complain  of  the  Italian 
porclierie,  who  invade  your  theaters,  and  conquer  the  public, 
and  turn  you  out  of  your  own  house?  It  is  your  own  fault! 
The  public  are  sick  of  your  crepuscular  art,  your  harmonized 
neurasthenia,  your  contrapuntal  pedantry.  The  public  goes 
where  it  can  find  life,  however  coarse  and  gross.  Why  do  you 
run  away  from  life?  Your  Debussy  is  a  bad  man,  however 
great  he  may  be  as  an  artist.  He  aids  and  abets  you  in  your 
torpor.  You  want  roughly  waking  up." 

"What  about  Strauss?" 

"  Xo  better.  Strauss  would  finish  you  off.  You  need  the 
digestion  of  my  fellow-countrymen  to  be  able  to  bear  such  im- 
moderate drinking.  And  even  they  cannot  bear  it.  ... 
Strauss's  Salome!  ...  A  masterpiece.  ...  I  should  not 
like  to  have  written  it.  ...  I  think  of  my  old  grand- 
father and  uncle  Gottfried,  and  with  what  respect  and  loving 
tenderness  they  used  to  talk  to  me  about  the  lovely  art  of 
sound  !  .  .  .  But  to  have  the  handling  of  such  divine  powers, 
and  to  turn  them  to  such  uses !  .  .  .  A  flaming,  consuming 
meteor!  An  Isolde,  who  is  a  Jewish  prostitute.  Bestial  and 
mournful  lust.  The  frenzy  of  murder,  pillage,  incest,  and  un- 
trammeled  instincts  which  is  stirring  in  the  depths  of  German 
decadence.  .  .  .  And,  on  the  other  hand,  the  spasm  of  a 
voluptuous  and  melancholy  suicide,  the  death-rattle  which  sounds 
through  your  French  decadence.  ...  On  the  one  hand,  the 
beast:  on  the  other,  the  prey.  Where  is  man?  .  .  .  Your 
Debussy  is  the  genius  of  good  taste:  Strauss  is  the  genius  of 
bad  taste.  Debussy  is  rather  insipid.  But  Strauss  is  very  un- 
pleasant. One  is  a  silvery  thread  of  stagnant  water,  losing  it- 


408  JEAN-CIITttSTOPHE  IN  TAETS 

.self  in  the  reeds,  and  giving  off  an  unhealthy  aroma.  The 
other  is  a  mighty  muddy  flood.  .  .  .  Ah !  the  musty  base 
Italianism  and  neo-Meyerbeerism,  the  filthy  masses  of  senti- 
ment which  are  borne  on  by  the  torrent !  .  .  .  An  odious 
masterpiece !  .  .  .  Salome,  the  daughter  of  Ysolde.  .  .  . 
And  whose  mother  will  Salome  be  in  her  turn?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Olivier,  "  I  wish  we  could  jump  fifty  years. 
This  headlong  gallop  towards  the  precipice  must  end  one  way 
or  another:  either  the  horse  must  stop  or  fall.  Then  we  shall 
breathe  again.  Thank  Heaven,  the  earth  will  not  cease  to 
flower,  nor  the  sky  to  give  light,  with  or  without  music!  What 
have  we  to  do  with  an  art  so  inhuman !  .  .  .  The  West  is 
burning  away.  .  .  .  Soon.  .  .  .  Very  soon.  ...  I  see 
other  stars  arising  in  the  furthest  depths  of  the  East." 

"Bother  the  East!"  said  Christophe.  "The  West  has  not 
said  its  last  word  yet.  Do  you  think  I  am  going  to  abdicate? 
I  have  enough  to  say  to  keep  you  going  for  centuries.  Hurrah 
for  life!  Hurrah  for  joy!  Hurrah  for  the  courage  which 
drives  us  on  to  struggle  with  our  destiny !  Hurrah  for  love 
which  maketh  the  heart  big!  Hurrah  for  friendship  which  re- 
kindles our  faith,— friendship,  a  sweeter  thing  than  love! 
Hurrah  for  the  day!  Hurrah  for  the  night!  Glory  be  to  the 
sun  !  La  us  Deo,  the  God  of  joy.  the  God  of  dreams  and  actions, 
the  God  who  created  music!  Hosannah  !  ..." 

With  that,  he  sat  down  at  his  desk  and  Avrote  down  every- 
thing that  was  in  his  head,  without  another  thought  for  what 
lie  had  been  saying. 

At  that  time  Christophe  was  in  a  condition  in  which  all 
the  elements  of  his  life  were  perfectly  balanced.  He  did  not 
bother  his  head  with  esthetic  discussions  as  to  the  value  of 
this  or  that  musical  form',  nor  with  reasoned  attempts  to  create 
a  new  form  :  he  did  not  even  have  to  cast  about  for  subjects  for 
translation  into  music.  One  thing  was  as  good  ns  another. 
The  flood  of  music  welled  forth  without  Christophe  knowing 
exactly  what  feeling  he  was  expressing.  He  was  happy :  that 


THE  HOUSE  409 

was  all:  happy  in  expanding,  happy  in  having  expanded,  happy 
in  feeling  within  himself  the  pulse  of  universal  life. 

His  fullness  of  joy  was  communicated  to  those  about  him. 

The  house  with  its  closed  garden  was  too  small  for  him.  He 
had  the  view  out  over  the  garden  of  the  neighboring  convent 
with  the  solitude  of  its  great  avenues  and  century-old  trees: 
but  it  was  too  good  to  last.  In  front  of  Christophe's  windows 
they  were  building  a  six-story  house,  which  shut  out  the  view 
and  completely  hemmed  him  in.  In  addition,  he  had  the  pleas- 
ure of  hearing  the  creaking  of  pulleys,  the  chipping  of  stones, 
the  hammering  of  nails,  all  day  long  from  morning  to  night. 
Among  the  workmen  he  found  his  old  friend  the  slater,  whose 
acquaintance  he  had  made  on  the  roof.  The}'  made  signs  to 
each  other,  and  once,  when  he  met  him  in  the  street,  he  took 
the  man  to  a  wineshop,  and  they  drank  together,  much  to  the 
surprise  of  Olivier,  who  was  a  little  scandalized.  He  found  the 
man's  drollery  and  unfailing  good-humor  very  entertaining,  but 
did  not  curse  him  any  the  less,  with  his  troop  of  workmen  and 
stupid  idiots  who  were  raising  a  barricade  in  front  of  the 
house  and  robbing  him  of  air  and  light.  Olivier  did  not  com- 
plain much:  he  could  quite  easily  adapt  himself  to  a  lim- 
ited horizon:  he  was  like  the  stove  of  Descartes,  from  which 
the  suppressed  ideas  darted  upward  to  the  free  sky.  But  Chris- 
tophe  needed  more  air.  Shut  up  in  that  confined  space,  he 
avenged  himself  by  expanding  into  the  lives  of  those  about 
him.  He  drank  in  their  inmost  life,  and  turned  it  into  music. 
Olivier  used  to  tell  him  that  he  looked  like  a  lover. 

"  If  1  were  in  love."  Christophe  would  reply,  "  I  should 
see  nothing,  love  nothing,  be  interested  in  nothing  outside  my 
love." 

"What  is  the  matter  with  you,  then?" 

"I'm  very  well.      I'm  hungry." 

"Lucky  Christophe!"  Olivier  would  sigh.  "I  wish  you 
could  hand  a  little  of  your  appetite  over  to  us." 

Health,  like  sickness,  is  contagious.  The  first  to  feel  the 
benefit  of  Christophe's  vitality  was  naturally  Olivier.  Vitality 


410  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PAEIS 

was  what  he  most  lacked.  He  retired  from  the  world  because 
its  vulgarity  revolted  him.  Brilliantly  clever  though  he  was, 
and  in  spite  of  his  exceptional  artistic  gifts,  he  was  too  delicate 
to  be  a  great  artist.  Great  artists  do  not  feel  disgust :  the  first 
raw  for  every  healthy  being  is  to  live :  and  that  law  is  even  more 
imperative  for  a  man  of  genius :  for  such  a  man  lives  more. 
Olivier  fled  from  life :  he  drifted  along  in  a  world  of  poetic  fic- 
tions that  had  no  body,  no  flesh  and  blood,  no  relation  to  reality. 
He  was  one  of  those  literary  men  who,  in  quest  of  beauty,  have 
to  go  outside  time,  into  the  days  that  are  no  more,  or  the  days 
that  have  never  been.  As  though  the  wine  of  life  were  not  as 
intoxicating,  and  its  vintages  as  rich  nowadays  as  ever  they 
were !  But  men  who  are  weary  in  soul  recoil  from  direct  con- 
tact with  life :  they  can  only  bear  to  see  it  through  the  veil  of 
visions  spun  by  the  backward  movement  of  time,  and  hear  it 
in  the  echo  which  sends  back  and  distorts  the  dead  words  of 
those  who  were  once  alive. — Christophers  friendship  gradually 
dragged  Olivier  out  of  this  Limbo  of  art.  The  sun's  rays 
pierced  through  to  the  innermost  recesses  of  his  soul  in  which  he 
was  languishing. 

Elsberger,  the  engineer,  also  succumbed  to  Christophe's  con- 
tagious optimism.  It  was  not  shown  in  any  change  in  his 
habits :  they  were  too  inveterate :  and  it  was  too  much  to  expect 
him  to  become  enterprising  enough  to  leave  France  and  go  and 
seek  his  fortune  elsewhere.  But  he  was  shaken  out  of  his 
apathy:  he  recovered  his  taste  for  research,  and  reading,  and 
the  scientific  work  which  he  had  long  neglected.  He  would 
have  been  much  astonished  had  lie  been  told  that  Christophe 
had  something  to  do  with  his  new  interest  in  his  work :  and 
certainly  no  one  would  have  been  more  surprised  than 
Christophe. 

But  of  all  the  inhabitants  of  the  house,  Christophe  was  the 
soonest  intimate  with  the  little  couple  on  the  second  floor. 
More  than  once  as  he  passed  their  door  he  had  stopped  to  listen 


THE  HOUSE  411 

to  the  sound  of  the  piano  which  Madame  Arnaud  used  to  play 
quite  well  when  she  was  alone.  Then  he  gave  them  tickets 
for  his  concert,  for  which  they  thanked  him  effusively.  And 
after  that  he  used  to  go  and  sit  with  them  occasionally  in  the 
evening.  He  had  never  heard  Madame  Arnaud  playing  again: 
she  was  too  shy  to  play  in  company :  and  even  when  she  was 
alone,  now  that  she  knew  she  could  be  heard  on  the  stairs,  she 
kept  the  soft  pedal  down.  But  Christophe  used  to  play  to 
them,  and  they  would  talk  about  it  for  hours  together.  The 
Arnauds  used  to  speak  of  music  with  such  eagerness  and  fresh- 
ness of  feeling  that  he  was  enchanted  with  them.  He  had  not 
thought  it  possible  for  French  people  to  care  so  much  for 
music. 

"  That,"  Olivier  would  say,  "  is  because  you  have  only  come 
across  musicians." 

"  I'm  perfectly  aware,"  Christophe  would  reply,  "  that  pro- 
fessed musicians  are  the  very  people  who  care  least  for  music : 
but  you  can't  make  me  believe  that  there  are  many  people  like 
you  in  France." 

"  A  few  thousands  at  any  rate." 

"  I  suppose  it's  an  epidemic,  the  latest  fashion." 

"It  is  not  a  matter  of  fashion,"  said  Arnaud.  "He  who 
does  not  rejoice  to  hear  a  sweet  accord  of  instruments,  or  the 
sweetness  of  the  natural  voice,  and  is  not  moved  bi/  it,  and' 
does  not  tremble  from  head  to  foot  with  its  sweet  ravishment, 
and  is  not  taken  completely  out  of  himself,  does  thereby  show 
himself  to  have  a  twisted,  vicious,  and  depraved  soul,  and  of 
such  an  one  we  should  beware  as  of  a  man  ill-born.  ..." 

"  I  know  that,"  said  Christophe.  "It  is  my  friend 
Shakespeare." 

"  Xo,"  said  Arnaud  gently.  "  It  is  a  Frenchman  who  lived 
before  him,  Ronsard.  That  will  show  you  that,  if  it  is  the 
fashion  in  France  to  care  for  music,  it  is  no  new  thing." 

But  what  astonished  Christophe  was  not  so  much  that  people 
in  France  should  care  for  music,  as  that  almost  without  excep- 
tion they  cared  for  the  same  music  as  the  people  in  Germany. 


JEAN-CHKISTOPHE  IN  PAEIS 

In  the  world  of  Parisian  snobs  and  artists,  in  which  he  had 
moved  at  first,  it  had  boon  the  mode  to  treat  the  German 
masters  as  distinguished  foreigners,  by  all  means  to  be  admired, 
but  to  be  kept  at  a  distance :  they  were  always  ready  to  poke  fun 
at  the  dullness  of  a  Gluck,  and  the  barbarity  of  a  Wagner: 
against  them  they  set  up  the  subtlety  of  the  French  composers. 
And  in  the  end  Christophe  had  begun  to  wonder  whether  a 
Frenchman  could  have  the  least  understanding  of  German  music, 
to  judge  by  the  way  it  was  rendered  in  France.  Only  a  short 
time  before  he  had  come  away  perfectly  scandalized  from  a  per- 
formance of  an  opera  of  G  luck's :  the  ingenious  Parisians  had 
taken  it  into  their  heads  to  deck  the  old  fellow  up,  and  cover 
him  with  ribbons,  and  pad  out  his  rhythms,  and  bedizen  his 
music  with  impressionistic  settings,  and  charming  little  dancing 
girls,  forward  and  wanton.  .  .  .  Poor  Gluck !  There  was 
nothing  left  of  his  eloquent  and  sublime  feeling,  his  moral 
purity,  his  naked  sorrow.  Was  it  that  the  French  could  not 
understand  these  things?— And  now  Christophe  could  see  how 
deeply  and  tenderly  his  new  friends  loved  the  very  inmost  qual- 
ity of  the  Germanic  spirit,  and  the  old  German  liedcr,  and  the 
German  classics.  And  he  asked  them  if  it  was  not  the  fact 
that  the  great  Germans  were  as  foreigners  to  them,  and  that  a 
Frenchman  could  only  really  love  the  artists  of  his  own  na- 
tionality. 

"  Not  at  all !  "  they  protested.  "  It  is  only  the  critics  who 
take  upon  themselves  to  speak  for  us.  They  always  follow  the 
fashion,  and  they  want  us  to  follow  it  too.  But  we  don't  worry 
about  them  any  more  than  they  worry  about  us.  They're  funny 
little  people,  trying  to  teach  us  what  is  and  is  not  French — us, 
who  are  French  of  the  old  stock  of  France!  .  .  .  They  come 
and  tell  us  that  our  France  is  in  Ramcau.— or  Racine, — and 
nowhere  else.  As  though  we  did  not  know, —  (and  thousands 
like  us  in  the  provinces,  and  in  Paris).  How  often  Beethoven, 
Mozart,  and  Gluck,  have  sat  with  us  by  the  fireside,  and  watched 
with  us  by  the  bedside  of  those  we  love,  and  shared  our 
troubles,  and  revived  our  hopes,  and  been  one  of  ourselves!  If 


THE  HOUSE  413 

we  dared  say  exactly  what  we  thought,  it  is  much  more  likely 
that  the  French  artists,  who  are  set  up  on  a  pedestal  by  our 
Parisian  critics,  are  strangers  among  us." 

"  The  truth  is,"  said  Olivier,  "  that  if  there  are  frontiers  in 
art,  they  are  not  so  much  barriers  between  races  as  barriers 
between  classes.  I'm  not  so  sure  that  there  is  a  French  art  or  a 
German  art :  but  there  is  certainly  one  art  for  the  rich  and 
another  for  the  poor.  Gluck  was  a  great  man  of  the  middle- 
classes  :  he  belongs  to  our  class.  A  certain  French  artist,  whose 
name  I  won't  mention,  is  not  of  our  class :  though  he  was  of  the 
middle-class  by  birth,  he  is  ashamed  of  us,  and  denies  us:  and 
we  deny  him." 

What  Olivier  said  was  true.  The  better  Christophe  got  to 
know  the  French,  the  more  he  was  .-'truck  by  the  resemblance 
between  the  honest  men  of  France  and  the  honest  men  of 
Germany.  The  Arnauds  reminded  him  of  dear  old  Schulz  with 
his  pure,  disinterested  love  of  art,  his  forgetful  ness  of  self,  his 
devotion  to  beauty.  And  he  loved  them  in  memory  of  Schulz. 

At  the  same  time  as  he  realized  the  absurditv  of  moral 
frontiers  between  the  honest  men  of  different  nationalities. 
Christophe  began  to  see  the  absurdity  of  the  frontiers  that  lay 
between  the  different  ideas  of  honest  men  of  the  same  na- 
tionality. Thanks  to  him.  though  without  any  deliberate  ef- 
fort on  his  part,  the  Abbe  Corneille  and  M.  Watelet,  two  men 
who  seemed  very  far  indeed  from  understanding  each  other, 
made  friends. 

Christophe  used  to  borrow  books  from  both  of  them  and. 
with  a  want  of  ceremony  which  shocked  Olivier,  he  used  to  lend 
their  books  in  turn  to  the  other.  The  Abbe  Corneille  was  not 
at  all  scandalized  :  he  had  an  intuitive  perception  of  the  qual- 
ity of  a  man:  and,  without  seeming  to  do  so.  he  had  marked  the 
generous  and  even  unconsciously  religious  nature  of  his  young 
neighbor.  A  book  by  Kropotkin,  which  had  been  borrowed  from 
M.  Watelet,  and  for  different  reasons  had  given  great  pleasure 
to  all  three  of  them,  began  the  process  of  bringing  them  to- 


414  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

gether.  It  chanced  one  evening  that  they  met  in  Christophe's 
room.  At  first  Christophe  was  afraid  that  they  might  be  rude  to 
each  other :  but,  on  the  contrary,  they  were  perfectly  polite. 
They  discussed  various  sage  subjects:  their  travels,  and  their  ex- 
perience of  men.  And  they  discovered  in  each  other  a  fund 
of  gentleness  and  the  spirit  of  the  Gospels,  and  chimerical 
hopes,  in  spite  of  the  many  reasons  that  each  had  for  despair. 
They  discovered  a  mutual  sympathy,  mingled  with  a  little 
irony.  Their  sympathy  was  of  a  very  discreet  nature.  They 
never  revealed  their  fundamental  beliefs.  They  rarely  met  and 
did  not  try  to  meet :  but  when  they  did  so  they  were  glad  to  see 
each  other. 

Of  the  two  men  the  Abbe  Corneille  was  not  the  least  in- 
dependent of  mind,  though  Christophe  would  never  have  thought 
it.  He  gradually  came  to  perceive  the  greatness  of  the  religious 
and  yet  free  ideas,  the  immense,  serene,  and  unfevered  mysti- 
cism which  permeated  the  priest's  whole  mind,  the  every  action 
of  his  daily  life,  and  his  whole  outlook  on  the  world, — leading 
him  to  live  in  Christ,  as  he  believed  that  Christ  had  lived  in 
God. 

He  denied  .nothing,  no  single  element  of  life.  To  him 'the 
whole  of  Scripture,  ancient  and  modern,  lay  and  religious,  from 
Moses  to  Berthelot,  was  certain,  divine,  the  very  expression  of 
God.  Holy  Writ  was  to  him  only  its  richest  example,  just  as  the 
Church  was  the  highest  company  of  men  united  in  the  brother- 
hood of  God:  but  in  neither  of  them  was  the  spirit  confined 
in  any  fixed,  unchanging  truth.  Christianity  was  the  living 
Christ.  The  history  of  the  world  was  only  the  history  of  the 
perpetual  advance  of  the  idea  of  God.  The  fall  of  the  Jev/ish 
Temple,  the  ruin  of  the  pagan  world,  the  repulse  of  the  Crusades, 
the  humiliation  of  Boniface  VIII,  Galileo  flinging  the  world 
back  into  giddy  space,  the  infinitely  little  becoming  more  mighty 
than  the  great,  the  downfall  of  kingdoms,  and  the  end  of  the 
Concordats,  all  these  for  a  time  threw  the  minds  of  men  out 
of  their  reckoning.  Some  clung  desperately  to  the  passing 
order:  some  caught  at  a  plank  and  drifted.  The  Abbe  Cor- 


THE  HOUSE  415 

neille  only  asked :  "  Where  do  we  stand  as  men  ?  Where  is  that 
which  makes  us  live  ?  "  For  he  believed :  "  Where  life  is,  there 
is  God." — And  that  was  why  he  was  in  sympathy  with  Chris- 
tophe. 

For  his  part,  Christophe  was  glad  once  more  to  hear  the 
splendid  music  of  a  great  religious  soul.  It  awoke  in  him 
echoes  distant  and  profound.  Through  the  feeling  of  perpetual 
reaction,  which  is  in  vigorous  natures  a  vital  instinct,  the  in- 
stinct of  self-preservation,  the  stroke  which  preserves  the  quiv- 
ering balance  of  the  boat,  and  gives  it  a  new  drive  onward,— 
his  surfeit  of  doubts  and  his  disgust  with  Parisian  sensuality 
had  for  the  last  two  years  been  slowly  restoring  God  to  his 
place  in  Christophe's  heart.  Not  that  he  believed  in  God.  He 
denied  God.  But  he  was  filled  with  the  spirit  of  God.  The 
Abbe  Corneille  used  to  tell  him  with  a  smile,  that  like  his 
namesake,  the  sainted  giant,  he  bore  God  on  his  shoulders  with- 
out knowing  it. 

"  How  is  it  that  I  don't  see  it  then  ?  "  Christophe  would  ask. 

"  You  are  like  thousands  of  others :  you  see  God  every  day, 
and  never  know  that  it  is  He.  God  reveals  Himself  to  all,  in 
every  shape, — to  some  He  appears  in  their  daily  life,  as  He 
did  to  Saint  Peter  in  Galilee, — to  others  (like  your  friend  M. 
Watelet),  as  He  did  to  Saint  Thomas,  in  wounds  and  suffering 
that  call  for  healing, — to  you  in  the  dignity  of  your  ideal :  Noli 
me  tangere.  .  .  .  Some  day  you  will  know  it." 

"  I  will  never  surrender,"  said  Christophe.  "  I  am  free. 
Free  I  shall  remain." 

"  Only  the  more  will  you  live  in  God,"  replied  the  priest 
calmly. 

But  Christophe  would  not  submit  to  being  made  out  a 
Christian  against  his  will.  He  defended  himself  ardently  and 
simply,  as  though  it  mattered  in  the  least  whether  one  label 
more  than  another  was  plastered  on  to  his  ideas.  The  Abbe 
Corneille  would  listen  with  a  faint  ecclesiastical  irony,  that  Avas 
hardly  perceptible,  while  it  was  altogether  kindly.  He  had  an 
inexhaustible  fund  of  patience,  based  on  his  habit  of  faith.  It 


416  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

had  been  tempered  by  the  trials  to  which  the  existing  Church 
had  exposed  him:  while  it  had  made  him  profoundly  melan- 
choly, and  had  even  dragged  him  through  terrible  moral  crises, 
he  had  not  really  been  touched  by  it  all.  It  was  cruel  to  suffer 
the  oppression  of  his  superiors,  to  have  his  every  action  spied 
upon  by  the  Bishops,  and  watched  by  the  free-thinkers,  who 
were  endeavoring  to  exploit  his  ideas,  to  use  him  a.s  a  weapon 
against  his  own  faith,  and  to  be  misunderstood  and  attacked 
both  by  his  co-religionists  and  the  enemies  of  his  religion.  It 
was  impossible  for  him  to  offer  any  resistance :  for  submission 
was  enforced  upon  him.  It  was  impossible  for  him  to  submit 
in  his  heart :  for  he  knew  that  the  authorities  were  wrong. 
It  was  agony  for  him  to  hold  his  peace.  It  was  agony  for  him 
to  speak  and  to  be  wrongly  interpreted.  Not  to  mention  the 
soul  for  which  he  was  responsible,  he  had  to  think  of  those, 
who  looked  to  him  for  counsel  and  help,  while  he  had  to  stand 
by  and  see  them  suffer.  .  .  .  The  Abbe  Corneille  suffered 
both  for  them  and  for  himself,  but  he  was  resigned.  He  knew 
how  small  a  thing  were  the  days  of  trial  in  the  long  history  of 
the  Church. — Only,  by  dint  of  being  turned  in  upon  himself 
in  his  silent  resignation,  slowly  he  lost  heart,  and  became 
timid  and  afraid  to  speak,  so  that  it  became  more  and  more 
difficult  for  him  to  do  anything,  and  little  by  little  the  torpor 
of  silence  crept  over  him.  Meeting  Christophe  had  given  him 
new  courage.  His  neighbor's  youthful  ardor  and  the  affec- 
tionate and  simple  interest  which  he  took  in  his  doings,  his 
sometimes  indiscreet  questions,  did  him  a  great  deal  of  good. 
Christophe  forced  him  to  mix  once  more  with  living  men  and 
women. 

Aubert,  the  journeyman  electrician,  once  met  him  in  Chris- 
tophe's  room.  He  started  back  when  he  saw  the  priest,  and 
found  it  hard  to  conceal  his  feeling  of  dislike.  Even  when  he 
had  overcome  his  first  inclination,  he  was  uncomfortable  and 
oddly  embarrassed  at  finding  himself  in  the  company  of  a  man 
in  a  cassock,  a  creature  to  whom  he  could  attach  no  exact  defini- 
tion. However,  his  sociable  instincts  and  the  pleasure  he  al- 


THE  HOUSE  417 

ways  found  in  talking  to  educated  men  were  stronger  than  his 
anti-clericalism.  He  was  surprised  by  the  pleasant  relations 
existing  between  M.  Watelet  and  the  Abbe  Corneille :  he  was  no 
less  surprised  to  find  a  priest  who  was  a  democrat,  and  a 
revolutionary  who  was  an  aristocrat:  it  upset  all  his  pre- 
conceived ideas.  He  tried  vainly  to  classify  them  in  any 
social  category:  for  he  always  had  to  classify  people  before  he 
could  begin  to  understand  them.  It  was  not  easy  to  find  a 
pigeon-hole  for  the  peaceful  freedom  of  mind  of  a  priest  who 
had  read  Anatole  France  and  Renan,  and  was  prepared  to  dis- 
cuss them  calmly,  justly,  and  with  some  knowledge.  In  mat- 
ters of  science  the  Abbe  Corneille's  way  was  to  accept  the  guid- 
ance of  those  who  knew,  rather  than  of  those  who  laid  down 
the  law.  He. respected  authority,  but  in  his  eyes  it  stood  lower 
than  knowledge.  The  flesh,  the  spirit,  and  charity :  the  three 
orders,  the  three  rungs  of  the  divine  ladder,  the  ladder  of  Jacob. 
• — Of  course,  honest  Aubert  was  far,  indeed,  from  understand- 
ing, or  even  from  dreaming,  of  the  possibility  of  such  a  state  of 
mind.  The  Abbe  Corneille  used  to  tell  Christophe  that  Aubert 
reminded  him  of  certain  French  peasants  whom  he  had  seen  one 
day.  A  young  Englishwoman  had  asked  them  the  way,  in  Eng- 
lish. They  listened  solemnly,  but  did  not  understand.  Then 
they  spoke  in  French.  She  did  not  understand.  Then  they 
looked  at  each  other  pityingly,  and  wagged  their  heads,  and  went 
on  with  their  work,  and  said : 

"  What  a  pity !  What  a  pity !  Such  a  pretty  girl, 
too!  .  .  ." 

As  though  they  had  thought  her  deaf,  or  dumb,  or  soft  in 
the  head.  .  .  . 

At  first  Aubert  was  abashed  by  the  knowledge  and  distin- 
guished manners  of  the  priest  and  M.  Watelet,  and  sat  mum, 
listening  intently  to  what  they  said.  Then,  little  by  little,  he 
joined  in  the  conversation,  giving  way  to  the  naive  pleasure 
that  he  found  in  hearing  himself  speak.  lie  paraded  his  gen- 
erous store  of  rather  vague  ideas.  The  other  two  would  listen 
politely,  and  smile  inwardly.  Aubert  was  delighted,  and  could 


418  JEAN-CHKISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

not  hold  himself  in :  he  took  advantage  of,  and  presently  abused, 
the  inexhaustible  patience  of  the  Abbe  Corneille.  He  read  his 
literary  productions  to  him.  The  priest  listened  resignedly; 
and  it  did  not  bore  him  overmuch.,  for  he  listened  not  so  much  to 
the  words  as  to  the  man.  And  then  he  would  reply  to  Chris- 
tophe's  commiseration : 

"  Bah !    I  hear  so  many  of  them  !  " 

Aubert  was  grateful  to  M.  Wat  clot  and  the  Abbe  Corneille : 
and,  without  taking  much  trouble  to  understand  each  other's 
ideas,  or  even  to  find  out  what  they  were,  the  three  of  them  be- 
came very  good  friends  without  exactly  knowing  why.  They 
were  very  surprised  to  find  themsel\7cs  so  intimate.  They  would 
never  have  thought  it. — Christophe  was  the  bond  between  them. 

He  had  other  innocent  allies  in  the  three  children,  the  two 
little  Elsbergers  and  M.  Watelet's  adopted  daughter.  He  was 
great  friends  with  them  :  they  adored  him.  He  told  each  of 
them  about  the  other,  and  gave  them  an  irresistible  longing 
to  know  each  other.  They  used  to  make  signs  to  each  other 
from  the  windows,  and  spoke  to  each  other  furtively  on  the 
stairs.  Aided  and  abetted  by  Christophe,  they  even  managed  to 
get  permission  sometimes  to  meet  in  the  Luxembourg  Gardens. 
Christophe  was  delighted  with  the  success  of  his  guile,  and  went 
to  see  them  there  the  first  time  they  were;  together:  they  were 
shy  and  embarrassed,  and  hardly  knew  what  to  make  of  their 
new  happiness,  lie  broke  down  their  reserve  in  a  moMient,  and 
invented  games  for  them,  and  races,  and  played  hide-and-seek: 
he  joined  in  as  keenly  as  though  he  were  a  child  of  ten:  the 
passers-b}r  cast  amused  and  quizzical  glances  at  the  great  big 
fellow,  running  and  shouting  and  dodging  round  trees,  with 
three  little  girls  after  him.  And  as  their  parents  were  still  sus- 
picious of  each  other,  and  showed  no  great  readiness  to  let  these 
excursions  to  the  Luxembourg  Hardens  occur  very  often — (be- 
cause it  kept  them  too  far  out  of  sight) — Christophe  managed 
to  get  Commandant  Chabran,  who  lived  on  the  ground  floor, 
to  invite  the  children  to  play  in  the  garden  belonging  to  the 
house. 


THE  HOUSE  419 

Chance  had  thrown  Christophe  and  tho  old  soldier  together: 
—  (chance  always  singles  out  those  who  can  turn  it  to  account). 
— Christophe's  writing-table  was  near  his  window.  One  day 
the  wind  blew  a  few  sheets  of  music  down  into  the  garden. 
Christophe  rushed  down,  bareheaded  and  disheveled,  just  as  he 
was,  without  even  taking  the  trouble  to  brush  his  hair.  IFe 
thought  he  would  only  have  to  see  a  servant.  However,  the 
daughter  opened  the  door  to  him.  Tie  was  rather  taken  aback, 
but  told  her  what  he  had  come  for.  She  smiled  and  let  him  in : 
they  went  into  the  garden.  When  he  had  picked  up  his  papers 
he  was  for  hurrying  away,  and  she  was  taking  him  to  the  door, 
when  they  met  the  old  soldier.  The  Commandant  gazed  at  his 
odd  visitor  in  some  surprise.  His  daughter  laughed,  and  in- 
troduced him. 

"Ah!  So  you  are  the  musician?"  said  the  old  soldier. 
"  We  are  comrades." 

They  shook  hands.  They  talked  in  a  friendly,  bantering 
tone  of  the  concerts  they  gave  together,  Christophe  with  his 
piano,  the  Commandant  with  his  flute.  Christophe  tried  to  go. 
but  the  old  man  would  not  let  him:  and  he  plunged  blindly  into 
a  disquisition  on  music.  Suddenly  he  stopped  short,  and 
said : 

"  Come  and  see  my  canons." 

Christophe  followed  him,  wondering  how  anybody  could  be 
interested  in  anything  he  might  think  about  French  artillery. 
The  old  man  showed  him  in  triumph  a  number  of  musical 
canons,  amazing  productions,  compositions  that  might  just  as 
well  be  read  upside  down,  or  played  as  duets,  one  person  playing 
the  right-hand  page,  and  the  other  the  left.  The  Commandant  was 
an  old  pupil  of  the  Polytechnic,  and  had  always  had  a  taste  for 
music:  but  what  he  loved  most  of  all  in  it  was  the  mathematical 
problem:  it  seemed  to  him — (as  up  to  a  point  it  is)— a  mag- 
nificent mental  gymnastic:  and  he  racked  his  brains  in  the  in- 
vention and  solution  of  puzzles  in  the  construction  of  music, 
each  more  useless  and  extravagant  than  the  last.  Of  course,  his 
military  career  had  not  left  him  much  time  for  the  development 


420  JEAN-CURT  STQPHE  IN  PARTS 

of  his  mania :  but  since  his  retirement  he  had  thrown  himself 
into  it  with  enthusiasm :  he  expended  on  it  all  the  energy  and 
ingenuity  which  he  had  previously  employed  in  pursuing  the 
hordes  of  negro  kings  through  the  deserts  of  Africa,  or  avoiding 
their  traps.  Christophe  found  his  puzzles  quite  amusing,  and 
set  him  a  more  complicated  one  to  solve.  The  old  soldier  was 
delighted :  they  vied  with  one  another :  they  produced  a  perfect 
shower  of  musical  riddles.  After  they  had  been  playing  the 
game  for  some  time,  Christophe  went  upstairs  to  his  own  room. 
But  the  very  next  morning  his  neighbor  sent  him  a  new  problem, 
a  regular  teaser,  at  which  the  Commandant  had  been  working 
half  the  night :  he  replied  with  another :  and  the  duel  went  on 
until  Christophe,  who  was  getting  tired  of  it,  declared  himself 
beaten:  at  which  the  old  soldier  was  perfectly  delighted.  He 
regarded  his  success  as  a  retaliation  on  Germany.  He  invited 
Christophe  to  lunch.  Christophe's  frankness  in  telling  the  old 
soldier  that  he  detested  his  musical  compositions,  and  shouting 
in  protest  when  Chabran  began  to  murder  an  andante  of  Haydn 
on  his  harmonium,  completed  the  conquest.  From  that  time 
on  they  often  met  to  talk.  But  not  about  music.  Christophe 
could  not  summon  up  any  great  interest  in  his  neighbor's 
crotchety  notions  about  it,  and  much  preferred  getting  him  to 
talk  about  military  subjects.  The  Commandant  asked  nothing 
better :  music  was  only  a  forced  amusement  for  the  unhappy 
man:  in  reality,  he  was  fretting  his  life  out. 

He  was  easily  led  on  to  }rarn  about  his  African  campaigns. 
Gigantic  adventures  worthy  of  the  tales  of  a  Pi/arro  and  a 
Cortez !  Christophe  was  delighted  with  the  vivid  narrative  of 
that  marvelous  and  barbaric  epic,  of  which  he  knew  nothing, 
and  almost  every  Frenchman  is  ignorant:  the  tale  of  the  twenty 
years  during  which  the  heroism,  and  courage,  and  inventive- 
ness, and  superhuman  energy  of  a  conquering  handful  of  French- 
men were  spent  far  away  in  the  depths  of  the  Black  Continent, 
where  they  were  surrounded  by  armies  of  negroes,  where  they 
were  deprived  of  the  most  rudimentary  arms  of  war,  and  jet,  in 
the  face  of  public  opinion  and  a  panic-stricken  Government,  in 


THE  HOUSE  421 

spite  of  France,  conquered  for  France  an  empire  greater  than 
France  itself.  There  was  the  flavor  of  a  mighty  joy,  a  flavor 
of  blood  in  the  tale,  from  which,  in  Christophe's  mind's  eye, 
there  sprang  the  figures  of  modern  condottieri,  heroic  adven- 
turers, unlocked  for  in  the  France  of  to-day,  whom  the  France 
of  to-day  is  ashamed  to  own,  so  that  she  modestly  draws  a  veil 
over  them.  The  Commandant's  voice  would  ring  out  bravely  as 
he  recalled  it  all :  and  he  would  jovially  recount,  with  learned 
descriptions — (oddly  interpolated  in  his  epic  narrative) — of 
the  geological  structure  of  the  country,  in  cold,  precise  terms, 
the  story  of  the  tremendous  marches,  and  the  charges  at  full 
gallop,  and  the  man-hunts,  in  which  he  had  been  hunter  and 
quarry,  turn  and  turn  about,  in  a  struggle  to  the  death. — 
Christophe  would  listen  and  watch  his  face,  and  feel  a  great 
pity  for  such  a  splendid  human  animal,  condemned  to  inaction, 
and  forced  to  spend  his  time  in  playing  ridiculous  games.  He 
wondered  how  he  could  ever  have  become  resigned  to  such  a  lot. 
He  asked  the  old  man  how  he  had  done  it.  The  Commandant 
was  at  first  not  at  all  inclined  to  let  a  stranger  into  his  con- 
fidence as  to  his  grievances.  But  the  French  are  naturally 
loquacious,  especially  when  they  have  a  chance  of  pitching  into 
each  other : 

"  What  on  earth  should  I  do,"  he  said,  "  in  the  army  as  it  is 
to-day?  The  marines  write  books.  The  infantry  study 
sociology.  They  do  everything  but  make  war.  They  don't  even 
prepare  for  it :  they  prepare  never  to  go  to  war  again :  they 
study  the  philosophy  of  war.  .  .  .  The  philosophy  of  war! 
That's  a  game  for  beasts  of  burden  wondering  how  much  thrash- 
ing they  are  going  to  get!  .  .  .  Discussing,  philosophizing, 
no,  that's  not  my  work.  Much  better  stay  at  home  and  go  on 
with  my  canons  !  " 

He  was  too  much  ashamed  to  air  the  most  serious  of  his 
grievances :  the  suspicion  created  among  the  officers  by  the 
appeal  to  informers,  the  humiliation  of  having  to  submit  to  the 
insolent  orders  of  certain  crass  and  mischievous  politicians,  the 
army's  disgust  at  being  put  to  base  police  duty,  taking  inventories 


422  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PAEIS 

of  the  churches,  putting  down  industrial  strikes,  at  the  bidding 
of  capital  and  the  spite  of  the  party  in  power — the  petty  burgess 
radicals  and  anti-clericals — against  the  rest  of  the  country. 
Not  to  speak  of  the  old  African's  disgust  with  the  new  Colonial 
Army,  which  was  for  the  most  part  recruited  from  the  lowest 
elements  of  the  nation,  by  way  of  pandering  to  the  egoism  and 
cowardice  of  the  rest,  who  refuse  to  share  in  the  honor  and  the 
risks  of  securing  the  defense  of  "  greater  France  " — France  be- 
yond the  seas. 

Christophe  was  not  concerned  with  these  French  quarrels : 
they  were  no  affair  of  his :  but  he  sympathized  with  the  old  sol- 
dier. Whatever  he  might  think  of  war,  it  seemed  to  him  that 
an  army  was  meant  to  produce  soldiers,  as  an  apple-tree  to 
produce  apples,  and  that  it  was  a  strange  perversion  to  graft  on 
to  it  politicians,  esthetes,  and  sociologists.  And  yet  he  could 
not  understand  how  a  man  of  such  vigor  could  give  way  to  his 
adversaries.  It  is  to  be  his  own  worst  enemy  for  a  man  not  to 
fight  his  enemies.  In  all  French  people  of  any  worth  at  all  there 
was  a  spirit  of  surrender,  a  strange  temper  of  renunciation. — 
To  Christophe  it  was  even  more  profound,  and  even  more 
touching  as  it  existed  in  the  old  soldier's  daughter. 

Her  name  was  Celine.  She  had  beautiful  hair,  plaited  and 
braided  so  as  to  set  off  her  high,  round  forehead  and  her  rather 
pointed  ears,  her  thin  cheeks,  and  her  pretty  chin:  she  was  like 
a  country  girl,  with  fine  intelligent  dark  eyes,  very  trustful, 
very  soft,  rather  shortsighted:  her  nose  was  a  little  too  large, 
and  she  had  a  tiny  mole  or,  her  upper  lip  by  the  corner  of  her 
mouth,  and  she  had  a  quiet  smile  which  made  her  pout  prettily 
and  thrust  out  her  lower  lip,  which  was  a  little  protruding.  She 
was  kind,  active,  clever,  but  she  had  no  curiositv  of  mind.  She 
read  very  little,  and  never  any  of  the  newest  books,  never  went 
to  the  theater,  never  traveled. —  (for  traveling  bored  her  father, 
who  had  had  too  much  of  it  in  the  old  days), — never  had  any- 
thing to  do  with  any  polite  charitable  work. —  (her  father  used 
to  condemn  all  such  things), — made  no  attempt  to  study, —  (he 
used  to  make  fun  of  blue  stockings), — hardly  ever  left  her  little 


THE  HOUSE  423 

patch  of  garden  inclosed  by  its  four  high  walls,  so  that  it  was 
like  being  at  the  bottom  of  a  deep  well.  And  yet  she  was  not 
really  bored.  She  occupied  her  time  as  best  she  could,  and  was 
good-tempered  and  resigned.  About  her  and  about  the  setting 
which  every  woman  unconsciously  creates  for  herself  wherever 
she  may  be,  there  was  a  Chardinesque  atmosphere:  the  same 
soft  silence,  the  same  tranquil  expression,  the  same  attitude  of 
absorption — (a  little  drowsy  and  languid) — in  the  common 
task :  the  poetry  of  the  daily  round,  of  the  accustomed  way  of 
life,  with  its  fixed  thoughts  and  actions,  falling  into  exactly  the 
same  place  at  exactly  the  same  time — thoughts  and  actions 
which  are  cherished  none  the  less  with  an  all-pervading  tranquil 
gentleness :  the  serene  mediocrity  of  the  fine-souled  women  of 
the  middle-class :  honest,  conscientious,  truthful,  calm — calm  in 
their  pleasures,  unruffled  in  their  labors,  and  yet  poetic  in  all 
their  qualities.  They  are  healthy  and  neat  and  tidy,  clean  in 
body  and  mind :  all  their  lives  are  sweetened  with  the  scent  of 
good  bread,  and  lavender,  and  integrity,  and  kindness.  There 
is  peace  in  all  that  they  are  and  do,  the  peace  of  old  houses  and 
smiling  souls.  .  .  . 

Christophe,  whose  affectionate  trustfulness  invited  trust,  had 
become  very  friendly  with  her:  they  used  to  talk  quite  frankly: 
and  he  even  went  so  far  as  to  ask  her  certain  questions,  which 
she  was  surprised  to  find  herself  answering:  she  would  tell 
him  things  which  she  had  not  told  anybody,  even  her  most  in- 
timate friends. 

"  You  see,"  Christophe  would  say,  "  you're  not  afraid  of  me. 
There's  no  danger  of  our  falling  in  love  with  each  other:  we're 
too  good  friends  for  that." 

"You're  very  polite!  "  she  would  answer  with  a  laugh. 

Her  healthy  nature  recoiled  as  much  as  Christophe's  from 
philandering  friendship,  that  form  of  sentimentality  dear  to 
equivocal  men  and  women,  who  are  always  juggling  with  their 
emotions.  They  were  just  comrades  one  to  another. 

He  asked  her  one  day  what  she  was  doing  in  the  afternoons, 
when  he  saw  her  sitting  in  the  garden  with  her  work  on  her 


424  JEAN-CHKISTOPHE  IN  PAEIS 

knees,  never  touching  it,  and  not  stirring  for  hours  together. 
She  blushed,  and  protested  that  it  was  not  a  matter  of  hours, 
but  only  a  matter  of  a  few  minutes,  perhaps  a  quarter  of  an 
hour,  during  which  she  "  went  on  with  her  story." 

"What  story?" 

"  The  story  I  am  always  telling  myself." 

"  You  tell  yourself  stories  ?     Oh,  tell  them  to  me !  " 

She  told  him  that  he  was  too  curious.  She  would  only  go 
so  far  as  to  intimate  that  they  were  stories  of  which  she  was  not 
the  heroine. 

He  was  surprised  at  that : 

"  If  you  are  going  to  tell  yourself  stories,  it  seems  to  me 
that  it  would  be  more  natural  if  you  told  your  own  story  with 
embellishments,  and  lived  in  a  happier  dream-life." 

"  I  couldn't,"  she  said.  "  If  I  did  that,  I  should  become 
desperate." 

She  blushed  again  at  having  revealed  even  so  much  of  her 
inmost  thoughts :  and  she  went  on : 

"  Besides,  when  I  am  in  the  garden  and  a  gust  of  wind 
reaches  me,  I  am  happy.  Then  the  garden  becomes  alive  for 
me.  And  when  the  wind  blusters  and  comes  from  a  great 
distance,  he  tells  me  so  many  things !  " 

In  spite  of  her  reserve,  Christophe  could  see  the  hidden  depths 
of  melancholy  that  lay  behind  her  good-humor,  and  the  restless 
activity  which,  as  she  knew  perfectly  well,  led  nowhere.  Why 
did  she  not  try  to  break  away  from  her  condition  and  emancipate 
herself?  She  would  have  been  so  well  fitted  for  a  useful  and 
active  life ! — But  she  alleged  her  affection  for  her  father,  who 
would  not  hear  of  her  leaving  him.  In  vain  did  Christophe  tell 
her  that  the  old  soldier  was  perfectly  vigorous  and  energetic,  and 
had  no  need  of  her,  and  that  a  man  of  his  stamp  could  quite 
well  be  left  alone,  and  had  no  right  to  make  a  sacrifice  of  her. 
She  would  begin  to  defend  her  father :  by  a  pious  fiction  she 
would  pretend  that  it  was  not  her  father  who  was  forcing  her 
to  stay,  but  she  herself  who  could  not  bear  to  leave  him. — And, 
up  to  a  point,  what  she  said  was  true.  It  seemed  to  have  been 


THE  HOUSE  425 

accepted  from  time  immemorial  by  herself,  and  her  father,  and 
all  their  friends  that  their  life  had  to  be  thus  and  thus,  and  not 
otherwise.  She  had  a  married  brother,  who  thought  it  quite 
natural  that  she  should  devote  her  life  to  their  father  in  his 
stead.  He  was  entirely  wrapped  up  in  his  children.  He  loved 
them  jealously,  and  left  them  no  will  of  their  own.  His  love 
for  his  children  was  to  him,  and  especially  to  his  wife,  a  volun- 
tary bondage  which  weighed  heavily  on  their  life,  and  cramped 
all  their  movements:  his  idea  seemed  to  be  that  as  soon  as  a 
man  has  children,  his  own  life  comes  to  an  end,  and  he  has  to 
stop  short  in  his  own  development :  he  was  still  young,  active, 
and  intelligent,  and  there  he  was  reckoning  up  the  }*ears  he 
would  have  still  to  work  before  he  could  retire. — Christophe  saw 
how  these  good  people  were  weighed  down  by  the  atmosphere 
of  family  affection,  which  is  so  deep-rooted  in  France — deep- 
rooted,  but  stifling  and  destructive  of  vitality.  And  it  has  be- 
come all  the  more  oppressive  since  families  in  France  have  been 
reduced  to  the  minimum :  father,  mother,  one  or  two  children, 
and  here  and  there,  perhaps,  an  uncle  or  an  aunt.  Tt  is  a 
cowardly,  fearful  love,  turned  in  upon  itself,  like  a  miser  cling- 
ing tightly  to  his  hoard  of  gold. 

A  fortuitous  circumstance  gave  Christophe  a  yet  greater  in- 
terest in  the  girl,  and  showed  him  the  full  extent  of  the  sup- 
pression of  the  emotions  of  the  French,  their  fear  of  life,  of  let- 
ting themselves  go,  and  claiming  their  birthright. 

Elsberger,  the  engineer,  had  a  brother  ten  years  younger  than 
himself,  likewise  an  engineer.  He  was  a  very  good  fellow,  like 
thousands  of  others,  of  the  middle-class,  and  he  had  artistic 
aspirations:  he  was  one  of  those  people  who  would  like  to  prac- 
tise an  art,  but  are  afraid  of  compromising  their  reputation  and 
position.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  it  is  not  a  very  difficult  problem, 
and  most  of  the  artists  of  to-day  have  solved  it  without  any 
great  clanger  to  themselves.  But  it  needs  a  certain  amount  of 
will-power:  and  not  everybody  is  capable  of  even  that  much  ex- 
penditure of  energy:  such  people  are  not  sure  enough  of  wanting 
what  they  really  want:  and  as  their  position  in  life  grows  more 


426  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

assured,  they  submit  and  drift  along,  without  any  show  of  revolt 
or  protest.  They  cannot  he  blamed  if  they  become  good  citizens 
instead  of  bad  artists.  But  their  disappointment  too  often 
leaves  behind  it  a  secret  discontent,  a  qualis  art  if  ex  pcreo,  which 
as  best  it  can  assumes  a  crust  of  what  is  usually  called  philos- 
ophy, and  spoils  their  lives,  until  the  wear  and  tear  of  daily 
life  and  new  anxieties  have  erased  all  trace  of  the  old  bitterness. 
Such  was  the  case  of  Andre  Elsberger.  He  would  have  liked 
to  be  a  writer :  but  his  brother,  who  was  very  self-willed,  had 
made  him  follow  in  his  footsteps  and  enter  upon  a  scientific 
career.  Andre  was  clever,  and  quite  well  equipped  for  scientific 
work — or  for  literature,  for  that  matter :  he  was  not  sure  enough 
of  being  an  artist,  and  he  was  too  sure  that  he  was  middle- 
class:  and  so,  provisionally  at  first, —  (one  knows  what  that 
means) — he  had  bowed  to  his  brother's  wishes:  he  entered  the 
Cenlrale,  high  up  in  the  list,  and  passed  out  equally  high,  and 
since  then  he  had  practised  his  profession  as  an  engineer  con- 
scientiously, but  without  being  interested  in  it.  Of  course,  he 
had  lost  the  little  artistic  quality  that  he  had  possessed,  and  he 
never  spoke  of  it  except  ironically. 

"And  then,''  he  used  to  say — (Christophe  recogni/ed  Olivier's 
pessimistic  tendency  in  his  arguments) — "life  is  not  good 
enough  to  make  one  worry  about  a  spoiled  career.  What  does  a 
bad  poet  more  or  less  matter !  ..." 

The  brothers  were  fond  of  one  another :  they  were  of  the 
same  stamp  morally:  but  they  did  not  get  on  well  together. 
They  had  both  been  Dreyfus-mad.  But  Andre  was  attracted 
by  syndicalism,  and  was  an  anti-militarist:  and  Klie  was  a 
patriot. 

From  time  to  time  Andre  would  visit  Christophe  without  go- 
ing to  see  his  brother:  and  that  astonished  Christophe:  for 
there  was  no  great  sympathy  between  himself  and  Andre,  who 
used  hardly  ever  to  open  his  mouth  except  to  gird  at  some- 
thing or  somebody, — which  was  very  tiresome:  and  when  Chris- 
tophe said  anything,  Andre  would  not  listen.  Christophe  made 
no  effort  to  conceal  the  fact  that  he  found  his  visits  a  nuisance : 


THE  HOUSE  427 

but  Andre  did  not  mind,  and  seemed  not  to  notice  it.  At  last 
Christophe  found  the  key  to  the  riddle  one  day  when  lie  found 
his  visitor  leaning  out  of  the  window,  and  paying  much  more 
attention  to  what  was  happening  in  the  garden  below  than  to 
what  he  was  saying.  He  remarked  upon  it,  and  Andre  was  not 
reluctant  to  admit  that  he  knew  Mademoiselle  Cbabran,  and  that 
she  had  something  to  do  with  bis  visits  to  Christophe.  And,  his 
tongue  being  loosed,  he  confessed  that  be  had  long  been  attached 
to  the  girl,  and  perhaps  something  more  than  that :  the  Els- 
bergers  had  long  ago  been  in  close  touch  with  the  Chabrans:  but, 
though  they  had  been  very  intimate,  politics  and  recent  events 
had  separated  them:  and  thereafter  they  saw  very  little  of  each 
other.  Christophe  did  not  disguise  his  opinion  that  it  was  an 
idiotic  state  of  things.  Was  it  impossible  for  people  to  think 
differently,  and  yet  to  retain  their  mutual  esteem?  Andre  said 
he  thought  it  was,  and  protested  that  he  was  very  broad-minded  : 
but  he  would  not  admit  the  possibility  of  tolerance  in  certain 
questions,  concerning  which,  he  said,  he  could  not  admit  any 
opinion  different  from  his  own :  and  he  instanced  the  famous 
Affair.  On  that,  as  usual,  he  became  wild.  Christophe  knew 
the  sort  of  thing  that  happened  in  that  connection,  and  made  no 
attempt  to  argue:  but  he  asked  whether  the  Affair  was  never 
going  to  come  to  an  end,  or  whether  its  curse  was  to  go  on  and 
on  to  the  end  of  time,  descending  even  unto  the  third  and  fourth 
generation.  Andre  began  to  laugh:  and  without  answering 
Christophe,  he  fell  to  tender  praise  of  Celine  Chabran,  and 
protested  against  her  father's  selfishness,  who  thought  it  quite 
natural  that  she  should  be  sacrificed  to  him. 

"  Why  don't  you  marry  her,"  asked  Christophe,  "  if  you  love 
her  and  she  loves  you  ?  " 

Andre  said  mournfully  that  Celine  was  clerical.  Christophe 
asked  what  he  meant  by  that.  Andre  replied  that  he  meant 
that  she  was  religious,  and  had  vowed  a  sort  of  feudal  service  to 
God  and  His  bonzes. 

"  But  bow  does  that  affect  you  ?  " 

"  I  don't  want  to  share  my  wife  with  any  one." 


428  JEAN-CHEISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

"  What !  You  are  jealous  even  of  your  wife's  ideas  ?  Why, 
you're  more  selfish  even  than 'the  Commandant !  " 

"  It's  all  very  well  for  you  to  talk :  would  you  take  a  woman 
who  did  not  love  music  ?  " 

"  I  have  done  so." 

"  How  can  a  man  and  a  woman  live  together  if  they  don't 
think  the  same  ?  " 

"Don't  you  worry  ahout  what  you  think!  Ah!  my  dear 
fellow,  ideas  count  for  so  little  when  one  loves.  What  does  it 
matter  to  me  whether  the  woman  I  love  cares  for  music  as 
much  as  I  do  ?  She  herself  is  music  to  me !  When  a  man  has 
the  luck,  as  you  have,  to  find  a  dear  girl  whom  he  loves,  and 
she  loves  him,  she  must  believe  what  she  likes,  and  he  must 
believe  what  he  likes !  When  all  is  said  and  done,  what  do  your 
Heas  amount  to?  There  is  only  one  truth  in  the  world,  there 
is  only  one  God :  love." 

"  You  speak  like  a  poet.  You  don't  see  life  as  it  is.  I  know 
only  too  many  marriages  which  have  suffered  from  such  a  want 
of  union  in  thought." 

"  Those  husbands  and  wives  did  not  love  each  other  enough. 
You  have  to  know  what  you  want." 

"  Wanting  does  not  do  everything  in  life.  Even  if  I  wanted 
to  marry  Mademoiselle  Chabran,  I  couldn't." 

"  I'd  like  to  know  why." 

Andre  spoke  of  his  scruples :  his  position  was  not  assured : 
he  had  no  fortune  and  no  great  health.  He  was  wondering 
whether  he  had  the  right  to  marry  in  such  circumstances.  It 
was  a  great  responsibility.  Was  there  not  a  great  risk  of  bring- 
ing unhappiness  on  the  woman  he  loved,  and  himself, — not  to 
mention  any  children  there  might  be?  ...  It  was  better  to 
wait — or  give  up  the  idea. 

Christophe  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  That's  a  fine  sort  of  love !  If  she  loves  you,  she  will  be 
happy  in  her  devotion  to  you.  And  as  for  the  children,  you 
French  people  are  absurd.  You  would  like  only  to  bring  them 
into  the  world  when  you  are  sure  of  turning  them  out  with 


THE  HOUSE  429 

comfortable  private  means,  so  that  they  will  have  nothing  to 
suffer  and  nothing  to  fear.  .  .  .  Good  Lord  !  That's  nothing 
to  do  with  you :  your  business  is  only  to  give  them  life,  love  of 
life,  and  courage  to  defend  it.  The  rest  .  .  .  whether  they 
live  or  die  ...  is  the  common  lot.  Is.it  better  to  give  up 
living  than  to  take  the  risks  of  life?  " 

The  sturdy  confidence  which  emanated  from  Christophe  af- 
fected Andre,  but  did  not  change  his  mind.  He  said : 

"Yes,  perhaps,  that  is  true.   ..." 

But  he  stopped  at  that.  Like  all  the  rest,  his  will  and  power 
of  action  seemed  to  be  paralyzed. 

Christophe  had  set  himself  to  fight  the  inertia  which  he  found 
in  most  of  his  French  friends,  oddly  coupled  with  laborious  and 
often  feverish  activity.  Almost  all  the  people  he  met  in  the 
various  middle-class  houses  which  he  visited  were  discontented. 
They  had  almost  all  the  same  disgust  with  the  demagogues  and 
their  corrupt  ideas.  In  almost  all  there  was  the  same  sorrowful 
and  proud  consciousness  of  the  betrayal  of  the  genius  of  their 
race.  And  it  was  by  no  means  the  result  of  any  personal  ran- 
cor nor  the  bitterness  of  men  and  classes  beaten  and  thrust 
out  of  power  and  active  life,  or  discharged  officials,  or  unem- 
ployed energy,  nor  that  of  an  old  aristocracy  which  has  returned 
to  its  estates,  there  to  die  in  hiding  like  a  wounded  lion.  It 
•was  a  feeling  of  moral  revolt,  mute,  profound,  general :  it  was  to 
be  found  everywhere,  in  a  greater  or  less  degree,  in  the  army,  in 
the  magistracy,  in  the  University,  in  the  officers,  and  in  every 
vital  branch  of  the  machinery  of  government.  But  they  took 
no  active  measures.  They  were  discouraged  in  advance :  they 
kept  on  saying : 

"  There  is  nothing  to  be  done :  " 
or 

"  Let  us  try  not  to  think  of  it." 

Fearfully  they  dodged  anything  sad  in  their  thoughts  and 
conversation :  and  they  took  refuge  in  their  home  life. 

If  they  had  been  content  to  refrain  only  from  political  action! 


430  JEAN-CIIRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

But  even  in  their  daily  lives  these  good  people  had  no  interest 
in  doing  anything  definite.  They  put  up  with  the  degrading, 
haphazard  contact  with  horrible  people  whom  they  despised,  be- 
cause they  could  not  take  the  trouble  to  fight  against  them, 
thinking  that  any  such  revolt  must  of  necessity  be  useless.  Why, 
for  instance,  should  artists,  and,  in  particular,  the  musicians 
with  whom  Christophc  was  most  in  touch,  unprotcstingly  put 
up  with  the  effrontery  of  the  scaramouches  of  the  Press,  who  laid 
down  the  law  for  them  ?  There  were  absolute  idiots  among 
them,  whose  ignorance  in  omni  re  scibili  was  proverbial,  though 
they  were  none  the  less  invested  with  a  sovereign  authority  in 
omni  re  scibili.  They  did  not  even  take  the  trouble  to  write 
their  articles  and  books:  they  had  secretaries,  poor  starving 
creatures,  who  would  have  sold  their  souls,  if  they  had  had  such 
things,  for  bread  or  women.  There  was  no  secret  about  it  in 
Paris.  And  yet  they  went  on  riding  their  high  horse  and 
patronizing  the  artists.  Christophe  used  to  roar  with  anger 
sometimes  when  he  read  their  articles. 

"  They  have  no  heart !  "  he  would  say.     "  Oh  !  the  cowards !  " 
"  Who  are  you  screaming   at  ? "   Olivier  would   ask.     "  The 
idiots  of  the  market-place  ?  " 

"  No.  The  honest  men.  These  rascals  are  plying  their  trade : 
they  lie,  they  steal,  they  rob  and  murder.  But  it  is  the  others — • 
those  who  despise  them  and  yet  let  them  go  on — that  I  despise 
a  thousand  times  more.  If  their  colleagues  on  the  Press,  if 
honest,  cultured  critics,  and  the  artists  on  whose  backs  these 
harlequins  strut  and  poise  themselves,  did  not  put  up  with  it, 
in  silence,  from  shyness  or  fear  of  compromising  themselves,  or 
from  some  shameful  anticipation  of  mutual  service,  a  sort  of 
secret  pact  made  with  the  enemy  so  that  they  may  be  immune 
from  their  attacks, — if  they  did  not  let  them  preen  themselves  in 
their  patronage  and  friendship,  their  upstart  power  would  soon 
be  killed  by  ridicule.  There's  the  same  weakness  in  everything, 
everywhere.  I've  met  twenty  honest  men  who  have  said  to  me 
of  so-and-so:  'He  is  a  scoundrel.'  But  there  is  not  one  of  them 
who  would  not  refer  to  him  as  his  '  dear  colleague,'  and,  if  he 


THE  HOUSE  431 

met  him,  shako  hands  with  him. — '  There  are  too  man}*-  of 
them  ! '  they  say. — Too  many  cowards.  Too  many  flabby  honest 
men." 

"  Eh  !     What  do  you  want  them  to  do?  " 

"Be  every  man  his  own  policeman!  What  are  yon  waiting 
for?  For  Heaven  to  take  your  affairs  in  hand?  Look  you,  at 
this  very  moment.  It  is  three  days  now  since  the  snow  fell. 
Your  streets  are  thick  with  it,  and  your  Paris  is  like  a  sewer  of 
mud.  What  do  you  do?  You  protest  against  your  Municipal 
Council  for  leaving  you  in  such  a  state  of  filth.  But  do  you 
yourselves  do  anything  to  clear  it  away?  Xot  a  bit  of  it!  You 
sit  with  your  arms  folded.  Not  one  of  you  has  energy  enough 
even  to  clean  the  pavement  in  front  of  his  house.  Xobody  does 
his  duty,  neither  the  State  nor  the  members  of  the  State :  each 
man  thinks  he  has  done  as  much  as  is  expected  of  him  by 
laying  the  blame  on  some  one  else.  You  have  become  so  used, 
through  centuries  of  monarchical  training,  to  doing  nothing 
for  yourselves  that  you  all  seem  to  spend  your  time  in  star-gazing 
and  waiting  for  a  miracle  to  happen.  The  only  miracle  that 
could  happen  would  be  if  you  all  suddenly  made  up  your  minds 
to  do  something.  My  dear  Olivier,  you  French  people  have 
plenty  of  brains  and  plenty  of  good  qualities :  but  you  lack  blood. 
You  most  of  all.  There's  nothing  the  matter  with  your  mind 
or  your  heart.  It's  your  life  that's  all  wrong.  You're  sputter- 
ing out." 

"What  can  we  do?  We  can  only  wait  for  life  to  return 
to  us." 

"  You  must  want  life  to  return  to  you.  You  must  want  to  be 
cured.  You  must  want,  use  your  will !  And  if  you  are  to  do 
that  you  must  first  let  in  some  pure  air  into  your  houses.  If 
you  won't  go  out  of  doors,  then  at  least  you  must  keep  your 
houses  healthy.  You  have  let  the  air  be  poisoned  by  the  un- 
wholesome vapors  of  the  market-place.  Your  art  and  your 
ideas  are  two-thirds  adulterated.  And  you  are  so  dispirited 
that  it  hardly  occasions  you  any  surprise,  and  rouses  you  to  no 
sort  of  indignation.  Some  of  these  good  people — (it  is  pitiful 


432  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

to  see) — are  so  cowed  that  they  actually  persuade  themselves 
that  they  are  wrong  and  the  charlatans  are  right.  Why— even 
on  your  Esope  review,  in  which  you  profess  not  to  be  taken  in 
by  anything, — I  have  found  unhappy  young  men  persuading 
themselves  that  they  love  an  art  and  ideas  for  which  they  have 
not  a  \estige  of  love.  They  get  drunk  on  it,  without  any  sort 
of  pleasure,  simply  because  they  are  told  to  do  so :  and  they 
are  dying  of  boredom — boredom  with  the  monstrous  lie  of  the 
whole  thing ! " 

Christophe  passed  through  these  wavering  and  dispirited 
creatures  like  a  wind  shaking  the  slumbering  trees.  He  made 
no  attempt  to  force  them  to  his  way  of  thinking :  he  breathed 
into  them  energy  enough  to  make  them  think  for  themselves. 
He  used  to  say: 

"  You  are  too  humble.  The  grand  enemy  is  neurasthenia, 
doubt.  A  man  can  and  must  be  tolerant  and  human.  But  no 
man  may  doubt  what  he  believes  to  be  good  and  true.  A  man 
must  believe  in  what  he  thinks.  And  he  should  maintain  what 
he  believes.  Whatever  our  powers  may  be,  we  have  no  right  to 
forswear  them.  The  smallest  creature  in  the  world,  like  the 
greatest,  has  his  duty.  And — (though  he  is  not  sufficiently 
conscious  of  it) — he  has  also  a  power.  Why  should  you  think 
that  your  revolt  will  carry  so  little  weight?  A  sturdy  upright 
conscience  which  dares  assert  itself  is  a  mighty  thing.  More 
than  once  during  the  last  few  years  you  have  seen  the  State  and 
public  opinion  forced  to  reckon  with  the  views  of  an  honest  man, 
who  had  no  other  weapons  but  his  own  moral  force,  which,  with 
constant  courage  and  tenacity,  he  had  dared  publicly  to  as- 
sert. .  .  . 

"  And  if  you  must  go  on  asking  what's  the  good  of  taking 
so  much  trouble,  what's  the  good  of  fighting,  what's  the  good  of 
it  all?  .  .  .  Then.  I  will  tell  you: — Because  France  is  dying, 
because  Europe  is  perishing — because,  if  we  did  not  fight,  our 
civilization,  the  edifice  so  splendidly  constructed,  at  the  cost  of 
centuries  of  labor,  by  our  humanity,  would  crumble  away.  These 


THE  HOUSE  433 

are  not  idle  words.  The  country  is  in  danger,  our  European 
mother-country, — and  more  than  any,  yours,  your  own  native 
country,  France.  Your  apathy  is  killing  her.  Your  silence  is 
killing  her.  Each  of  your  energies  as  it  dies,  each  of  your  ideas 
as  it  accepts  and  surrenders,  each  of  your  good  intentions  as  it 
ends  in  sterility,  every  drop  of  your  blood  as  it  dries  up,  un- 
used, in  your  veins,  means  death  to  her.  .  .  .  Up  !  up  !  You 
must  live !  Or,  if  you  must  die,  then  you  must  die  fighting  like 
men." 

But  the  chief  difficulty  lay  not  in  getting  them  to  do  some- 
thing, but  in  getting  them  to  act  together.  There  they  were 
quite  unmanageable.  The  best  of  them  were  the  most  obstinate, 
as  Christophe  found  in  dealing  with  the  tenants  in  his  own 
house:  M.  Felix  Weil,  Elsberger,  the  engineer,  and  Com- 
mandant Chabran,  lived  on  terms  of  polite  and  silent  hostility. 
And  yet,  though  Christophe  knew  very  little  of  them,  he  could 
see  that,  underneath  their  party  and  racial  labels,  they  all  wanted 
the  same  thing. 

There  were  many  reasons  particularly  why  M.  Weil  and  the 
Commandant  should  have  understood  each  other.  By  one  of 
those  contrasts  common  to  thoughtful  men,  M.  Weil,  who  never 
left  his  books  and  lived  only  in  the  life  of  the  mind,  had  a 
passion  for  all  things  military.  "  We  are  all  cranks"  said  the 
half-Jew  Montaigne,  applying  to  mankind  in  general  what  is 
perfectly  true  of  certain  types  of  minds,  like  the  type  of  which 
M.  Weil  was  an  example.  The  old  intellectual  had  the  craze  for 
Napoleon.  He  collected  books  and  relics  which  brought  to  life 
in  him  the  terrible  dream  of  the  Imperial  epic.  Like  many 
Frenchmen  of  that  crepuscular  epoch,  he  was  dazzled  by  the 
distant  rays  of  that  glorious  sun.  He  used  to  go  through  the 
campaigns,  fight  the  battles  all  over  again,  and  discuss  opera- 
tions :  he  was  one  of  those  chamber-strategists  who  swarm  in  the 
Academies  and  the  Universities,  who  explain  Austerlitz  and 
declare  how  Waterloo  should  have  been  fought.  He  was  the 
first  to  make  fun  of  the  "  Napoleonite  "  in  himself:  it  tickled 


434  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IX  PAINS 

Ms  irony:  but  none  the  less  lie  went  on  reading  the  splendid 
stories  with  the  wild  enthusiasm  of  a  child  playing  a  game:  he 
would  weep  over  certain  episodes :  and  when  he  realized  that 
he  had  hecn  weak  enough  to  shed  tears,  he  would  roar  with 
laughter,  and  call  himself  an  old  fool.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  lie 
wTas  a  Xapoleonite  not  so  much  from  patriotism  as  from  a  ro- 
mantic interest  and  a  platonic  love  of  action.  However,  he  was 
a  good  patriot,  and  much  more  attached  to  France  than  many  an 
actual  Frenchman.  The  French  anti-Semites  are  stupid  and 
actively  mischievous  in  casting  their  insulting  suspicions  on 
the  feeling  for  France  of  the  Jews  who  have  settled  in  the  coun- 
try. Outside  the  reasons  by  which  any  family  does  of  necessity, 
after  a  generation  or  two,  become  attached  to  the  land  of  its 
adoption,  where  the  blood  of  the  soil  has  become  its  own,  the 
Jews  have  especial  reason  to  love  the  nation  which  in  the 
West  stands  for  the  most  advanced  ideas  of  intellectual  and 
moral  liberty.  They  love  it  because  for  a  hundred  years  they 
have  helped  to  make  it  so,  and  its  liberty  is  in  part  their  work. 
How,  then,  should  they  not  defend  it  against  every  menace  of 
feudal  reaction?  To  try — as  a  handful  of  unscrupulous  poli- 
ticians and  a  herd  of  wrong-headed  people  would  like — to  break 
the  bonds  which  bind  these  Frenchmen  by  adoption  to  France, 
is  to  play  into  the  hands  of  that  reaction. 

Commandant  Chabran  was  one  of  those  wrong-headed  old 
Frenchmen  who  are  roused  to  fury  by  the  newspapers,  which 
make  out  that  every  immigrant  into  France  is  a  secret  enemy. 
and.  in  a  human,  hospitable  spirit,  force  themselves  to  suspect 
and  hate  and  revile  them,  and  deny  the  brave  destiny  of  the 
race,  which  is  the  conflux  of  all  the  races.  Therefore,  he 
thought  it  incumbent  on  him  not  to  know  the  tenant  of  the  first 
floor,  although  he  would  have  been  glad  to  have  his  acquaintance. 
As  for  M.  Weil,  he  would  have  been  very  glad  to  talk  to  the  old 
soldier:  but  he  knew  him  for  a  nationalist,  and  regarded  him 
with  mild  contempt. 

Christophe  had  much  less  reason  than  the  Commandant  for 
being  interested  in  M.  Weil.  But  he  could  not  bear  to  hear  ill 


THE  HOUSE  435 

spoken  of  anybody  unjustly.  And  he  broke  many  a  lance  in  de- 
fence of  M.  Weil  when  he  was  attacked  in  his  presence. 

One  day,  when  the  Commandant,  as  usual,  was  railing  against 
the  prevailing  state  of  things,  Christophe  said  to  him : 

"  It  is  your  own  fault.  You  all  shut  yourselves  up  inside 
yourselves.  When  things  in  France  are  not  going  well,  to  your 
way  of  thinking,  you  submit  to  it  and  send  in  your  resignation. 
One  would  think  it  was  a  point  of  honor  with  you  to  admit  your- 
selves beaten.  I've  never  seen  anybody  lose  a  cause  with  such 
absolute  delight.  Come,  Commandant,  you  have  made  war;  is 
that  fighting,  or  anything  like  it  ?  " 

"  It  is  not  a  question  of  fighting,"  replied  the  Commandant. 
"  We  don't  fight  against  France.  In  such  struggles  as  these  we 
have  to  argue,  and  vote,  and  mix  with  ail  sorts  of  knaves  and 
low  blackguards :  and  I  don't  like  it." 

"  You  seem  to  be  profoundly  disgusted !  I  suppose  you  had 
to  do  with  knaves  and  low  blackguards  in  Africa !  " 

"  On  my  honor,  that  did  not  disgust  me  nearly  so  much.  Out 
there  one  could  always  knock  them  down!  Besides,  if  it's  a 
question  of  lighting,  you  need  soldiers.  I  had  my  sharpshooters 
out  there.  Here  1  am  all  alone." 

"  It  isn't  that  there  is  any  lack  of  good  men." 

"  Where  are  they  ?  " 

"  Everywhere.     All  round  us." 

"  Well :  what  are  they  doing?  " 

"  Just  what  you're  doing.  Nothing.  They  say  there's  nothing 
to  be  done." 

"  Give  me  an  instance." 

"Three,  if  you  like,  in  this  very  house." 

Christophe  mentioned  M.  Weil, —  (the  Commandant  gave  an 
exclamation),— and  the  Elsbergers. —  (lie  jumped  in  his  seat)  : 

"  That  Jew  ?     Those  Dreyfusards  ?  " 

"Dreyfusards?"  said  Christophe.  "Well:  what  docs  that 
matter?" 

"  It  is  they  who  have  ruined  France." 

"  They  love  France  as  much  as  you  do." 


436  JEAN-CHKISTOPHE  IN  PAEIS 

"  They're  mad,  mischievous  lunatics." 

"  Can't  you  be  just  to  your  adversaries  ?  " 

"  I  can  get  on  quite  well  with  loyal  adversaries  who  use  the 
same  weapons.  The  proof  of  that  is  that  I  am  here  talking 
to  you,  Monsieur  German.  I  can  think  well  of  the  Germans, 
although  some  day  I  hope  to  give  them  back  with  interest  the 
thrashing  we  got  from  them.  But  it  is  not  the  same  thing 
with  our  enemies  at  home :  they  use  underhand  weapons,  soph- 
istry, and  unsound  ideas,  and  a  poisonous  humanitarian- 
ism.  ..." 

"  Yes.  You  are  in  the  same  state  of  mind  as  that  of  the 
knights  of  the  Middle  Ages,  when,  for  the  first  time,  they  found 
themselves  faced  with  gunpowder.  What  do  you  want?  There 
is  evolution  in  war  too." 

"  So  be  it.  But  then,  let  us  be  frank,  and  say  that  war  is 
war." 

"  Suppose  a  common  enemy  were  to  threaten  Europe,  wouldn't 
you  throw  in  your  lot  with  the  Germans  ?  " 

"  We  did  so,  in  China." 

"  Very  well,  then :  look  about  you.  Don't  you  see  that  the 
heroic  idealism  of  your  country  and  every  other  country  in 
Europe  is  actually  threatened  ?  Don't  you  see  that  they  are  all, 
more  or  less,  a  prey  to  the  adventurers  of  every  class  of  society? 
To  fight  that  common  enemy,  don't  you  think  you  should  join 
with  those  of  your  adversaries  who  are  of  some  worth  and  moral 
vigor  ?  How  can  a  man  like  you  set  so  little  store  by  the  realities 
of  life?  Here  are  people  who  uphold  an  ideal  which  is  different 
from  your  own!  An  ideal  is  a  force,  you  cannot  deny  it:  in  the 
struggle  in  which  you  were  recently  engaged,  it  was  your  ad- 
versaries' ideal  which  defeated  you.  Instead  of  wasting  your 
strength  in  fighting  against  it,  why  not  make  use  of  it,  side 
by  side  with  your  own,  against  the  enemies  of  all  ideals,  the 
men  who  are  exploiting  your  country  and  your  wealth  of  ideas, 
the  men  who  are  bringing  European  civilization  to  rottenness?" 

"  For  whose  sake  ?  One  must  know  where  one  is.  To  make 
our  adversaries  triumph  ?  " 


THE  HOUSE  437 

"  When  you  were  in  Africa,  you  never  stopped  to  think 
whether  you  were  fighting  for  the  King  or  the  Republic.  I 
fancy  that  not  many  of  you  ever  gave  a  thought  to  the  Re- 
public." 

"  They  didn't  care  a  rap." 

"  Good !  And  that  was  well  for  France.  You  conquered 
for  her,  as  well  as  for  yourselves,  and  for  the  honor  and  the  joy 
of  it.  Why  not  do  the  same  here?  Why  not  widen  the  scope 
of  the  fight?  Don't  go  haggling  over  differences  in  politics  and 
religion.  These  things  are  utterly  futile.  What  does  it  matter 
whether  your  nation  is  the  eldest  daughter  of  the  Church  or 
the  eldest  daughter  of  Reason  ?  The  only  thing  that  does  matter 
is  that  it  should  live !  Everything  that  exalts  life  is  good.  There 
is  only  one  enemy,  pleasure-seeking  egoism,  which  fouls  the 
sources  of  life  and  dries  them  up.  Exalt  force,  exalt  the  light, 
exalt  fruitful  love,  the  joy  of  sacrifice,  action,  and  give  up  ex- 
pecting other  people  to  act  for  you.  Do,  act,  combine ! 
Come!  .  .  ." 

And  he  laughed  and  began  to  bang  out  the  first  bars  of  the 
march  in  B  minor  from  the  Choral  Symphony. 

"  Do  you  know,"  he  said,  breaking  off,  "  that  if  I  were  one  of 
your  musicians,  say  Charpentier  or  Brnneau  (devil  take  the  two 
of  them!),  I  would  combine  in  a  choral  symphony  Aux  armcs, 
citoyens!,  V Internationale,  Vive  Henri  IV,  and  Dicu  Protege  la 
France!, —  (You  see,  something  like  this.) — I  would  make  you 
a  soup  so  hot  that  it  would  burn  your  mouth !  It  would  be  un- 
pleasant,—  (no  worse  in  any  case  than  what  you  are  doing  now)  : 
— but  I  vow  it  would  warm  your  vitals,  and  that  you  would 
have  to  set  out  on  the  march !  " 

And  he  roared  with  laughter. 

The  Commandant  laughed  too  : 

"  You're  a  fine  fellow,  Monsieur  Krafft.  What  a  pity  you're 
not  one  of  us !  " 

"  But  I  am  one  of  you !  The  fight  is  the  same  everywhere. 
Let  us  close  up  the  ranks !  " 

The  Commandant  quite  agreed:  but  there  he  stayed.     Then 


438  JEAN-CHKISTOPEE  IN  PAKIS 

Christophe  pressed  his  point  and  brought  the  conversation  back 
to  M.  Weil  and  the  Elsbergers.  And  the  old  soldier  no  less 
obstinately  went  back  to  his  eternal  arguments  against  Jews 
and  Dreyfusards,  and  nothing  that  Christophe  had  said  seemed 
to  have  had  the  slightest  effect  on  him. 

Christophe  grew  despondent.     Olivier  said  to  him: 

"  Don't  you  worry  about  it.  One  man  cannot  all  of  a  sud- 
den change  the  whole  state  of  mind  of  a  nation.  That's  too 
much  to  expect !  But  you  have  done  a  good  deal  without  know- 
ing it." 

"  What  have  I  done  ?  "  said  Christophe. 

"  You  are  Christophe." 

"  What  good  is  that  to  other  people  ?  " 

"  A  great  deal.  Just  go  on  being  what  you  are,  my  dear 
Christophe.  Don't  you  worry  about  us." 

But  Christophe  could  not  surrender.  He  went  on  arguing 
with  Commandant  Chabran,  sometimes  with  great  vehemence. 
It  amused  Celine.  She  was  generally  present  at  their  dis- 
cussions, sitting  and  working  in  silence.  She  took  no  part  in  the 
argument:  but  it  seemed  to  make  her  more  lively:  and  quite  a 
different  expression  would  come  into  her  eyes :  it  was  as  though 
it  gave  her  .more  breathing-space.  She  began  to  read,  and  went 
out  a  little  more,  and  found  more  things  to  interest  her.  And 
one  day,  when  Christophe  was  battling  with  her  father  about 
the  Elsbergers,  the  Commandant  saw  her  smile:  he  asked  her 
what  she  was  thinking,  and  she  replied  calmly : 

"  I  think  M.  Krafft  is  right." 

The  Commandant  was  taken  aback,  and  said : 

"  You  .  .  .  you .  surprise  me !  .  .  .  However,  right  or 
wrong,  we  are  what  we  are.  And  there's  no  reason  why  we 
should  know  these  people.  Isn't  it  so,  my  dear  ?  " 

"  Xo,  father,"  she  replied.  "  I  would  like  to  know 
them." ' 

The  Commandant  said  nothing,  and  pretended  that  he  had 
not  heard.  lie  himself  was  much  less  insensible  of  Christophers 
influence  than  he  cared  to  appear.  His  vehemence  and  nar- 


THE  HOUSE  439 

row-mindedness  did  not  prevent  his  having  a  proper  sense  of 
justice  and  very  generous  feelings.  He  loved  Christophe,  he 
loved  his  frankness  and  his  moral  soundness,  and  he  used  often 
bitterly  to  regret  that  Christophe  was  a  German.  Although  ho 
always  lost  his  temper  in  these  discussions,  he  was  always 
eager  for  more,  and  Christophers  arguments  did  produce  an 
effect  on  him,  though  he  would  never  have  been  willing  to  admit 
it.  But  one  day  Christophe  found  him  absorbed  in  reading  a 
book  which  he  would  not  let  him  see.  And  when  Celine  took 
Christophe  to  the  door  and  found  herself  alone  with  him,  she 
said: 

"  Do  you  know  what  he  was  reading  ?  One  of  M.  Weil's 
books." 

Christophe  was  delighted. 

"  What  does  he  say  about  it  ?  " 

"  He  says :  '  Beast ! '   .    .    .     But  he  can't  put  it  down." 

Christophe  made  no  allusion  to  the  fact  with  the  Com- 
mandant. It  was  he  who  asked : 

"  Wiry  have  you  stopped  hurling  that  blessed  Jew  at  my 
head?" 

"  Because  I  don't  think  there's  any  need  to,"  said  Chris- 
tophe. 

"  Why  ?  "  asked  the  Commandant  aggressively. 

Christophe  made  no  reply,  and  went  away  laughing. 

Olivier  was  right.  It  is  not  through  words  that  a  man  can  in- 
fluence other  men:  but  through  his  life.  There  are  people 
who  irradiate  an  atmosphere  of  peace  from  their  eyes,  and  in 
their  gestures,  and  through  the  silent  contact  with  the  serenity 
of  their  souls.  Christophe  irradiated  life.  Softly,  softly,  like 
the  moist  air  of  spring,  it  penetrated  the  walls  and  the  closed 
windows  of  the  somnolent  old  house:  it  gave  new  life  to  the 
hearts  of  men  and  women,  whom  sorrow,  weakness,  and  isolation 
had  for  years  been  consuming,  so  that  they  were  withered  and 
like  dead  creatures.  What  a  power  there  is  in  one  soul  over 
another!  Those  who  wield  that  power  and  those  who  feel  it 


440  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IX  PARIS 

are  alike  ignorant  of  its  working.  And  yet  the  life  of  the 
world  is  in  the  ebb  and  flow  controlled  by  that  mysterious  power 
of  attraction. 

On  the  second  floor,  below  Christophe  and  Olivier's  room, 
there  lived,  as  we  have  seen,  a  j^oung  woman  of  thirty-five,  a 
Madame  Germain,  a  widow  of  two  years'  standing,  who,  the 
year  before,  had  lost  her  little  girl,  a  child  of  seven.  She  lived 
with  her  mother-in-law,  and  they  never  saw  anybody.  Of  all 
the  tenants  of  the  house,  they  had  the  least  to  do  with  Chris- 
tophe. They  had  hardly  met,  and  they  had  never  spoken  to  each 
other. 

She  was  a  tall  woman,  thin,  but  with  a  good  figure;  she  had 
fine  brown  eyes,  dull  and  rather  inexpressive,  though  every  now 
and  then  there  glowed  in  them  a  hard,  mournful  light.  Her 
face  was  sallow  and  her  complexion  waxy :  her  cheeks  were 
hollow  and  her  lips  were  tightly  compressed.  The  elder 
Madame  Germain  was  a  devout  lady,  and  spent  all  her  time  at 
church.  The  younger  woman  lived  in  jealous  isolation  in  her 
grief.  She  took  no  interest  in  anything  or  anybody.  She  sur- 
rounded herself  with  portraits  and  pictures  of  her  little  girl, 
and  by  dint  of  staring  at  them  she  had  ceased  to  see  her  as 
she  was :  the  photographs  and  dead  presentments  had  killed  the 
living  image  of  the  child.  She  had  ceased  to  see  her  as  she 
was,  but  she  clung  to  it :  she  was  determined  to  think  of  nothing 
but  the  child :  and  so,  in  the  end,  she  reached  a  point  at  which 
she  could  not  even  think  of  her:  she  had  completed  the  work 
of  death.  There  she  stopped,  frozen,  with  her  heart  turned  to 
stone,  with  no  tears  to  shed,  with  her  life  withered.  Religion 
was  no  aid  to  her.  She  went  through  the  formalities,  but  her 
heart  was  not  in  them,  and  therefore  she  had  no  living  faith : 
she  gave  money  for  Masses,  but  she  took  no  active  part  in  any 
of  the  work  of  the  Church:  her  whole  religion  was  centered  in 
the  one  thought  of  seeing  her  child  again.  What  did  the  rest 
matter?  God?  What  had  she  to  do  with  God?  To  see  her 
child  again,  only  to  see  her  again.  .  .  .  And  she  was  by  no 
means  sure  that  she  would  do  so.  She  wished  to  believe  it, 


THE  HOUSE  441 

willed  it  hardly,  desperately :  but  she  was  in  doubt.  .  .  .  She 
could  not  bear  to  see  other  children,  and  used  to  think : 

"  Why  are  they  not  dead  too  ?  " 

In  the  neighborhood  there  was  a  little  girl  who  in  figure  and 
manner  was  like  her  own.  When  she  saw  her  from  behind,  with 
her  little  pigtails  down  her  back,  she  used  to  tremble.  She  would 
follow  her,  and,  when  the  child  turned  round  and  she  saw  that  it 
was  not  she,  she  would  long  to  strangle  her.  She  used  to  com- 
plain that  the  Elsberger  children  made  a  noise  below  her,  though 
they  were  very  quiet,  and  even  very  subdued  by  their  up-bring- 
ing: and  when  the  unhappy  children  began  to  play  about  their 
room,  she  would  send  her  maid  to  ask  her  neighbors  to  make 
them  be  quiet.  Christophe  met  her  once  as  he  was  coming  in 
with  the  little  girls,  and  was  hurt  and  horrified  by  the  hard 
way  in  which  she  looked  at  them. 

One  summer  evening  when  the  poor  woman  was  sitting  in  the 
dark  in  the  self-hypnotized  condition  of  the  utter  emptiness  of 
her  living  death,  she  heard  Christophe  playing.  It  was  his  habit 
to  sit  at  the  piano  in  the  half-light,  musing  and  improvising. 
His  music  irritated  her,  for  it  disturbed  the  empty  torpor  into 
which  she  had  sunk.  She  shut  the  window  angrily.  The  music 
penetrated  through  to  her  room.  Madame  Germain  was  filled 
with  a  sort  of  hatred  for  it.  She  would  have  been  glad  to  stop 
Christophe,  but  she  had  no  right  to  do  so.  Thereafter,  every 
day  at  the  same  time  she  sat  waiting  impatiently  and  irritably 
for  the  music  to  begin :  and  when  it  was  later  than  usual  her 
irritation  was  only  the  more  acute.  In  spite  of  herself,  she 
had  to  follow  the  music  through  to  the  end,  and  when  it  was 
over  she  found  it  hard  to  sink  back  into  her  usual  apathy. — And 
one  evening,  when  she  was  curled  up  in  a  corner  of  her  dark 
room,  and,  through  the  walls  and  the  closed  window,  the  distant 
music  reached  her,  that  light-giving  music  .  .  .  she  felt  a 
thrill  run  through  her.  and  once  more  tears  came  to  her  eyes. 
She  went  and  opened  the  window,  and  stood  there  listening  and 
weeping.  The  music  was  like  rain  drop  by  drop  falling  upon 
her  poor  withered  heart,  and  giving  it  new  life.  Once  more  she 


442  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

could  see  the  sky,  the  stars,  the  summer  night :  within  herself  she 
felt  the  dawning  of  a  new  interest  in  life,  as  yet  only  a  poor, 
pale  light,  vague  and  sorrowful  sympathy  for  others.  And  that 
night,  for  the  first  time  for  many  months,  the  image  of  her 
little  girl  came  to  her  in  her  dreams. — For  the  surest  road  to 
bring  us  near  the  beloved  dead,  the  best  means  of  seeing  them 
again,  is  not  to  go  with  them  into  death,  but  to  live.  They  live 
in  our  lives^  and  die.  with  us. 

She  made  no  attempt  to  meet  Christophe.  Rather  she  avoided 
him.  But  she  used  to  hear  him  go  by  on  the  stairs  with  the 
children :  and  she  would  stand  in  hiding  behind  her  door  to 
listen  to  their  babyish  prattle,  which  so  moved  her  heart. 

One  day,  as  she  was  going  out,  she  heard  their  little  padding 
footsteps  coming  down  the  stairs,  rather  more  noisily  than 
usual,  and  the  voice  of  one  of  the  children  saying  to  her 
sister : 

"  Don't  make  so  much  noise,  Lucette.  Christophe  says  you 
mustn't  because  of  the  sorrowful  lady." 

And  the  other  child  began  to  walk  more  quietly  and  to  talk 
in  a  whisper.  Then  Madame  Germain  could  not  restrain  her- 
self :  she  opened  the  door,  and  took  the  children  in  her  arms,  and 
hugged  them  fiercely.  They  were  afraid :  one  of  the  children 
began  to  cry.  She  let  them  go,  and  went  back  into  her  own 
room. 

After  that,  whenever  she  met  them,  she  used  to  try  to  smile 
at  them,  a  poor  withered  smile, —  (for  she  had  grown  unused  to 
smiling)  : — she  would  speak  to  them  awkwardly  and  affection- 
ately, and  the  children  would  reply  shyly  in  timid,  bashful 
whispers.  They  were  still  afraid  of  the  sorrowful  lady,  more 
afraid  than  ever:  and  now,  whenever  they  passed  the  door,  they 
used  to  run  lest  she  should  come  out  and  catch  them.  She  used 
to  hide  to  catch  sight  of  them  as  they  passed.  She  would  have 
been  ashamed  to  be  seen  talking  to  the  children.  She  was 
ashamed  in  her  own  eyes.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she  was  rob- 
bing her  own  dead  child  of  some  of  the  love  to  which  she 
only  was  entitled.  She  would  kneel  down  and  pray  for  her 


THE  HOUSE  443 

forgiveness.  But  now  that  the  instinct  for  life  and  love  was 
newly  awakened  in  her,  she  could  not  resist  it:  it  was  stronger 
than  herself. 

One  evening,  as  Christophe  came  in,  he  saw  that  there  was 
an  unusual  commotion  in  the  house.  He  met  a  tradesman,  who 
told  him  that  the  tenant  of  the  third  floor,  M.  Watelet,  had  just 
died  suddenly  of  angina  pectoris.  Christophe  was  filled  with 
pity,  not  so  much  for  his  unhappy  neighbor  as  for  the  child 
who  was  left  alone  in  the  world.  M.  Watelet  was  not  known 
to  have  any  relations,  and  there  was  every  reason  to  believe  that 
he  had  left  the  girl  almost  entirely  unprovided  for.  Christophe 
raced  upstairs,  and  went  into  the  flat  on  the  third  floor,  the 
door  of  which  was  open.  He  found  the  Abbe  Corneille  with 
the  body,  and  the  child  in  tears,  crying  to  her  father :  the  house- 
keeper was  making  clumsy  efforts  to  console  her.  Christophe 
took  the  child  in  his  arms  and  spoke  to  her  tenderly.  She  clung 
to  him  desperately :  he  could  not  think  of  leaving  her :  he  wanted 
to  take  her  away,  but  she  would  not  let  him.  He  stayed  with 
her.  He  sat  near  the  window  in  the  dying  light  of  day,  and 
went  on  rocking  her  in  his  arms  and  speaking  to  her  softly.. 
The  child  gradually  grew  calmer,  and  went  to  sleep,  still  sob- 
bing. Christophe  laid  her  on  her  bed,  and  tried  awkwardly  to 
undress  her  and  undo  the  laces  of  her  little  shoes.  It  was  night- 
fall. The  door  of  the  flat  had  been  left  open.  A  shadow  en- 
tered with  a  rustling  of  skirts.  In  the  fading  light  Christophe 
recognized  the  fevered  eyes  of  the  sorrowful  lady.  He  was 
amazed.  She  stood  by  the  door,  and  said  thickly: 

"  I  came.  .  .  .  Will  you  .  .  .  will  you  let  me  take 
her  ?  " 

Christophe  took  her  hand  and  pressed  it.  Madame  Germain 
was  in  tears.  Then  she  sat  by  the  bedside.  And,  a  moment 
later,  she  said : 

"  Let  me  stay  with  her.    ..." 

Christophe  went  up  to  his  own  room  with  the  Abbe  Corneille. 
The  priest  was  a  little  embarrassed,  and  begged  his  pardon  for 
corning  up.  He  hoped,  he  said,  humbly,  that  the  dead  man 


444  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

would  have  nothing  to  reproach  him  with :  he  had  gone,  not  as 
a  priest,  but  as  a  friend.  Christophe  was  too  much  moved  to 
speak,  and  left  him  with  an  affectionate  shake  of  the  hand. 

Next  morning,  when  Christophe  went  down,  he  found  the 
child  with  her  arms  round  Madame  Germain's  neck,  with  the 
naive  confidence  which  makes  children  surrender  absolutely  to 
those  who  have  won  their  affection.  She  was  glad  to  go  with 
her  new  friend.  .  .  .  Alas !  she  had  soon  forgotten  her 
adopted  father.  She  showed  just  the  same  affection  for  her 
new  mother.  That  was  not  very  comforting.  Did  Madame 
Germain,  in  the  egoism  of  her  love,  see  it?  .  .  .  Perhaps. 
But  what  did  it  matter?  The  thing  is  to  love.  That  way  lies 
happiness.  .  .  . 

A  few  weeks  after  the  funeral  Madame  Germain  took  the 
child  into  the  country,  far  away  from  Paris.  Christophe  and 
Olivier  saw  them  off.  The  woman  had  an  expression  of  con- 
tentment and  secret  joy  which  they  had  never  known  in  her  be- 
fore. She  paid  no  attention  to  them.  However,  just  as  they 
were  going,  she  noticed  Christophe,  and  held  out  her  hand,  and 
said : 

"  It  was  you  who  saved  me." 

"  What's  the  matter  with  the  woman  ?  "  asked  Christophe  in 
amazement,  as  they  were  going  upstairs  after  her  departure. 

A  few  days  later  the  post  brought  him  a  photograph  of  a 
little  girl  whom  he  did  not  know,  sitting  on  a  stool,  with  her 
little  hands  sagely  folded  in  her  lap,  while  she  looked  up  at  him 
with  clear,  sad  eyes.  Beneath  it  were  written  these  words: 

"  With  thanks  from  my  dear,  dead  child." 

Thus  it  was  that  the  breath  of  life  passed  into  all  these  peo- 
ple. In  the  attic  on  the  fifth  floor  was  a  great  and  mighty  flame 
of  humanity,  the  warmth  and  light  of  which  were  slowly  filtered 
through  the  house. 

But  Christophe  saw  it  not.  To  him  the  process  was  very 
slow. 

"  Ah ! "  he  would  sigh,  "  if  one  could  only  bring  these  good 


THE  HOUSE  445 

people  together,  all  these  people  of  all  classes  and  every  kind  of 
belief,  who  refuse  to  know  each  other !  Can't  it  be  done  ?  " 

"  What  do  you  want  ?  "  said  Olivier.  "  You  would  need  to 
have  mutual  tolerance  and  a  power  of  sympathy  which  can  only 
come  from  inward  jo}r, — the  joy  of  a  healthy,  normal,  har- 
monious existence, — the  joy  of  having  a  useful  outlet  for  one's 
activity,  of  feeling  that  one's  efforts  are  not  wasted,  and  that 
one  is  serving  some  great  purpose.  You  would  need  to  have  a 
prosperous  country,  a  nation  at  the  height  of  greatness,  or — 
(better  still) — on  the  road  to  greatness.  And  you  must  also 
have — (the  two  things  go  together) — a  power  which  could  em- 
ploy all  the  nation's  energies,  an  intelligent  and  strong  power, 
which  would  be  above  party.  Now,  there  is  no  power  above 
party  save  that  which  finds  its  strength  in  itself — not  in  the 
multitude,  that  power  which  seeks  not  the  support  of  anarchical 
majorities, — as  it  does  nowadays  when  it  is  no  more  than  a  well- 
trained  dog  in  the  hands  of  second-rate  men,  and  bends  all  to 
its  will  by  service  rendered :  the  victorious  general,  the  dictator- 
ship of  Public  Safety,  the  supremacy  of  the  intelligence  .  .  . 
what  you  will.  It  does  not  depend  on  us.  You  must  have  the 
opportunity  and  the  men  capable  of  seizing  it :  you  must  have 
happiness  and  genius.  Let  us  wait  and  hope !  The  forces  are 
there :  the  forces  of  faith,  knowledge,  work,  old  France  and  new 
France,  and  the  greater  France.  .  .  .  What  an  upheaval  it 
would  be,  if  the  word  were  spoken,  the  magic  word  which  should 
let  loose  these  forces  all  together !  Of  course,  neither  you  nor 
I  can  say  the  word.  Who  will  say  it?  Victory?  Glory?  .  .  . 
Patience !  The  chief  thing  is  for  the  strength  of  the  nation  to 
be  gathered  together,  and  not  to  rust  away,  and  not  to  lose 
heart  before  the  time  comes.  Happiness  and  genius  only  come 
to  those  peoples  who  have  earned  them  by  ages  of  stoic  patience, 
and  labor,  and  faith." 

"Who  knows?"  said  Christophe.  "They  often  come  sooner 
than  we  think — just  when  we  expect  them  least.  You  are  count- 
ing too  much  on  the  work  of  ages.  Make  ready.  Gird  your 
loins.  Always  be  prepared  with  your  shoes  on  your  feet  and 


446  JEAN-CHBISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

your  staff  in  your  hand.   .    .    .     For  you  do  not  know  that  the 
Lord  will  not  pass  your  doors  this  very  night." 

The  Lord  came  very  near  that  night.  His  shadow  fell  upon 
the  threshold  of  the  house. 

Following  on  a  sequence  of  apparently  insignificant  events, 
relations  between  France  and  Germany  suddenly  became 
strained:  and,  in  a  few  days,  the  usual  neighborly  attitude 
of  banal  courtesy  passed  into  the  provocative  mood  which  pre- 
cedes war.  There  was  nothing  surprising  in  this,  except  to 
those  who  were  living  under  the  illusion  that  the  world  is  gov- 
erned by  reason.  But  there  were  many  such  in  France:  and 
numbers  of  people  were  amazed  from  day  to  day  to  see  the  vehe- 
ment Gallophobia  of  the  German  Press  becoming  rampant  with 
the  usual  quasi-unanimity.  Certain  of  those  newspapers  which, 
in  the  two  countries,  arrogate  to  themselves  a  monopoly  of  patri- 
otism, and  speak  in  the  nation's  name,  and  dictate  to  the  State, 
sometimes  with  the  secret  complicity  of  the  State,  the  policy 
it  should  follow,  launched  forth  insulting  ultimatums  to  France. 
There  was  a  dispute  between  Germany  and  England;  and  Ger- 
many did  not  admit  the  right  of  France  not  to  interfere :  the  in- 
solent newspapers  called  upon  her  to  declare  for  Germany,  or  else 
threatened  to  make  her  pay  the  chief  expenses  of  the  war :  they 
presumed  that  they  could  wrest  alliance  from  her  fears,  and 
already  regarded  her  as  a  conquered  and  contented  vassal, — to 
be  frank,  like  Austria.  It  only  showed  the  insane  vanity  of 
German  Imperialism,  drunk  with  victory,  and  the  absolute  in- 
capacity of  German  statesmen  to  understand  other  races,  so  that 
they  were  always  applying  the  simple  common  measure  which 
was  law  for  themselves :  Force,  the  supreme  reason.  Naturally, 
such  a  brutal  demand,  made  of  an  ancient  nation,  rich  in  its 
past  ages  of  a  glory  and  a  supremacy  in  Europe,  such  as  Ger- 
many had  never  known,  had  had  exactly  the  opposite  effect 
to  that  which  Germany  expected.  It  had  provoked  their  slum- 


THE  HOUSE  447 

bering  pride :  France  was  •  shaken  from  top  to  base :  and  even 
the  most  diffident  of  the  French  roared  with  anger. 

The  great  mass  of  the  German  people  had  nothing  at  all  to 
do  with  the  provocation :  they  were  shocked  by  it :  the  honest 
men  of  every  country  ask  only  to  be  allowed  to  live  in  peace :  and 
the  people  of  Germany  are  particularly  peaceful,  affectionate, 
anxious  to  be  on  good  terms  with  everybody,  and  much  more  in- 
clined to  admire  and  emulate  other  nations  than  to  go  to  war 
with  them.  But  the  honest  men  of  a  nation  are  not  asked  for 
their  opinion :  and  they  are  not  bold  enough  to  give  it.  Those 
who  are  not  virile  enough  to  take  public  action  are  inevitably 
condemned  to  be  its  pawns.  They  are  the  magnificent  and  un- 
thinking echo  which  casts  back  the  snarling  cries  of  the  Press 
and  the  defiance  of  their  leaders,  and  swells  them  into  the  Mar- 
seillaise, or  the  Wacht  am  Rliein. 

It  was  a  terrible  blow  to  Christophe  and  Olivier.  They  were 
so  used  to  living  in  mutual  love  that  they  could  not  understand 
why  their  countries  did  not  do  the  same.  Xeither  of  them  could 
grasp  the  reasons  for  the  persistent  hostility,  which  was  now  so 
suddenly  brought  to  the  surface,  especially  Christophe,  who.  be- 
ing a  German,  had  no  sort  of  ground  for  ill-feeling  against  the 
people  whom  his  own  people  had  conquered.  Although  he  him- 
self was  shocked  by  the  intolerable  vanity  of  some  of  his  fellow- 
countrymen,  and,  up  to  a  certain  point,  was  entirely  with  the 
French  against  such  a  high-handed  Brunswicker  demand,  he 
could  not  understand  why  France  should,  after  all.  be  unwilling 
to  enter  into  an  alliance  with  Germany.  The  two  countries 
seemed  to  him  to  have  so  many  deep-seated  reasons  for  being 
united,  so  many  ideas  in  common,  and  such  great  tasks  to  ac- 
complish together,  that  it  annoyed  him  to  see  them  persisting  in 
their  wasteful,  sterile  ill-feeling.  Like  all  Germans,  he  regarded 
France  as  the  most  to  blame  for  the  misunderstanding:  for, 
though  he  was  quite  ready  to  admit  that  it  was  painful  for 
her  to  sit  still  under  the  memory  of  her  defeat,  yet  that  was, 
after  all,  only  a  matter  of  vanity,  which  should  be  set  aside  in 
the  higher  interests  of  civilization  and  of  France  herself.  He 


448  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

had  never  taken  the  trouble  to  think -out  the  problem  of  Alsace 
and  Lorraine.  At  school  he  had  been  taught  to  regard  the  an- 
nexation of  those  countries  as  an  act  of  justice,  by  which,  after 
centuries  of  foreign  subjection,  a  German  province  had  been 
restored  to  the  German  flag.  And  so,  he  was  brought  down  with 
a  run,  and  he  discovered  that  his  friend  regarded  the  annexation 
as  a  crime.  He  had  never  even  spoken  to  him  about  these 
things,  so  convinced  was  he  that  they  were  of  the  same  opinion: 
and  now  he  found  Olivier,  of  whose  good  faith  and  broad- 
mindedness  lie  was  certain,  telling  him,  dispassionately,  without 
anger  and  with  profound  sadness,  that  it  was  possible  for  a 
great  people  to  renounce  the  thought  of  vengeance  for  such  a 
crime,  but  quite  impossible  for  them  to  subscribe  to  it  without 
dishonor. 

They  had  great  difficulty  in  understanding  each  other. 
Olivier's  historical  argument,  alleging  the  right  of  France  to 
claim  Alsace  as  a  Latin  country,  made  no  impression  on  Chris- 
tophe :  there  were  just  as  good  arguments  to  the  contrary :  his- 
tory can  provide  politics  with  every  sort  of  argument  in  every 
sort  of  cause.  Christophe  was  much  more  accessible  to  the 
human,  and  not  only  French,  aspect  of  the  problem.  Whether 
the  Alsatians  were  or  were  not  Germans  \vas  not  the  question. 
They  did  not  wisli  to  be  Germans :  and  that  was  all  that  mat- 
tered. What  nation  has  the  right  to  say :  "  These  people  are 
mine:  for  they  are  my  brothers''?  If  the  brothers  in  question 
renounce  that  nation,  though  they  be  a  thousand  times  in  the 
wrong,  the  consequences  of  the  breach  must  always  be  borne 
by  the  party  who  has  failed  to  win  the  love  of  the  other,  and 
therefore  has  lost  the  right  to  presume  to  bind  the  other's 
fortunes  up  with  his  own.  After  forty  years  of  strained  rela- 
tions, vexations,  patent  or  disguised,  and  even  of  real  advantage 
gained  from  the  exact  and  intelligent  administration  of  Ger- 
many, the  Alsatians  persist  in  their  refusal  to  become  Germans: 
and,  though  they  might  give  in  from  sheer  exhaustion,  nothing 
could  ever  wipe  out  the  memory  of  the  sufferings  of  the  gen- 
erations, forced  to  live  in  exile  from  their  native  land.  or,  what 


THE  HOUSE  449 

is  even  more  pitiful,  unable  to  leave  it,  and  compelled  to  bend 
under  a  yoke  which  was  hateful  to  them,  and  to  submit  to  the 
seizure  of  their  country  and  the  slavery  of  their  people. 

Christophe  naively  confessed  that  he  had  never  seen  the 
matter  in  that  light :  and  he  was  considerably  perturbed  by  it. 
And  honest  Germans  always  bring  to  a  discussion  an  integrity 
which  does  not  always  go  with  the  passionate  self-esteem  of  a 
Latin,  however  sincere  he  may  be.  It  never  occurred  to  Chris- 
tophe to  support  his  argument  by  the  citation  of  similar  crimes 
perpetrated  by  all  nations  all  through  the  history  of  the  world. 
He  was  too  proud  to  fall  back  upon  any  such  humiliating  ex- 
cuse: he  knew  that,  as  humanity  advances,  its  crimes  become 
more  odious,  for  they  stand  in  a  clearer  light.  But  he  knew  also 
that  if  France  were  victorious  in  her  turn  she  would  be  no  more 
moderate  in  the  hour  of  victory  than  Germany  had  been,  and 
that  yet  another  link  would  be  added  to  the  chain  of  the  crimes 
of  the  nations.  So  the  tragic  conflict  would  drag  on  for  ever,  in 
which  the  best  elements  of  European  civilization  were  in  danger 
of  being  lost. 

Though  the  subject  was  terribly  painful  for  Christophe,  it 
was  even  more  so  for  Olivier.  It  meant  for  him,  not  only  the 
sorrow  of  a  great  fratricidal  struggle  between  the  two  nations 
best  fitted  for  alliance  together.  In  France  the  nation  was  di- 
vided, and  one  faction  was  preparing  to  fight  the  other.  For 
years  pacific  and  anti-militarist  doctrines  had  been  spread  and 
propagated  both  by  the  noblest  and  the  vilest  elements  of  the 
nation.  The  Government  had  for  a  long  time  held  aloof,  with 
the  weak-kneed  dilettantism  with  which  it  handled  everything 
which  did  not  concern  the  immediate  interests  of  the  politicians : 
and  it  never  occurred  to  it  that  it  might  be  less  dangerous 
frankly  to  maintain  the  most  dangerous  doctrines  than  to  leave 
them  free  to  creep  into  the  veins  of  the  people  and  ruin  their 
capacity  for  war,  while  armaments  were  being  prepared.  These 
doctrines  appealed  to  the  Free  Thinkers  who  were  dreaming  of 
founding  a  European  brotherhood,  working  all  together  to  make 
the  world  more  just  and  human.  They  appealed  also  to  the 


450  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

selfish  cowardice  of  the  rabble,  who  were  unwilling  to  endanger 
their  skins  for  anything  or  anybody. — These  ideas  had  been 
taken  up  by  Olivier  and  many  of  his  friends.  Once  or  twice, 
in  his  rooms,  Christophe  had  been  present  at  discussions  which 
had  amazed  him.  His  friend  Mooch,  who  was  stuffed  full  of 
humanitarian  illusions,  used  to  say,  with  eyes  blazing,  quite 
calmly,  that  war  must  be  abolished,  and  that  the  best  way  of 
setting  about  it  was  to  incite  the  soldiers  to  mutiny,  and,  if 
necessary,  to  shoot  down  their  leaders :  and  he  would  insist  that 
it  was  bound  to  succeed.  Elie  Elsberger  would  reply,  coldly 
and  vehemently,  that,  if  war  were  to  break  out,  he  and  his  friends 
would  not  set  out  for  the  frontier  before  they  had  settled  their 
account  with  the  enemy  at  home.  Andre  Elsberger  would  take 
Mooch's  part.  .  .  .  One  day  Christophe  came  in  for  a  ter- 
rible scene  between  the  two  brothers.  They  threatened  to  shoot 
each  other.  Although  their  bloodthirsty  words  were  spoken  in 
a  bantering  tone,  he  had  a  feeling  that  neither  of  them  had  ut- 
tered a  single  threat  which  he  was  not  prepared  to  put  into  ac- 
tion. Christophe  was  amazed  when  he  thought  of  a  race  of 
men  so  absurd  as  to  be  always  ready  to  commit  suicide  for  the 
sake  of  ideas.  .  .  .  Madmen.  Crazy  logicians.  And  yet 
they  are  good  men.  Each  man  sees  only  his  own  ideas,  and 
wishes  to  follow  them  through  to  the  end,  without  turning  aside 
by  a  hair's  breadth.  And  it  is  all  quite  useless :  for  they  crush 
each  other  out  of  existence.  The  humanitarians  wage  war  on 
the  patriots.  The  patriots  wage  war  on  the  humanitarians. 
And  meanwhile  the  enemy  comes  and  destroys  both  country  and 
humanity  in  one  swoop. 

"  But  tell  me,"  Christophe  would  ask  Andre  Elsberger,  "  are 
you  in  touch  with  the  proletarians  of  the  rest  of  the  nations  ?  " 

"  Some  one  has  to  begin.  And  we  are  the  people  to  do  it. 
We  have  always  been  the  first.  It  is  for  us  to  give  the 
signal !  " 

"  And  suppose  the  others  won't  follow !  " 

"  They  will." 

"  Have  you  made  treaties,  and  drawn  up  a  plan  ?  " 


THE  HOUSE  451 

"  What's  the  good  of  treaties  ?  Our  force  is  superior  to 
diplomacy." 

"  It  is  not  a  question  of  ideas :  it's  a  question  of  strategy. 
If  you  are  going  to  destroy  war,  you  must  borrow  the  methods 
of  war.  Draw  up  your  plan  of  campaign  in  the  two  countries. 
Arrange  that  on  such  and  such  a  date  in  France  and  Germany 
your  allied  troops  shall  take  such  and  such  a  step.  But,  if  you 
go  to  work  without  a  plan,  how  can  you  expect  any  good  to 
come  of  it?  With  chance  on  the  one  hand,  and  tremendous 
organized  forces  on  the  other — the  result  would  never  be  in 
doubt :  you  would  be  crushed  out  of  existence." 

Andre  Elsberger  did  not  listen.  He  shrugged  his  shoulders 
and  took  refuge  in  vague  threats :  a  handful  of  sand,  he  said, 
was  enough  to  smash  the  whole  machine,  if  it  were  dropped  into 
the  right  place  in  the  gears. 

But  it  is  one  thing  to  discuss  at  leisure,  theoretically,  and  quite 
another  to  have  to  put  one's  ideas  into  practice,  especially  when 
one  has  to  make  up  one's  mind  quickly.  .  .  .  Those  are 
frightful  moments  when  the  great  tide  surges  through  the 
depths  of  the  hearts  of  men !  They  thought  they  were  free  and 
masters  of  their  thoughts !  But  now,  in  spite  of  themselves, 
they  are  conscious  of  being  dragged  onwards,  onwards.  .  .  . 
An  obscure  power  of  will  is  set  against  their  will.  Then  they 
discover  that  it  is  not  they  who  exist  in  reality,  not  they,  but 
that  unknown  Force,  whose  laws  govern  the  whole  ocean  of 
"humanity.  .  .  . 

Men  of  the  firmest  intelligence,  men  the  most  secure  in  their 
faith,  now  saw  it  dissolve  at  the  first  puff  of  reality,  and  stood 
turning  this  way  and  that,  not  daring  to  make  up  their  minds, 
and  often,  to  their  immense  surprise,  deciding  upon  a  course  of 
action  entirely  different  from  any  that  they  had  foreseen.  Some 
of  the  most  eager  to  abolish  war  suddenly  felt  a  vigorous  pas- 
sionate pride  in  their  country  leap  into  being  in  their  hearts. 
Christophe  found  Socialists,  and  even  revolutionary  syndicalists, 
absolutely  bowled  over  by  their  passionate  pride  in  a  duty  utterly 
foreign  to  their  temper.  At  the  very  beginning  of  the  upheaval, 


452  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

when  as  yet  he  hardly  believed  that  the  affair  could  be  serious, 
he  said  to  Andre  Elsberger,  with  his  usual  German  want  of  tact, 
that  now  was  the  moment  to  apply  his  theories,  unless  he  wanted 
Germany  to  take  France.  Andre  fumed,  and  replied  angrily : 

"  Just  you  try !  .  .  .  Swine,  you  haven't  even  guts  enough 
to  muzzle  your  Emperor  and  shake  olf  the  yoke,  in  spite  of  your 
thrice-blessed  Socialist  Party,  with  its  four  hundred  thousand 
members  and  its  three  million  electors.  We'll  do  it  for  you ! 
Take  us?  We'll  take  you.  .  .  ." 

And  as  they  were  held  on  and  on  in  suspense,  they  grew  rest- 
less and  feverish.  Andre  was  in  torment.  He  knew  that  his 
faith  was  true,  and  yet  he  could  not  defend  it !  He  felt  that  he 
was  infected  by  the  moral  epidemic  which  spreads  among  the 
people  of  a  nation  the  collective  insanity  of  their  ideas,  the  ter- 
rible spirit  of  war !  It  attacked  everybody  about  Christophe, 
and  even  Christophe  himself.  They  were  no  longer  on  speaking 
terms,  and  kept  themselves  to  themselves. 

But  it  was  impossible  to  endure  such  suspense  for  long.  The 
wind  of  action  willy-nilly  sifted  the  waverers  into  one  group 
or  another.  And  one  day,  when  it  seemed  that  they  must  be  on 
the  eve  of  the  ultimatum, — when,  in  both  countries,  the  springs 
of  action  were  taut,  ready  for  slaughter,  Christophe  saw  that 
everybody,  including  the  people  in  his  own  house,  had  made  up 
their  minds.  Every  kind  of  party  was  instinctively  rallied 
round  the  detested  or  despised  Government  which  represented 
France.  Not  only  the  honest  men  of  the  various  parties :  but 
the  esthetes,  the  masters  of  depraved  art,  took  to  interpolating 
professions  of  patriotic  faith  in  their  work.  The  Jews  were 
talking  of  defending  the  soil  of  their  ancestors.  At  the  mere 
mention  of  the  flag  tears  came  to  Hamilton's  eyes.  And  they 
were  all  sincere:  they  were  all  victims  of  the  contagion.  Andre 
Elsberger  and  his  syndicalist  friends,  just  as  much  as  the  rest, 
and  even  more :  for,  being  crushed  by  necessity  and  pledged 
to  a  party  that  they  detested,  they  submitted  with  a  grim  fury 
and  a  stormy  pessimism  which  made  them  crazy  for  action. 
Aubert,  the  artisan,  torn  between  his  cultivated  humanitarian- 


THE  HOUSE  453 

ism  and  his  instinctive  chauvinism,  was  almost  beside  himself. 
After  many  sleepless  nights  he  had  at  last  found  a  formula 
which  could  accommodate  everything:  that  France  was  synony- 
mous with  Humanity.  Thereafter  he  never  spoke  to  Chris- 
tophe.  Almost  all  the  people  in  the  house  had  closed  their  doors 
to  him.  Even  the  good  Arnauds  never  invited  him.  They 
went  on  playing  music  and  surrounding  themselves  with  art : 
they  tried  to  forget  the  general  obsession.  But  they  could  not 
help  thinking  of  it.  When  either  of  them  alone  happened  to 
meet  Christophe  alone,  he  or  she  would  shake  hands  warmly, 
but  hurriedly  and  furtively.  And  if,  the  very  same  day,  Chris- 
tophe met  them  together,  they  would  pass  him  by  with  a  frigid 
bow.  On  the  other  hand,  people  who  had  not  spoken  to  each 
other  for  years  now  rushed  together.  One  evening  Olivier 
beckoned  to  Christophe  to  go  near  the  window,  and,  without  a 
word,  he  pointed  to  the  Elsbergers  talking  to  Commandant 
Chabran  in  the  garden  below. 

Christophe  had  no  time  to  be  surprised  at  such  a  revolution 
in  the  minds  of  his  friends.  He  was  too  much  occupied  with  his 
own  mind,  in  which  there  had  been  an  upheaval,  the  consequences 
of  which  he  could  not  master.  Olivier  was  much  calmer  than 
he,  though  he  had  much  more  reason  to  be  upset.  Of  all  Chris- 
tophe's  acquaintance,  he  seemed  to  be  the  only  one  to  escape 
the  contagion.  Though  he  was  oppressed  by  the  anxious  wait- 
ing for  the  outbreak  of  war,  and  the  dread  of  schism  at  home, 
which  he  saw  must  happen  in  spite  of  everything,  he  knew  the 
greatness  of  the  two  hostile  faiths  which  sooner  or  later  would 
come  to  grips :  he  knew  also  that  it  is  the  part  of  France  to 
be  the  experimental  ground  in  human  progress,  and  that  all 
new  ideas  need  to  be  watered  with  her  blood  before  they  can 
come  to  flower.  For  his  own  part,  he  refused  to  take  part  in  the 
skirmish.  While  the  civilized  nations  were  cutting  each  other's 
throats  he  was  fain  to  repeat  the  device  of  Antigone:  "/  am 
made  for  love,  and  not  for  liaie." — For  love  and  for  understand- 
ing, which  is  another  form  of  love.  His  fondness  for  Chris- 
tophe was  enough  to  make  his  duty  plain  to  him.  At  a  time 


454  JEAN-CHETSTOPHE  IN  PAEIS 

when  millions  of  human  beings  were  on  the  brink  of  hatred,  he 
felt  that  the  duty  and  happiness  of  friends  like  himself  and 
Christophe  was  to  love  each  other,  and  to  keep  their  reason  un- 
contaminated  by  the  general  upheaval.  He  remembered  how 
Goethe  had  refused  to  associate  himself  with  the  liberation 
movement  of  1813,  when  hatred  sent  Germany  to  march  out 
against  France. 

Christophe  felt  the  same :  and  yet  he  was  not  easy  in  his 
mind.  He  who  in  a  way  had  deserted  Germany,  and  could  not 
return  thither,  he  who  had  been  fed  with  the  European  ideas 
of  the  great  Germans  of  the  eighteenth  century,  so  dear  to  his 
old  friend  Schulz,  and  detested  the  militarist  and  commercial 
spirit  of  New  Germany,  now  found  himself  the  prey  of  gusty 
passions:  and  he  did  not  know  whither  they  would  lead  him. 
He  did  not  tell  Olivier,  but  he  spent  his  days  in  agony,  longing 
for  news.  Secretly  he  put  his  affairs  in  order  and  packed  his 
trunk.  He  did  not  reason  the  thing  out.  It  was  too  strong  for 
him.  Olivier  watched  him  anxiously,  and  guessed  the  struggle 
which  was  going  on  in  his  friend's  mind :  and  he  dared  not 
question  him.  They  felt  that  they  were  impelled  to  draw  closer 
to  each  other  than  ever,  and  they  loved  each  other  more :  but 
they  were  afraid  to  speak  :  they  trembled  lest  they  should  discover 
some  difference  of  thought  which  might  come  between  them  and 
divide  them,  as  their  old  misunderstanding  had  done.  Often 
their  eyes  would  meet  with  an  expression  of  tender  anxiety,  as 
though  they  were  on  the  eve  of  parting  for  ever.  And  they 
were  silent  and  oppressed. 

But  still  on  the  roof  of  the  house  that  was  being  built  on 
the  other  side  of  the  yard,  all  through  those  days  of  gloom, 
with  the  rain  beating  down  on  them,  the  workmen  were  putting 
the  finishing  touches :  and  Christophe's  friend,  the  loquacious 
slater,  laughed  and  shouted  across : 

"  There  !     The  house  is  finished  !  " 

Happily,  the  storm  passed  as  quickly  as  it  had  come.  The 
chancelleries  published  bulletins  announcing  the  return  of  fair 


THE  HOUSE  455 

weather,  barometrically  as  it  were.  The  howling  dogs  of  the 
Press  were  despatched  to  their  kennels.  In  a  few  hours  the  ten- 
sion was  relieved.  It  was  a  summer  evening,  and  Christophe 
had  rushed  in  breathless  to  convey  the  good  news  to  Olivier. 
He  was  happy,  and  could  breathe  again.  Olivier  looked  at  him 
with  a  little  sad  smile.  And  he  dared  not  ask  him  the  question 
that  lay  next  his  heart.  He  said : 

"  Well :  you  have  seen  them  all  united,  all  these  people  who 
could  not  understand  each  other." 

"  Yes,"  said  Christophe  good-humoredly,  "  I  have  seen  them 
united.  You're  such  humbugs !  You  all  cry  out  upon  each 
other,  but  at  bottom  you're  all  of  the  same  mind." 

"  You  seem  to  be  glad  of  it,"  remarked  Olivier. 

"  Why  not  ?  Because  they  were  united  at  my  expense  ?  .  .  . 
Bah !  I'm  strong  enough  for  that.  .  .  .  Besides,  it's  a  fine 
thing  to  feel  the  mighty  torrent  rushing  you  along,  and  the 
demons  that  were  let  loose  in  your  hearts.  ..." 

"  They  terrify  me,"  said  Olivier.  "  I  would  rather  have 
eternal  solitude  than  have  my  people  united  at  such  a  cost." 

They  relapsed  into  silence :  and  neither  of  them  dared  ap- 
proach the  subject  which  was  troubling  them.  At  last  Olivier 
pulled  himself  together,  and,  in  a  choking  voice,  said : 

"  Tell  me  frankly,  Christophe :  you  were  going  away  ?  " 

Christophe  replied : 

"  Yes." 

•    Olivier  was  sure  that  he  would  say  it.     And  yet  his  heart 
ached  for  it.     He  said  : 

"  Tell  me,  Christophe :  could  you   .    .    .   could  you   .    .    .  ?  " 

Christophe  drew  his  hand  over  his  forehead  and  said : 

"  Don't  let's  talk  of  it.     I  don't  like  to  think  of  it." 

Olivier  went  on  sorrowfully: 

"  You  would  have  fought  against  us  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.     I  never  thought  about  it." 

"  But,  in  your  heart,  you  had  decided  ?  " 

Christophe  said: 

"  Yes." 


456  JEAN-CHBISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

"  Against  me  ?  " 

"  Never  against  you.  You  are  mine.  Where  I  am,  you  are 
too." 

"  But  against  my  country?  " 

"  For  my  country." 

"  It  is  a  terrible  thing/'  said  Olivier.  "  I  love  my  country, 
as  you  do.  1  love  France:  but  could  I  slay  my  soul  for  her? 
Could  I  betray  my  conscience  for  her  ?  That  would  be  to  betray 
her.  How  could  I  hate,  having  no  hatred,  or,  without  being 
guilty  of  a  lie,  assume  a  hatred  that  I  did  not  feel  ?  The  modern 
State  was  guilty  of  a  monstrous  crime — a  crime  which  will 
prove  its  undoing— when  it  presumed  to  impose  its  brazen  laws 
on  the  free  Church  of  those  spirits  the  very  essence  of  whose 
being  is  to  love  and  understand.  Let  Caesar  be  Caesar,  but  let 
him  not  assume  the  Godhead !  Let  him  take  our  money  and 
our  lives :  over  our  souls  he  has  no  rights :  he  shall  not  stain 
them  with  blood.  We  are  in  this  world  to  give  it  light, 
not  to  darken  it:  let  each  man  fulfil  his  duty!  If  Caesar  desires 
war,  then  let  Caesar  have  armies  for  that  purpose,  armies  as  they 
were  in  olden  times,  armies  of  men  whose  trade  is  war!  I  am 
not  so  foolish  as  to  waste  my  time  in  vainly  moaning  and  groan- 
ing in  protest  against  force.-  But  I  am  not  a  soldier  in  the 
army  of  force.  I  am  a  soldier  in  the  army  of  the  spirit:  with 
thousands  of  other  men  who  arc  my  brothers-in-arrns  I  represent 
France  in  that  army.  Let  Caesar  conquer  the  world  if  be  will! 
We  march  to  the  conquest  of  truth." 

"To  conquer,''  said  Christophe,  "you  must  vanquish,  you 
must  live.  Truth  is  no  hard  dogma,  secreted  by  the  brain,  like 
a  stalactite  by  the  walls  of  a  cave.  Truth  is  life.  It  is  not  to 
be  found  in  your  own  head,  but  to  be  sought  for  in  the  hearts  of 
others.  Attach  yourself  to  them,  be  one  with  them.  Think 
as  much  as  you  like,  but  do  you  every  day  take  a  bath  of 
humanity.  You  must  live  in  the  life  of  others  and  love  and 
bow  to  destiny." 

"It  is  our  fate  to  be  what  we  are.  It  does  not  depend  on  us 
whether  we  shall  or  shall  not  think  certain  tilings,  even  though 


THE  HOUSE  457 

they  be  dangerous.  We  have  reached  such  a  pitch  of  civilization 
that  we  cannot  turn  back." 

"Yes,  you  have  reached  the  farthest  limit  of  the  plateau  of 
civilization,  that  dizzy  height  to  which  no  nation  can  climb 
without  feeling  an  irresistible  desire  to  fling  itself  down.  Re- 
ligion and  instinct  are  weakened  in  you.  You  have  nothing  left 
but  intelligence.  You  are  machines  grinding  out  philosophy. 
Death  comes  rushing  in  upon  you." 

"  Death  comes  to  every  nation :  it  is  a  matter  of  centuries." 

"  Have  done  with  your  centuries !  The  whole  of  life  is  a 
matter  of  days  and  hours.  If  you  weren't  such  an  infernally 
metaphysical  lot,  you'd  never  go  shuffling  over  into  the  absolute, 
instead  of  seizing  and  holding  the  passing  moment." 

"  What  do  you  want  ?  The  flame  burns  the  torch  away.  You 
can't  both  live  and  have  lived,  my  dear  Christophe." 

"  You  must  live." 

"  It  is  a  great  thing  to  have  been  great." 

"  It  is  only  a  great  thing  when  there  are  still  men  who  are 
alive  enough  and  great  enough  to  appreciate  it." 

"Wouldn't  you  much  rather  have  been  the  Greeks,  who  arc 
dead,  than  any  of  the  people  who  are  vegetating  nowadays?  " 

"  I'd  much  rather  be  myself,  Christophe,  and  very  much  alive." 

Olivier  gave  up  the  argument.  It  was  not  that  he  was  without 
an  answer.  But  it  did  not  interest  him.  All  through  the  dis- 
cussion he  had  only  been  thinking  of  Christophe.  lie  said,  with 
a  sigh : 

"  You  love  me  less  than  I  love  you." 

Christophc  took  his  hand  and  pressed  it  tenderly: 

"Dear  Olivier,"  he  said,  "I  love  you  more  than  my  life. 
But  you  must  forgive  me  .if  I  do  not  love  you  more  than  Life, 
the  sun  of  our  two  races.  I  have  a  horror  of  the  night  into 
which  your  false  progress  drags  me.  All  your  sentiments' of  re- 
nunciation are.  only  the  covering  of  the  same  Buddhist  Xirvana. 
Only  action  is  living,  even  when  it  brings  death.  In  this  world 
we  can  only  choose  between  the  devouring  flame  and  night. 
In  spite  of  the  sad  sweetness  of  dreams  in  the  hour  of  twilight, 


458  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

I  have  no  desire  for  that  peace  which  is  the  forerunner  of  death. 
The  silence  of  infinite  space  terrifies  me.  Heap  more  fagots 
upon  the  fire !  More !  And  yet  more !  Myself  too,  if  needs 
must.  I  will  not  let  the  fire  dwindle.  If  it  dies  down,  there  is 
an  end  of  us,  an  end  of  everything." 

"  What  you  say  is  old,"  said  Olivier ;  "  it  comes  from  the 
depths  of  the  barbarous  past." 

He  took  down  from  his  shelves  a  book  of  Hindoo  poetry,  and 
read  the  sublime  apostrophe  of  the  God  Krishna : 

"Arise,  and  fight  with  a  resolute  heart.  Setting  no  store  by 
pleasure  or  pain,  or  gain  or  loss,  or  victory  or  defeat,  fight  with 
all  thy  might.  .  .  ' 

Christophe  snatched  the  book  from  his  hands  and  read : 

".  .  .  /  have  nothing  in  the  world  to  Md  me  toil:  there  is 
nothing  that  is  not  mine:  and  yet  I  cease  not  from  my  labor. 
If  I  did  not  act,  without  a  truce  and  without  relief,  setting  an 
example  for  men  to  follow,  all  men.  would  perish.  If  for  a 
moment  I  were  to  cease  from  my  labors,  I  should  plunge  the 
world  in  chaos,  and  I  should  be  the  destroyer  of  life." 

"Life,"  repeated  Olivier,— "  what  is  life?" 

"  A  tragedy."  said  Christophe.     "  Hurrah  !  " 

The  panic  died  down.  Every  one  hastened  to  forget,  with 
a  hidden  fear  in  their  hearts. .  Xo  one  seemed  to  remember 
what  had  happened.  And  yet  it  was  plain  that  it  was  still  in 
their  thoughts,  from  the  joy  with  which  they  resumed  their  lives, 
the  pleasant  life  from  day  to  day,  which  is  never  truly  valued 
until  it  is  endangered.  As  usual  when  danger  is  past,  they 
gulped  it  down  with  renewed  avidity. 

Christophe  flung  himself  into  creative  work  with  tenfold 
vigor.  He  dragged  Olivier  after  him.  In  reaction  against 
their  recent  gloomy  thoughts  they  had  begun  to  collaborate  in  a 
Rabelaisian  epic.  It  was  colored  by  that  broad  materialism 
which  follows  on  periods  of  moral  stress.  To  the  legendary 
heroes — Gargantua,  Friar  John,  Panurge — Olivier  had  added, 
on  Christophers  inspiration;  a  new  character,  a  peasant,  Jacques 


THE  HOUSE  459 

Patience,  simple,  cunning,  sly,  resigned,  who  was  the  butt  of 
the  others,  putting  up  with  it  when  ho  was  thrashed  and 
robbed, — putting  up  with  it  when  they  made  love  to  his  wife, 
and  laid  waste  his  fields, — tirelessly  putting  his  house  in  order 
and  cultivating  his  land, — forced  to  follow  the  others  to  war, 
bearing  the  burden  of  the  baggage,  coming  in  for  all  the  kicks, 
and  still  putting  up  with  it, — waiting,  laughing  at  the  exploits 
of  his  masters  and  the  thrashings  they  gave  him,  and  saying, 
"They  can't  go  on  for  ever,"  foreseeing  their  ultimate  downfall, 
looking  out  for  it  out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye,  and  silently 
laughing  at  the  thought  of  it,  with  his  great  mouth  agape. 
One  fine  day  it  turned  out  that  Gargantua  and  Friar  John 
were  drowned  while  they  were  away  on  a  crusade.  Patience 
honestly  regretted  their  loss,  merrily  took  heart  of  grace,  saved 
Panurge,  who  was  drowning  also,  and  said : 

"  I  know  that  you  will  go  on  playing  your  tricks  on  me :  you 
don't  take  me  in :  but  I  can't  do  without  you :  you  drive  away 
the  spleen,  and  make  me  laugh." 

Christophe  set  the  poem  to  music  with  great  symphonic  pic- 
tures, with  soli  and  chorus,  mock-heroic  battles,  riotous  country 
fairs,  vocal  buffooneries,  madrigals  a  la  Jannequin,  with  tre- 
mendous childlike  glee,  a  storm  at  sea,  the  Island  of  Bells,  and, 
finally,  a  pastoral  symphony,  full  of  the  air  of  the  fields,  and  the 
blithe  serenity  of  the  flutes  and  oboes,  and  the  clean-souled  folk- 
songs of  Old  France. — The  friends  worked  away  with  bound- 
less delight.  The  weakly  Olivier,  with  his  pale  cheeks,  found 
new  health  in  Christophe's  health.  Gusts  of  wind  blew  through 
their  garret.  The  very  intoxication  of  Joy !  To  be  working 
together,  heart  to  heart  with  one's  friend !  The  embrace  of 
two  lovers  is  not  sweeter  or  more  ardent  than  such  a  yoking 
together  of  two  kindred  souls.  They  were  so  near  in  sympathy 
that  often  the  same  ideas  would  flash  upon  them  at  the  same 
moment.  Or  Christophe  would  write  the  music  for  a  scene  for 
which  Olivier  would  immediately  find  words.  Christophe  im- 
petuously dragged  Olivier  along  in  his  wake.  His  mind 
swamped  that  of  his  friend,  and  made  it  fruitful. 


460  JEAX-CITKISTOPIIE  IN  PARIS 

The  joy  of  creation  was  enhanced  by  that  of  success.  Hecht 
had  just  made  up  his  mind  to  publish  the  David:  and  the  score, 
well  launched,  had  had  an  instantaneous  success  abroad.  A 
great  Wagnerian  Kapellmeister,  a  friend  of  Hecht's,  who  had 
settled  in  England,  was  enthusiastic  about  it:  lie  had  given  it 
at  several  of  his  concerts  with  considerable  success,  which,  with 
the  Kapellmeister's  enthusiasm,  had  carried  it  over  to  Germany, 
where  also  the  David,  had  been  played.  The  Kapellmeister  had 
entered  into  correspondence  with  Christophe,  and  had  asked  him 
for  more  of  his  compositions,  offered  to  do  anything  he  could 
to  help  him,  and  was  engaged  in  ardent  propaganda  in  his 
cause.  In  Germany,  the  Ipliigenia,  which  had  originally  been 
hissed,  was  unearthed,  and  it  was  hailed  as  a  work  of  genius, 
Certain  facts  in  Christophe's  life,  being  of  a  romantic  nature, 
contributed  not  a  little  to  the  spurring  of  public  interest.  The 
Frankfurter  Zeitung  was  the  first  to  publish  an  enthusiastic 
article.  Others  followed.  Then,  in  France,  a  few  people  be- 
gan to  be  aware  that  they  had  a  great  musician  in  their  midst. 
One  of  the  Parisian  conductors  asked  Christophe  for  his 
Rabelaisian  epic  before  it  was  finished:  and  Goujart,  perceiving 
his  approaching  fame,  began  to  speak  mysteriously  of  a  friend 
of  his  who  was  a  genius,  and  had  been  discovered  by  himself. 
He  wrote  a  laudatory  article  about  the  admirable  Duvid, — en- 
tirely forgetting  that  only  the  year  before  he  had  decried  it  in  a 
short  notice  of  a  few  lines.  Nobody  else  remembered  it  either 
or  seemed  to  be  in  the  least  astonished  at  his  sudden  change. 
There  are  so  many  people  in  Paris  who  are  now  loud  in  their 
praises  of  Wagner  and  Cesar  Franck.  where  formerly  they 
roundly  abused  them,  and  actually  use  the  fame  of  these  men 
to  crush  those  new  artists  whom  to-morrow  they  will  be  lauding 
to  the  skies ! 

Christophe  did  not  set  any  great  stove  on  his  success.  He 
knew  that  he  would  one  day  win  through:  but  lie  had  not 
thought  that  the  day  could  bo  so  near  at  hand  :  and  he  was  dis- 
trustful of  so  rapid  a  triumph.  lie  shrugged  his  shoulders, 
and  said  that  he  wanted  to  be  left  alone.  He  could  have  under- 


THE  HOUSE  461 

stood  people  applauding  the  David  the  year  before,  when  he 
wrote  it :  but  now  he  was  so  far  beyond  it ;  he  had  climbed  higher. 
He  was  inclined  to  say  to  the  people  who  came  and  talked  about 
his  old  work : 

"  Don't  worry  me  with  that  stuff.  It  disgusts  me.  So  do  you." 
And  he  plunged  into  his  new  work  again,  rather  annoyed  at 
having  been  disturbed.  However,  he  did  feel  a  certain  secret 
satisfaction.  The  first  rays  of  the  light  of  fame  are  very 
sweet.  It  is  good,  it  is  healthy,  to  conquer.  It  is  like  the  open 
window  and  the  first  sweet  scents  of  the  spring  coming  into  a 
house. — Christophers  contempt  for  his  old  work  was  of  no  avail, 
especially  with  regard  to  the  Iphigenia:  there  was  a  certain 
amount  of  atonement  for  him  in  seeing  that  unhappy  produc- 
tion, which  had  originally  brought  him  only  humiliation,  be- 
lauded by  the  German  critics,  and  in  great  request  with  the 
theaters,  as  he  learned  from  a  letter  from  Dresden,  in  which 
the  directors  stated  that  they  would  be  glad  to  produce  the  piece 
during  their  next  season. 

The  very  day  when  Christophe  received  the  news,  which,  after 
years  of  struggling,  at  last  opened  up  a  calmer  horizon,  with 
victory  in  the  distance,  he  had  another  letter  from  Germany. 

It  was  in  the  afternoon.  He  was  washing  his  face  and  talking 
gaily  to  Olivier  in  the  next  room,  when  the  housekeeper  slipped 
an  envelope  under  the  door.  His  mother's  writing.  .  .  .  He 
had  been  just  on  the  point  of  writing  to  her,  and  was  happy  at 
the  thought  of  being  able  to  tell  her  of  his  success,  which 
would  give  her  so  much  pleasure.  He  opened  the  letter.  There 
were  only  a  few  lines.  How  shaky  the  writing  was ! 

"J/.y  dear  l)oy,  I  am  not  reri/  well.     If  it  were  possible.  J 

should  like  to  see  you  again.     Love. 

"MOTHER. 

Christophe  gave  a  groan.  Olivier,  who  was  working  in  the 
next  room,  ran  to  him  in  alarm.  Christophe  could  not  speak, 
and  pointed  to  the  letter  on  the  table.  He  went  on  groaning, 


462  JEAN-CHPJSTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

and  did  not  listen  to  what  Olivier  said,  who  took  in  the  letter  at 
a  glance,  and  tried  to  comfort  him.  He  rushed  to  his  bed, 
where  he  had  laid  his  coat,  dressed  hurriedly,  and  without  wait- 
ing to  fasten  his  collar, —  (his  hands  were  trembling  too  much)  — 
went  out.  Olivier  caught  him  up  on  the  stairs :  what  was  he 
going  to  do  ?  Go  by  the  first  train  ?  There  wasn't  one  until  the 
evening.  It  was  much  better  to  wait  there  than  at  the  station. 
Had  he  enough  money? — They  rummaged  through  their  pockets, 
and  when  they  counted  all  that  they  possessed  between  them, 
it  only  amounted  to  thirty  francs.  It  was  September.  Hecht, 
the  Arnauds,  all  their  friends,  were  out  of  Paris.  They  had  no 
one  to  turn  to.  Christophe  was  beside  himself,  and  talked  of 
going  part  of  the  way  on  foot.  Olivier  begged  him  to  wait  for 
an  hour,  and  promised  to  procure  'the  money  somehow.  Chris- 
tophe submitted :  he  was  incapable  of  a  single  idea  himself. 
Olivier  ran  to  the  pawnshop :  it  was  the  first  time  he  had  been 
there :  for  his  own  sake,  he  would  much  rather  have  been  left 
with  nothing  than  pledge  any  of  his  possessions,  which  were  all 
associated  with  some  precious  memory:  but  it  was  for  Chris- 
tophe, and  there  was  no  time  to  lose.  He  pawned  his  watch, 
for  which  he  was  advanced  a  sum  much  smaller  than  he  had 
expected.  He  had  to  go  home  again  and  fetch  some  of  his 
books,  and  take  them  to  a  bookseller.  It  was  a  great  grief  to 
him,  but  at  the  time  he  hardly  thought  of  it :  his  mind  could 
grasp  nothing  but  Christophe's  trouble.  He  returned,  and 
found  Christophe  just  where  he  had  left  him,  sitting  by  his  desk, 
in  a  state  of  collapse.  With  their  thirty  francs  the  sum  that 
Olivier  had  collected  was  more  than  enough.  Christophe  was 
too  upset  to  think  of  asking  his  friend  how  he  had  come  by  it, 
or  whether  he  had  kept  enough  to  live  on  during  his  absence. 
Olivier  did  not  think  of  it  either :  he  had  given  Christophe  all  he 
possessed.  He  had  to  look  after  Christophe,  just  like  a  child, 
until  it  was  time  for  him  to  go.  He  took  him  to  the  station, 
and  never  left  him  until  the  train  began  to  move. 

In  the  darkness  into  which   he  was  rushing   Christophe  sat 
wide-eved,  staring  straight  in  front  of  him  and  thinking: 


THE  HOUSE  463 

"  Shall  I  be  in  time  ?  " 

He  knew  that  his  mother  must  have  been  unable  to  wait 
for  her  to  write  to  him.  And  in  his  fevered  anxiety  he  was  im- 
patient of  the  jolting  speed  of  the  express.  He  reproached  him- 
self bitterly  for  having  left  Louisa.  And  at  the  same  time  he 
felt  how  vain  were  his  reproaches :  he  had  no  power  to  change 
the  course  of  events. 

However,  the  monotonous  rocking  of  the  wheels  and  springs 
of  the  carriage  soothed  him  gradually,  and  took  possession  of 
his  mind,  like  tossing  waves  of  music  dammed  back  by  a  mighty 
rhythm.  He  lived  through  all  his  past  life  again  from  the  far- 
distant  days  of  his  childhood :  loves,  hopes,  disillusion,  sorrows, 
— and  that  exultant  force,  that  intoxication  of  suffering,  enjoy- 
ing, and  creating,  that  delight  in  blotting  out  the  light  of  life 
and  its  sublime  shadows,  which  was  the  soul  of  his  soul,  the 
living  breath  of  the  God  within  him.  Xow  as  he  looked  back  on 
it  all  was  clear.  His  tumultuous  desires,  his  uneasy  thoughts, 
his  faults,  mistakes,  and  headlong  struggles,  now  seemed  to 
him  to  be  the  eddy  and  swirl  borne  on  by  the  great  current  of 
life  towards  its  eternal  goal.  He  discovered  the  profound  mean- 
ing of  those  years  of  trial:  each  test  was  a  barrier  which  was 
burst  by  the  gathering  waters  of  the  river,  a  passage  from  a 
narrow  to  a  wider  valley,  which  the  river  would  soon  fill :  al- 
ways he  came  to  a  wider  view  and  a  freer  air.  Between  the  ris- 
ing ground  of  France  and  the  German  plain  the  river  had  carved 
its  way,  not  without  many  a  struggle,  flooding  the  meadows, 
eating  away  the  base  of  the  hills,  gathering  and  absorbing  all 
the  waters  of  the  two  countries.  So  it  flowed  between  them, 
not  to  divide,  but  to  unite. them:  in  it  they  were  wedded.  And 
for  the  first  time  Christophe  became  conscious  of  his  destiny. 
which  was  to  carry  through  the  hostile  peoples,  like  an  artery, 
all  the  forces  of  life  of  the  two  sides  of  the  river. — A  strange 
serenity,  a  sudden  calm  and  clarity,  came  over  him.  as  sometimes 
happens  in  the  darkest  hours.  .  .  .  Then  the  vision  faded, 
and  he  saw  nothing  but  the  tender,  sorrowful  face  of  his  old 
mother. 


464  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

It  was  hardly  dawn  when  he  reached  the  little  German  town. 
He  had  to  take  care  not  to  be  recognized,  for  there  was  still  a 
warrant  of  arrest  out  against  him.  But  nobody  at  the  station 
took  any  notice  of  him  :  the  town  was  asleep :  the  houses  were 
shut  up  and  the  streets  deserted:  it  was  the  gray  hour  when 
the  lights  of  the  night  are  put  out  and  the  light  of  day  is  not 
yet  come, — the  hour  when  sleep  is  sweetest  and  dreams  are  lit 
with  the  pale  light  of  the  east.  A  little  servant-girl  was  taking 
down  the  shutters  of  a  shop  and  singing  an  old  German  folk- 
song. Christophe  almost  choked  with  emotion.  0  Fatherland! 
Beloved !  .  .  .  He  was  fain  to  kiss  the  earth  as  he  heard  the 
humble  song  that  set  his  heart  aching  in  his  breast ;  he  felt  how 
unhappy  he  had  been  away  from  his  country,  and  how  much  he 
loved  it.  ...  He  walked  on,  holding  his  breath.  When  he 
saw  his  old  home  he  was  obliged  to  stop  and  put  his  hand  to  his 
lips  to  keep  himself  from  crying  out.  How  would  he  find  his 
mother,  his  mother  whom  he  had  deserted?  .  .  .  He  took  a 
long  breath  and  almost  ran  to  the  door.  It  was  ajar.  He 
pushed  it  open.  No  one  there.  .  .  .  The  old  wooden  stair- 
case creaked  under  his  footsteps.  He  went  up  to  the  top  floor. 
The  house  seemed  to  be  empty.  The  door  of  his  mother's  room 
was  shut. 

Ohristophe's  heart  thumped  as  he  laid  his  hand  on  the  door- 
knob. And  he  had  not  the  strength  to  open  it.  ... 

Louisa  was  alone,  in  bed,  feeling  that  the  end  was  near.  Of 
her  two  other  sons,  Rodolphe,  the  business  man,  had  settled  in 
Hamburg,  the  other,  Ernest,  had  emigrated  to  America,  and  no 
one  knew  what  had  become  of  him.  There  was  no  one  to  attend 
to  her  except  a  woman  in  the  house,  who  came  twice  a  day  to 
see  if  Louisa  wanted  anything,  stayed  for  a  few  minutes,  and 
then  went  about  her  business :  she  was  not  very  punctual,  and 
was  often  late  in  coming.  To  Louisa  it  seemed  quite  natural 
that  she  should  be  forgotten,  as  it  seemed  to  her  quite  natural 
to  bo  ill.  She  was  used  to  suffering,  and  was  as  patient  as  an 
angol.  She  had  heart  disease  and  palpitations,  during  which 


THE  HOUSE  465 

she  would  think  she  was  going  to  die :  she  would  lie  with  her  eyes 
wide  open,  and  her  hands  clutching  the  bedclothes,  and  the  sweat 
dripping  down  her  face.  She  never  complained.  She  knew 
that  it  must  be  so.  She  was  ready:  she  had  already  received 
the  sacrament.  She  had  only  one  anxiety:  lest  (iod  should  find 
her  unworthy  to  enter  into  Paradise.  She  endured  everything 
else  in  patience. 

In  a  dark  corner  of  her  little  room,  near  her  pillow,  on  the 
wall  of  the  recess,  she  had  made  a  little  shrine  for  her  relics  and 
trophies:  she  had  collected  the  portraits  of  those  who  were  dear 
to  her :  her  three  children,  her  husband,  for  whose  memory 
she  had  always  preserved  her  love  in  its  first  freshness,  the  old 
grandfather,  and  her  brother,  Gottfried :  she  was  touchingly  de- 
voted to  all  those  who  had  been  kind  to  her,  though  it  were  never 
so  little.  On  her  coverlet,  close  to  her  eyes,  she  had  pinned 
the  last  photograph  of  himself  that  Christophe  had  sent  her :  and 
his  last  letters  were  under  her  pillow.  She  had  a  love  of  neat- 
ness and  scrupulous  tidiness,  and  it  hurt  her  to  know  that 
everything  was  not  perfectly  in  order  in  her  room.  She  listened 
for  the  little  noises  outside  which  marked  the  different  moments 
of  the  day  for  her.  It  was  so  long  since  she  had  iirst  heard 
them  !  All  her  life  had  been  spent  in  that  narrow  space.  .  .  . 
She  thought  of  her  dear  Christophe.  How  she  longed  for  him 
to  be  there,  near  her,  just  then  !  And  yet  she  was  resigned  even 
to  his  absence.  She  was  sure  that  she  would  see  him  again  on 
high.  She  had  only  to  close  her  eyes  to  see  him.  She  spent 
days  and  days,  half-unconscious,  living  in  the  past.  .  .  . 

She  would  see  once  more;  the  old  house  on  the  banks  of  the 
Rhine.  ...  A  holiday.  ...  A  superb  summer  day.  The 
window  was  open:  the  white  road  lay  gleaming  under  the  sun. 
They  could  hear  the  birds  singing.  M  el  eh  i  or  and  the  old  grand- 
father were  sitting  by  the  front-door  smoking,  and  chatting 
and  laughing  uproariously.  Louisa  could  not  see  thorn  :  but  she 
was  glad  that  her  husband  was  at  heme  that  day.  and  that,  grand- 
father was  in  such  a  good  temper.  She  was  in  the  basement, 
cooking  the  dinner:  an  excellent  dinner:  she  watched  over  it  as 


4G6  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

the  apple  of  her  eye:  there  was  a  surprise:  a  chestnut  cake: 
already  she  could  hear  the  boy's  shout  of  delight.  .  .  .  The 
boy,  where  was  he  ?  Upstairs :  she  could  hear  him  practising 
at  the  piano.  She  could  not  make  out  what  he  was  playing, 
but  she  was  glad  to  hear  the  familiar  tinkling  sounds,  and  to 
know  that  he  was  sitting  there  with  his  grave  face.  .  .  .  What 
a  lovely  day!  The  merry  jingling  bells  of  a  carriage  went  by 
on  the  road.  .  .  .  Oh !  good  heavens !  The  joint !  Perhaps 
it  had  been  burned  while  she  was  looking  out  of  the  window ! 
She  trembled  lest  grandfather,  of  whom  she  was  so  fond, 
though  she  was  afraid  of  him,  should  be  dissatisfied,  and  scold 
her.  .  .  .  Thank  Heaven !  there  was  no  harm  done.  There, 
everything  was  ready,  and  the  table  was  laid.  She  called 
Melchior  and  grandfather.  They  replied  eagerly.  And  the 
boy?  .  .  .  Pie  had  stopped  playing.  His  music  had  ceased 
a  moment  ago  without  her  noticing  it.  .  .  . — "Christophe!" 
.  .  .  What  was  he  doing?  There  was  not  a  sound  to  be 
heard.  He  was  always  forgetting  to  come  down  to  dinner : 
father  was  going  to  scold  him.  She  ran  upstairs.  .  .  . — 
"  Christophe ! "  .  .  .  He  made  no  sound.  She  opened  the 
door  of  the  room  where  he  was  practising.  No  one  there.  The 
room  was  empty,  and  the  piano  was  closed.  .  .  .  Louisa  was 
seized  with  a  sudden  panic.  What  had  become  of  him?  The 
window  was  open.  Oh,  Heaven !  Perhaps  he  had  fallen  out ! 
Louisa's  heart  stops.  She  leans  out  and  looks  down.  .  .  .— 
"  Christophe ! "  .  .  .  He  is  nowhere  to  be  found.  She 
rushes  all  over  the  house.  Downstairs  grandfather  shouts  to 
her:  "Come  along;  don't  worry;  he'll  come  back."  She  will 
not  go  down :  she  knows  that  he  is  there :  that  he  is  hiding 
for  fun,  to  tease  her.  Oh,  naughty,  naughty  boy  .  .  .  Yes, 


she  is  sure  of  it  now:  she  heard  the  floor  creak 
the  door.     She  tries  to  open  the  door.     But  the 


he  is  behind 
key  is  gone. 


The  key !  She  rummages  through  a  drawer,  looking  for  it  in  a 
heap  of  keys.  This  one,  that.  .  .  .  No,  not  that.  .  .  . 
Ah,  that's  it !  .  .  .  She  cannot  fit  it  into  the  lock,  her  hand 
is  trembling  so.  She  is  in  such  haste :  she  must  be  quick.  Why? 


THE  HOUSE  467 

She  does  not  know,  but  she  knows  that  she  must  be  quick,  and 
that  if  she  doesn't  hurry  she  will  be  too  late.  She  hears  Chris- 
tophe  breathing  on  the  other  side  of  the  door.  .  .  .  Oh,  bother 
the  key !  .  .  .  At  last !  The  door  is  opened.  A  cry  of  joy. 
It  is  he.  He  flings  his  arms  round  her  neck.  .  .  .  Oh, 
naughty,  naughty,  good,  darling  boy !  .  .  . 

She  has  opened  her  eyes.     He  is  there,  standing  by  her. 

For  some  time  he  had  been  standing  looking  at  her;  so 
changed  she  was,  with  her  face  both  drawn  and  swollen,  and 
her  mute  suffering  made  her  smile  of  recognition  so  infinitely 
touching:  and  the  silence,  and  her  utter  loneliness.  ...  It 
rent  his  heart.  .  .  . 

She  saw  him.  She  was  not  surprised.  She  smiled  all  that 
she  could  not  say,  a  smile  of  boundless  tenderness.  She  could 
not  hold  out  her  arms  to  him,  nor  utter  a  single  word.  He  flung 
his  arms  round  her  neck  and  kissed  her,  and  she  kissed  him  : 
great  tears  were  trickling  down  her  cheeks.  She  said  in  a 
whisper : 

"Wait.   ..." 

He  saw  that  she  could  not  breathe. 

Neither  stirred.  She  stroked  his  head  with  her  hands,  and 
her  tears  went  on  trickling  down  her  cheeks.  He  kissed  her 
hands  and  sobbed,  with  his  face  hidden  in  the  coverlet. 

When  her  attack  had  passed  she  tried  to  speak.  But  she 
could  not  find  words :  she  floundered,  and  he  could  hardly 
understand  her.  But  what  did  it  matter?  They  loved  each 
other,  and  were  together,  and  could  touch  each  other :  that  was 
the  main  thing. — He  asked  indignantly  why  she  was  left  alone. 
She  made  excuses  for  her  nurse : 

"  She  cannot  always  be  here:  she  has  her  work  to  do.    .    .    . " 

In  a  faint,  broken  voice, — she  could  hardly  pronounce  her 
words, — she  made  a  little  hurried  request  about  her  burial. 
She  told  Christophe  to  give  her  love  to  her  two  other  sons  who 
had  forgotten  her.  And  she  sent  a  message  to  Olivier,  know- 
ing his  love  for  Christophe.  She  begged  Christophe  to  tell  him 
that  she  sent  him  her  blessing — (and  then,  timidly,  she  recol- 


468  JEAX-CHEISTOPHE  IX  PAETS 

lected  herself,  and  made  use  of  a  more  Immble  expression), — 
"  her  affectionate  respects.  ..." 

Once  more  she  choked.  He  helped  her  to  sit  up  in  her  bed. 
The  sweat  dripped  down  her  face.  She  forced  herself  to  smile. 
She  told  herself  that  she  had  nothing  more  to  wish  for  in  the 
World,  now  that  she  had  her  sou's  hand  clasped  in  hers. 

And  suddenly  Christophe  felt  her  hand  stiffen  in  his.  Louisa 
opened  her  lips.  She  looked  at  lies  son  with  infinite  tender- 
ness:— so  the  end  came. 


Ill 

IN  the  evening  of  the  same  day  Olivier  arrived.  He  had 
been  unable  to  bear  the  thought  of  leaving  Christophe  alone  in 
those  tragic  hours  of  which  he  had  had  only  too  much  experi- 
ence. He  was  fearful  also  of  the  risks  his  friend  was  running  in 
returning  to  Germany.  He  wanted  to  be  with  him,  to  look  after 
him.  But  he  had  no  money  for  the  journey.  When  lie  returned 
from  seeing  Christophe  oil:  lie  made  up  his  mind  to  sell  the  few 
family  jewels  that  he  had  left :  and  as  the  pawnshop  was  closed 
at  that  hour,  and  he  wanted  to  go  by  the  next  train,  he  was 
just  going  out  to  look  for  a  broker's  shop  in  the  neighborhood 
when  he  met  Mooch  on  tbe  stairs.  "\Yhen  the  little  Jew  beard 
what  he  was  about  he  was  genuinely  sorry  that  Olivier  had  not 
come  to  him:  lie  would  not  let  Olivier  go  to  the  broker's,  and 
made  him  accept  the  necessary  money  from  himself.  He  wa^: 
really  hurt  to  tbink  that  Olivier  had  pawned  his  watch  and  sold 
his  books  to  pay  Christophe's  fare,  when  he  would  have  been 
only  too  glad  to  help  them.  In  his  zeal  for  doing  them  a  service 
he  even  proposed  to  accompany  Olivier  to  Christophe's  home, 
and  Olivier  had  great  difficulty  in  dissuading  him. 

Olivier's  arrival  was  a  great  boon  to  Christophe.  He  had 
spent  the  day.  prostrated  with  grief,  alone  by  his  mother's  body. 
The  nurse  had  come,  performed  certain  offices,  and  then  had 
gone  away  and  had  never  come  back.  The  hours  had  passed 


THE  HOUSE  469 

in  the  stillness  of  death.  Christophe  sat  there,  as  still  as  the 
body :  he  never  took  his  eyes  from  his  mother's  face :  lie  did 
not  weep,  he  did  not  think,  he  was  himself  as  one  dead. — 
Olivier's  wonderful  act  of  friendship  brought  him  back  to  tears 
and  life. 

"  Oetrost!    Es  ist  der  Schmerzen  wertk  dies  haben, 

So  lang  .  .  .  mit  uns  ein  treues  Auge  weint." 

("  Courage!  Life  is  worth  all  its  suffering  as  long  as  there  are  faithful 
friends  to  weep  with  us.") 

They  clasped  each  other  in  a  long  embrace,  and  then  sat 
by  the  dead  woman's  side  and  talked  in  whispers.  Xight  had 
fallen.  Christophe,  with  his  arms  on  the  foot  of  the  bed,  told 
random  tales  of  his  childhood's  memories,  in  which  his  mother's 
image  ever  recurred.  He  would  pause  every  now  and  then  for  a 
few  minutes,  and  then  go  on  again,  until  there  came  a  pause 
when  he  stopped  altogether,  and  his  face  dropped  into  his 
hands :  he  was  utterly  worn  out :  and  when  Olivier  went  up  to 
him,  he  saw  that  he  was  asleep.  Then  he  kept  watch  alone. 
And  presently  he,  too,  was  overcome  by  sleep,  with  his  head 
leaning  against  the  back  of  the  bed.  There  was  a  soft  smile 
on  Louisa's  face,  and  she  seemed  happy  to  be  watching  over  her 
two  children. 

In  the  early  hours  of  the  morning  they  were  awakened  by 
a  knocking  at  the  door.  Christophe  opened  it.  It  was  a 
neighbor,  a  joiner,  who  had  come  to  warn  Cbristophe  that  his 
presence  in  the  town  had  been  denounced,  and  that  he  must  go, 
if  he  did  not  wish  to  be  arrested.  Christophe  refused  to  ily:  lie 
would  not  leave  his  mother  before  he  had  taken  her  to  her  last 
resting-place.  But  Olivier  begged  him  to  go,  and  promised  that 
he  would  faithfully  watch  over  her  in  his  stead:  he  induced 
him  to  leave  the  house:  and,  to  make  sure  of  his  not  going  back 
on  his  decision,  went  with  him  to  the  station.  Christophe  re- 
fused point-blank  to  go  without  having  a  sight  of  the  great 
river,  by  which  he  had  spent  his  childhood,  the  mighty  echo  of 


'470  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

which  was  preserved  for  ever  within  his  soul  as  in  a  sea-shell. 
Though  it  was  dangerous  for  him  to  be  seen  in  the  town,  yet 
for  his  whim  he  disregarded  it.  They  walked  along  the  steep 
bank  of  the  Rhine,  which  was  rushing  along  in  its  mighty  peace, 
between  its  low  banks,  on  to  its  mysterious  death  in  the  sands  of 
the  Xorth.  A  great  iron  bridge,  looming  in  the  mist,  plunged 
its  two  arches,  like  the  halves  of  the  wheels  of  a  colossal  chariot, 
into  the  gray  waters.  In  the  distance,  fading  into  the  mist, 
were  ships  sailing  through  the  meadows  along  the  river's  wind- 
ings. It  was  like  a  dream,  and  Christophe  was  lost  in  it. 
Olivier  brought  him  back  to  his  senses,  and,  taking  his  arm, 
led  him  back  to  the  station.  Christophe  submitted :  he  was  like 
a  man  walking  in  his  sleep.  Olivier  put  him  into  the  train  as  it 
was  just  starting,  and  they  arranged  to  meet  next  day  at  the 
first  French  station,  so  that  Christophe  should  not  have  to  go 
back  to  Paris  alone. 

The  train  went,  and  Olivier  returned  to  the  house,  where 
ho  found  two  policemen  stationed  at  the  door,  waiting  for  Chris- 
tophe to  come  back.  They  took  Olivier  for  him,  and  Olivier 
did  not  hurry  to  explain  a  mistake  so  favorable  to  Christophe's 
chances  of  escape.  On  the  other  hand,  the  police  were  not  in 
the  least  discomfited  by  their  blunder,  and  showed  no  great 
zest  in  pursuing  the  fugitive,  and  Olivier  had  an  inkling  that 
at  bottom  they  were  not  at  all  sorry  that  Christophe  had  gone. 

Olivier  stayed  until  the  next  morning,  when  Louisa  was 
buried.  Christophe's  brother,  Rodolphe,  the  business  man,  came 
by  one  train  and  left  by  the  next.  That  important  personage 
followed  the  funeral  very  correctly,  and  went  immediately  it 
was  over,  without  addressing  a  single  word  to  Olivier,  either  to 
ask  him  for  news  of  his  brother  or  to  thank  him  for  what  he  had 
done  for  their  mother.  Olivier  spent  a  few  hours  more  in  the 
town,  where  he  did  not  know  a  soul,  though  it  was  peopled 
for  him  with  so  many  familiar  shadows:  the  boy  Christophe, 
those  whom  he  had  loved,  and  those  who  had  made  him  suffer; 
— and  dear  Antoinette.  .  .  .  What  was  there  left  of  all  those 
human  beings,  who  had  lived  in  the  town,  the  family  of  the 


THE  HOUSE  471 

Kraffts,  that  now  had  ceased  to  be?     Only  the  love  for  them 
that  lived  in  the  heart  of  a  stranger. 

In  the  afternoon  Olivier  met  Christophe  at  the  frontier  sta- 
tion as  they  had  arranged.  It  was  a  village  nestling  among 
wooded  hills.  Instead  of  waiting  for  the  next  train  to  Paris, 
they  decided  to  go  part  of  the  way  on  foot,  as  far  as  the 
nearest  town.  They  wanted  to  be  alone.  They  set  out  through 
the  silent  woods,  through  which  from  a  distance  there  resounded 
the  dull  thud  of  an  ax.  They  reached  a  clearing  at  the  top 
of  a  hill.  Below  them,  in  a  narrow  valley,  in  German  territory, 
there  lay  the  red  roof  of  a  forester's  house,  and  a  little  meadow 
like  a  green  lake  amid  the  trees.  All  around  there  stretched  the 
dark-blue  sea  of  the  forest  wrapped  in  cloud.  Mists  hovered 
and  drifted  among  the  branches  of  the  pines.  A  transparent 
veil  softened  the  lines  and  blurred  the  colors  of  the  trees.  All 
was  still.  Neither  footsteps  nor  voices  were  to  be  heard.  A 
few  drops  of  rain  rang  out  on  the  golden  copper  leaves  of  the 
beeches,  which  had  turned  to  autumn  tints.  A  little  stream  ran 
tinkling  over  the  stones.  Christophe  and  Olivier  stood  still  and 
did  not  stir.  Each  was  dreaming  of  those  whom  he  had  lost. 
Olivier  was  thinking : 

"  Antoinette,  where  are  you  ?  " 

And  Christophe : 

"  What  is  success  to  me,  now  that  she  is  dead  ?  " 

But  each  heard  the  comforting  words  of  the  dead: 

"  Beloved,  weep  not  for  us.  Think  not  of  us.  Think  of 
Him.  ..." 

They  looked  at  each  other,  and  each  ceased  to  feel  his  own 
sorrow,  and  was  conscious  only  of  that  of  his  friend.  They 
clasped  their  hands.  In  both  there  was  sad  serenity.  Gently, 
while  no  wind  stirred,  the  misty  veil  was  raised:  the  blue  sky 
shone  forth  again.  The  melting  sweetness  of  the  earth  after 
rain.  ...  So  near  to  us,  so  tender!  .  .  .  The  earth  takes 
us  in  her  arms,  clasps  us  to  her  bosom  with  a  lovely  loving 
smile,  and  says  to  us: 


472  JEAN-CHRTSTOPHE  IK  PAEIS 

"Rest.     All  is  well.   ..." 

The  ache  in  Christophe's  heart  was  gone.  He  was  like  a 
little  child.  For  two  days  he  had  been  living  wholly  in  the 
memory  of  his  mother,  the  atmosphere  of  her  soul :  he  had  lived 
over  again  her  humble  life,  with  its  days  one  like  unto  another, 
solitary,  all  spent  in  the  silence  of  the  childless  house,  in  the 
thought  of  the  children  who  had  left  her :  the  poor  old  woman, 
infirm  but  valiant  in  her  tranquil  faith,  her  sweetness  of  temper, 
her  smiling  resignation,  her  complete  lack  of  selfishness.  .  .  . 
And  Christophe  thought  also  of  all  the  humble  creatures  he  had 
known.  How  near  to  them  he  felt  in  that  moment!  After  all 
the  years  of  exhausting  struggle  in  the  burning  heat  of  Paris, 
where  ideas  and  men  jostle  in  the  whirl  of  confusion,  after 
those  tragic  days  when  there  had  passed  over  them  the  wind  of 
the  madness  which  hurls  the  nations,  cozened  by  their  own  hal- 
lucinations, murderously  against  each  other,  Christophe  felt  ut- 
terly weary  of  the  fevered,  sterile  world,  the  conflict  between 
egoisms  and  ideas,  the  little  groups  of  human  beings  deeming 
themselves  above  humanity,  the  ambitious,  the  tli inkers,  the 
artists  who  think  themselves  the  brain  of  the  world,  and  are 
no  more  than  a  haunting  evil  dream.  And  all  his  love  went  out 
to  those  thousands  of  simple  souls,  of  every  nation,  whose  lives 
burn  away  in  silence,  pure  flames  of  kindness,  faith,  and  sacri- 
fice,— the  heart  of  the  world. 

"Yes,"  he  thought,  "I  know  you;  once  more  I  have  come 
to  you;  you  are  blood  of  my  blood;  you  are  mine.  Like  the 
prodigal  son,  I  left  you  to  pursue  the  shadows  that  passed  by 
the  wayside.  But  I  have  come  back  to  you  ;  give  me  welcome. 
We  are  one;  one  life  is  ours,  both  the  living  and  the  dead ;  where 
I  am  there  are  you  also.  Xow  I  bear  you  in  my  soul,  0  mother, 
who  bore  me.  You.  too,  Gottfried,  and  you  Schulx.  and  Sabine, 
and  Antoinette,  you  are  all  in  me,  part  of  me,  mine.  You  are 
my  riches,  my  joy.  We  will  take  the  road  together.  I  will 
never  more  leave  you.  I  will  be  your  voice.  We  will  join 
forces:  so  we  shall  attain  the  goal." 

A  ray  of  sunlight  shot  through  the  dripping  branches  of  the 


THE  HOUSE  473 

trees.  From  the  little  field  down  below  there  came  up  the 
voices  of  children  singing  an  Old  German  folk-song,  frank  and 
moving:  the  singers  were  three  little  girls  dancing  round  the 
house:  and  from  afar  the  west  wind  brought  the  chiming  of  the 
bells  of  France,  like  P.  perfume  of  roses.  .  .  . 

"  0  peace,  Divine  harmony,  serene  music  of  the  soul  set  free, 
wherein  are  mingled  joy  and  sorrow,  death  and  life,  the  nations 
at  war,  and  the  nations  in  brotherhood.  I  love  you,  I  long  for 
you,  I  shall  win  you.  ..." 

The  night  drew  down  her  veil.  Starting  from  his  dream, 
Christophc  saw  the  faithful  face  of  his  friend  by  his  side.  He 
smiled  at  him  and  embraced  him.  Then  they  walked  on  through 
the  forest  in  silence:  and  Christophc  showed  Olivier  the  way. 

"  Tacit i,  soli  e  senza  compagnia, 
N'andamn  V  un  dinnunzi,  e  I'  altro  dopo, 
Gome  i  frati  minor  vanno  per  ma.  .  ,    * 


LOVE   AND   FRIENDSHIP 


JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

JOURNEY'S  END 


IN"  spite  of  the  success  which  was  beginning  to  materialize 
outside  France,  the  two  friends  found  their  financial  position 
very  slow  in  mending.  Every  now  and  then  there  recurred 
moments  of  penury  when  they  were  obliged  to  go  without  food. 
They  made  up  for  it  by  eating  twice  as  much  as  they  needed 
when  they  had  money.  But,  on  the  whole,  it  was  a  trying 
existence. 

For  the  time  being  they  were  in  the  period  of  the  lean  kine. 
Christophe  had  stayed  up  half  the  night  to  finish  a  dull  piece 
of  musical  transcription  for  Hecht :  he  did  not  get  to  bed  until 
dawn,  and  slept  like  a  log  to  make  up  for  lost  time.  Olivier 
had  gone  out  early:  he  had  a  lecture  to  give  at  the  other  end 
of  Paris.  About  eight  o'clock  the  porter  came  with  the  letters, 
and  rang  the  bell.  As  a  rule  he  did  not  wait  for  them  to  come, 
but  just  slipped  the  letters  under  the  door.  This  morning  he 
went  on  knocking.  Only  half  awake,  Christophe  went  to  the 
door  growling:  he  paid  no  attention  to  what  the  smiling,  loqua- 
cious porter  was  saying  about  an  article  in  the  paper,  but  just- 
took  the  letters  without  looking  at  them,  pushed  the  door  to  with- 
out closing  it,  went  to  bed,  and  was  soon  fast  asleep  once  more. 

An  hour  later  lie  woke  up  with  a  start  on  hearing  some  one 
in  his  room  :  and  he  was  amazed  to  see  a  strange  face  at  the 
foot  of  his  bed,  a  complete  stranger  bowing  gravely  to  him. 
It  was  a  journalist,  who,  finding  the  door  open,  had  entered 
without  ceremony.  Christophe  was  furious,  and  jumped  out 
of  bed : 

"What  the  devil  are  you  doing  here?"  he  shouted. 

He  grabbed  his  pillow  to  hurl  it  at  the  intruder,  who  skipped 
back.  He  explained  himself.  A  reporter  of  the  Nation  wished 

3 


4     JEAN-CHKISTOPHE :  JOURNEY'S  END 

to  interview  M.  Krafft  about  the  article  which  had  appeared  in 
the  Grand  Journal. 

"What  article?" 

"  Haven't  you  read  it  ?  " 

The  reporter  began  to  tell  him  what  it  was  about. 

Christophe  went  to  bed  again.  If  he  had  not  been  so  sleepy 
he  would  have  kicked  the  fellow  out :  but  it  was  less  trouble 
to  let  him  talk.  He  curled  himself  up  in  the  bed,  closed  his 
eyes,  and  pretended  to  be  asleep.  And  very  soon  he  would 
really  have  been  off,  but  the  reporter  stuck  to  his  guns,  and  in 
a  loud  voice  read  the  beginning  of  the  article.  At  the  very 
first  words  Christophe  pricked  up  his  ears.  M.  Krafft  was  re- 
ferred to  as  the  greatest  musical  genius  of  the  age.  Christophe 
forgot  that  he  was  pretending  to  be  asleep,  swore  in  astonish- 
ment, sat  up  in  bed,  and  said : 

"They  arc  mad!     Who  has  been  pulling  their  legs?" 

The  reporter  seized  the  opportunity,  and  stopped  reading  to 
ply  Christophe  with  a  series  of  questions,  which  lie  answered 
unthinkingly.  He  had  picked  up  the  paper,  and  was  gazing 
in  utter  amazement  at  his  own  portrait,  which  was  printed  as 
large  as  life  on  the  front  page:  but  he  had  no  time  to  read  the 
article,  for  another  journalist  entered  the  room.  This  time 
Christophe  was  really  angry.  He  told  them  to  get  out:  but 
they  did  not  comply  until  they  had  made  hurried  notes  of  the 
furniture  in  the  room,  and  the  photographs  on  the  wall,  and  tbe 
features  of  the  strange  being  who,  between  laughter  and  anger, 
thrust  them  out  of  the  room,  and,  in  his  nightgown,  took  them 
to  the  door  and  bolted  it  after  them. 

But  it  was  ordained  that  he  should  not  be  left  in  peace  that 
day.  He  had  not  finished  dressing  when  there  came  another 
knock  at  the  door,  a  prearranged  knock  which  was  only  known 
to  a  few  of  their  friends.  Christophe  opened  the  door,  and 
found  himself  face  to  face  with  yet  another  stranger,  whom 
he  was  just  about  to  dismiss  in  a  summary  fashion,  when  the 
man  protested  that  he  was  the  author  of  the  article,  .  .  . 
How  are  you  to  get  rid  of  a  man  who  regards  you  as  a  genius! 
Christophe  had  grumpily  to  submit  to  his  admirer's  effusions. 
He  was  amazed  at  the  sudden  notoriety  which  had  come  like  a 
bolt  from  the  blue,  and  he  wondered  if,  without  knowing 


LOVE  AXD  FRIENDSHIP  5 

it,  he  had  had  a  masterpiece  produced  the  evening  before.  But 
he  had  no  time  to  find  out.  The  journalist  had  come  to  drag 
him,  whether  he  liked  it  or  not,  there  and  then,  to  the  offices 
of  the  paper  where  the  editor,  the  great  Arsene  Gamache  him- 
self, wished  to  see  him :  the  car  was  waiting  downstairs.  Chris- 
tophe  tried  to  get  out  of  it:  but,  in  spite  of  himself,  he  was 
so  naively  responsive  to  the  journalist's  friendly  protestations 
that  in  the  end  he  gave  way. 

Ten  minutes  later  he  was  introduced  to  a  potentate  in  whose 
presence  all  men  trembled.  He  was  a  sturdy  little  man,  about 
fifty,  short  and  stout,  with  a  big  round  head,  gray  hair  brushed 
up,  a  red  face,  a  masterful  way  of  speaking,  a  thick,  affected 
accent,  and  every  now  and  then  he  would  break  out  into  a 
choppy  sort  of  volubility.  He  had  forced  himself  on  Paris  by 
his  enormous  self-confidence.  A  business  man,  with  a  knowl- 
edge of  men,  naive  and  deep,  passionate,  full  of  himself,  he 
identified  his  business  with  the  business  of  France,  and  even 
with  the  affairs  of  humanity.  His  own  interests,  the  prosperity 
of  his  paper,  and  the  salus  piibUca,  all  seemed  to  him  to  be  of 
equal  importance  and  to  be  narrowly  associated.  He  had  no 
doubt  that  any  man  who  wronged  him,  wronged  France  also: 
and  to  crush  an  adversary,  he  would  in  perfectly  good  faith 
have  overthrown  the  Government.  However,  he  was  by  no 
means  incapable  of  generosity.  He  was  an  idealist  of  the  after- 
dinner  order,  and  loved  to  be  a  sort  of  God  Almighty,  and  to 
lift  some  poor  devil  or  other  out  of  the  mire,  by  way  of  demon- 
strating the  greatness  of  his  power,  whereby  he  could  make 
something  out  of  nothing,  make  and  unmake  Ministers,  and, 
if  he  had  cared  to,  make  and  unmake  Kings.  His  sphere  was 
the  universe.  He  would  make  men  of  genius,  too,  if  it  so 
pleased  him. 

That  day  he  had  just  "  made  "  Christophe. 

It  was  Olivier  who  in  all  innocence  bad  belled  the  cat. 

Olivier,  who  could  do  nothing  to  advance  his  own  interests, 
and  had  a  horror  of  notoriety,  and  avoided  journalists  like  the 
plague,  took  quite  another  view  of  these  things  where  his  friend 
was  in  question.  He  was  like  those  loving  mothers,  the  right- 
living  women  of  the  middle-class,  those  irreproachable  wives. 


6  JEAN-CHKISTOPHE :    JOUEXEY'S  END 

who  would  sell  themselves  to  procure  any  advantage  for  their 
rascally  young  sons. 

Writing  for  the  reviews,  and  finding  himself  in  touch  with  a 
number  of  critics  and  dilettanti,  Olivier  never  let  slip  an  oppor- 
tunity of  talking  about  Christopher  and  for  some  time  past 
he  had  been  surprised  to  find  that  they  listened  to  him.  He 
could  feel  a  sort  of  current  of  curiosity,  a  mysterious  rumor 
flying  about  literary  and  polite  circles.  What  was  its  origin? 
Were  there  echoes  of  newspaper  opinion,  following  on  the  recent 
performances  of  Cbristophe's  work  in  England  and  Germany? 
It  seemed  impossible  to  trace  it  to  any  definite  source.  It  was 
one  of  those  frequent  phenomena  of  those  men  who  sniff  the 
air  of  Paris,  and  can  tell  the  day  before,  more  exactly  than 
the  meteorological  observatory  of  the  tower  of  Saint- Jacques, 
what  wind  is  blowing  up  for  the  morrow,  and  what  it  will  bring 
with  it.  In  that  great  city  of  nerves,  through  which  electric 
vibrations  pass,  there  arc  invisible  currents  of  fame,  a  latent 
celebrity  which  precedes  the  actuality,  the  vague  gossip  of  the 
drawing-rooms,  the  nescio  quid  ma  jus  nascilur  Iliadc,  which,  at 
a  given  moment,  bursts  out  in  a  puffing  article,  the  blare  of  the 
trumpet  which  drives  the  name  of  the  new  idol  into  the  thickest 
heads.  Sometimes  that  trumpet-blast  alienates  the  first  and 
best  friends  of  the  man  whose  glory  it  proclaims.  And  yet  they 
are  responsible  for  it. 

So  Olivier  had  a  share  in  the  article  in  the  Grand  Journal. 
He  had  taken  advantage  of  the  interest  displayed  in  Christophc, 
and  had  carefully  stoked  it  up  with  adroitly  worded  information. 
He  had  been  careful  not  to  bring  Christophe  directly  into  touch 
with  the  journalists,  for  he  was  afraid  of  an  outburst.  But  at  the 
request  of  the  Grand  Journal  he  had  slyly  introduced  Christophe 
to  a  reporter  in  a  cafe  without  his  having  any  suspicion.  All 
these  precautions  only  pricked  curiosity,  and  made  Christophc 
more  interesting.  Olivier  had  never  bad  anything  to  do  with 
publicity  before:  he  had  not  stopped  to  consider  that  he  was 
setting  in  motion  a  machine  \vbich,  once  it  got  going,  it  was 
impossible  to  direct  or  control. 

He  Avas  in  despair  when,  on  his  way  to  his  lecture,  he  read 
the  article  in  the  Grand  Journal.  He  had  not  foreseen  such  a 
calamity.  Above  all,  he  had  not  expected  it  to  come  so  soon. 


LOVE  AXD  FRIENDSHIP  7 

He  had  reckoned  on  the  paper  waiting  to  make  sure  and  verify 
its  facts  before  it  published  anything.  He  was  too  naive.  If 
a  newspaper  takes  the  trouble  to  discover  a  new  celebrity,  it  is, 
of  course,  for  its  own  sake,  so  that  its  rivals  may  not  have  the 
honor  of  the  discovery.  It  must  lose  no  time,  even  if  it  means 
knowing  nothing  whatever  about  the  person  in  question.  But 
an  author  very  rarely  complains:  if  he  is  admired,  he  lias  quite 
as  much  understanding  as  he  wants. 

The  Grand  Journal,  after  setting  out  a  few  ridiculous  stories 
about  Christophe's  struggles,  representing  him  as  a  victim  of 
German  despotism,  an  apostle  of  liberty,  forced  to  fly  from 
Imperial  Germany  and  take  refuge  in  France,  the  home  and 
shelter  of  free  men, —  (a  fine  pretext  for  a  Chauvinesque  tirade  !) 
— plunged  into  lumbering  praise  of  his  genius,  of  which  it 
knew  nothing, — nothing  except  a  few  tame  melodies,  dating  from 
Christophe's  early  days  in  Germany,  which  Christophe,  who  was 
ashamed  of  them,  would  have  liked  to  have  seen  destroyed.  But 
if  the  author  of  the  article  knew  nothing  at  all  about  Chris- 
tophe's work,  he  made  up  for  it  in  his  knowledge  of  his  plans — 
or  rather  such  plans  as  he  invented  for  him.  A  few  words  let 
fall  by  Christophe  or  Olivier,  or  even  by  Goujart,  who  pretended 
to  be  well-informed,  had  been  enough  for  him  to  construct  a 
fanciful  Jean-Christophe,  "a  Republican  genius. — the  great 
musician  of  democracy."  He  seized  the  opportunity  to  decry 
various  contemporary  French  musicians,  especially  the  most 
original  and  independent  among  them,  who  set  very  little  store 
by  democracy.  He  only  excepted  one  or  two  composers,  whose 
electoral  opinions  were  excellent  in  his  eyes.  It  was  annoying 
that  their  music  was  not  better.  But  that  was  a  detail.  And 
besides,  his  eulogy  of  these  men.  and  even  his  praise  of  Chris- 
tophe, was  of  not  nearly  so  much  account  as  his  criticism  of 
the  rest.  In  Paris,  when  you  read  an  article  eulogizing  a  man's 
work,  it  is  always  as  well  to  ask  yourself : 

"Whom  is  he  decrying?" 

Olivier  went  hot  with  shame  as  he  read  the  paper,  and  said 
to  himself : 

"  A  fine  thing  I've  done !  " 

He  could  hardly  get  through  his  lecture.  As  soon  as  he  had 
finished  he  hurried  home.  What  was  his  consternation  to  iind 


8  JEAN-CHEISTOPHE :    JOURNEY'S  END 

that  Christophe  had  already  gone  out  with  the  journalists!  He 
delayed  lunch  for  him.  Christophe  did  not  return.  Hours 
passed,  and  Olivier  grew  more  and  more  anxious  and  thought: 

"  What  a  lot  of  foolish  things  they  will  make  him  say!  " 

About  three  o'clock  Christophe  came  home  quite  lively.  lie 
had  had  lunch  with  Arsene  Gamachc.  and  his  head  was  a  little 
muzzy  with  the  champagne  he  had  drunk.  He  could  not  under- 
stand Olivier's  anxiety,  who  asked  him  in  fear  and  trembling 
what  he  had  said  and  done. 

"What  have  I  heen  doing?  I've  had  a  splendid  lunch.  I 
haven't  had  such  a  good  feed  for  a  long  time." 

He  began  to  recount  the  menu. 

"And  wine.    .    .    .      I  had  wine  of  every  color." 

Olivier  interrupted  him  to  ask  who  was  there. 

"  Who  was  there?  .  .  .  I  don't  know.  There  was  Gamache, 
a  little  round  man,  true  as  gold:  Clodomir,  the  writer  of  the 
article,  a  charming  fellow:  three  or  four  journalists  whom  I 
didn't  know,  very  jolly,  all  very  nice  and  charming  to  me — the 
cream  of  good  fellows." 

Olivier  did  not  seem  to  be  convinced.  Christophe  was  aston- 
ished at  his  small  enthusiasm. 

"Haven't  you  read  the  article?" 

"  Yes.     I  have.     Have  you   read   it  ?  " 

"  Yes.  .  .  .  That  is  to  say,  I  just  glanced  at  it.  1  haven't 
had  time." 

"Well:  read  it." 

Christophe  took  it  up.     At  the  first  words  he  spluttered. 

"Oh!     The  idiot!  "  he  said. 

lie  roared  with  laughter. 

"Bah!"  he  went  on.  "These  critics  are  all  alike.  They 
know  nothing  at  all  about  it." 

But  as  he  read  farther  he  began  to  lose  his  temper:  it  was 
too  stupid,  it  made  him  look  ridiculous.  What  did  they  mean 
by  calling  him  "a  Republican  musician";  it  did  not  mean 
anything.  .  .  .  Well,  let  the  fib  pass.  .  .  .  Hut  when  they 
?et  his  "Republican"  art  against  the  "sacristy  art"  of  the 
masters  who  had  preceded  him, —  (he  whose  soul  was  nourished 
by  the  souls  of  those  great  men), — it  was  too  much.  .  .  . 

"  The  swine!     They're  trying  to  make  me  out  an  idiot!  .       ." 


LOVE  AND  FRIENDSHIP  9 

And  then,  what  was  the  sense  of  using  him  as  a  cudgel  to 
thwack  talented  French  musicians,  whom  he  loved  more  or  less, 
—  (though  rather  less  than  more), — though  they  knew  their 
trade,  and  honored  it?  And — worst  of  all — with  an  incredible 
want  of  tact  he  was  credited  with  odious  sentiments  about  his 
country !  .  .  .  No,  that,  that  was  beyond  endurance.  .  .  . 

"  I  shall  write  and  tell  them  so,"  said  Christophe. 

Olivier  intervened. 

"  No,  no,"  he  said,  "  not  now !  You  are  too  excited.  To- 
morrow, when  you  are  cooler.  ..." 

Christophe  stuck  to  it.  When  he  had  anything  to  say  he 
could  not  wait  until  the  morrow.  He  promised  Olivier  to  show 
him  his  letter.  The  precaution  was  useful.  The  letter  was 
duly  revised,  so  as  to  be  confined  practically  to  the  rectification 
of  the  opinions  about  Germany  with  which  he  had  been  credited, 
and  then  Christophe  ran  and  posted  it. 

"Well,"  he  said,  when  lie  returned,  "that  will  save  half  the 
harm  being  done:  the  letter  will  appear  to-morrow." 

Olivier  shook  his  head  doubtfully,  lie  was  still  thoughtful, 
and  he  looked  Christophe  straight  in  the  face,  and  said  : 

"Christophe,  did  you  say  anything  imprudent  at  lunch?" 

"  Oh  no,"  said  Christophe  with  a  laugh. 

"Sure?" 

"  Yes.  you  coward." 

Olivier  was  somewhat  reassured.  But  Christophe  was  not. 
He  had  just  remembered  that  he  had  talked  volubly  and  un- 
guardedly. He  had  been  quite  at  his  ease  at  once.  It  had 
never  for  a  moment  occurred  to  him  to  distrust  any  of  them: 
they  seemed  so  cordial,  so  well-disposed  towards  him!  As.  in 
fact,  they  were.  We  are  always  well-disposed  to  people  when 
AVC  have  done  them  a  good  turn,  and  Christophe  was  so  frankly 
delighted  with  it  all  that  his  joy  infected  them.  His  affection- 
ate easy  manners,  his  jovial  sallies,  his  enormous  appetite,  and 
the  celerity  with  which  the  various  liquors  vanished  down  his 
throat  without  making  him  turn  a  hair,  were  by  no  means 
displeasing  to  Arsene  (•!nir,nche.  who  was  himself  a  sturdy 
trencherman,  coarse,  boorish,  and  sanguine,  and  very  contemptu- 
ous of  people1  who  had  ill-health,  and  those  who  dared  not  eat 
and  drink,  and  all  the  sickly  .Parisians.  He  judged  a  man  by 


10     JEAN-CHRISTOPHE :  JOURNEY'S  END 

his  prowess  at  table.  He  appreciated  Christophe.  There  and 
then  he  proposed  to-  produce  his  Gargantua  as  an  opera  at  the 
Opera.— (The  very  summit  of  art  was  reached  for  these  bour- 
geois French  people  in  the  production  on  the  stage  of  the 
Damnation  of  Faust,  or  the  Nine  Symphonies.} — Christophe, 
who  burst  out  laughing  at  the  grotesqueness  of  the  idea,  had 
great  difficulty  in  preventing  him  from  telephoning  his  orders 
to  the  directors  of  the  Opera,  or  the  Minister  of  Fine  Arts. — 
(If  Gamache  were  to  be  believed,  all  these  important  people 
were  apparently  at  his  beck  and  call.) — And,  the  proposal  re- 
minding him  of  the  strange  transmutation  which  had  taken 
place  in  his  symphonic  poem,  David,  he  went  so  far  as  to  tell 
the  story  of  the  performance  organized  by  Deputy  Roussin  to 
introduce  his  mistress  to  the  public.  Gamache,  who  did  not  like 
Roussin,  was  delighted :  and  Christophe,  spurred  on  by  the 
generous  wines  and  the  sympathy  of  his  hearers,  plunged  into 
other  stories,  more  or  less  indiscreet,  the  point  of  which  was 
not  lost  on  those  present.  Christophe  was  the  only  one  to  forget 
them  when  the  party  broke  up.  And  now,  on  Olivier's  question, 
they  rushed  back  to  his  memory.  He  felt  a  little  shiver  run 
down  his  spine.  For  he  did  not  deceive  himself:  he  had  enough 
experience  to  know  what  would  happen:  now  that  he  was  sober 
again  he  saw  it  as  clearly  as  though  it  had  actually  happened: 
his  indiscretions  would  be  twisted  and  distorted,  and  scattered 
broadcast  as  malicious  blabbing,  his  artistic  sallies  would  be 
turned  into  weapons  of  war.  As  for  his  letter  correcting  the 
article,  he  knew  as  well  as  Olivier  how  much  that  would  avail 
him  :  it  is  a  waste  of  ink  to  answer  a  journalist,  for  he  always 
has  the  last  word. 

Everything  happened  exactly  to  the  letter  as  Christophe  had 
foreseen  it  would.  His  indiscretions  were  published,  his  letter 
was  not.  Gamache  only  went  so  far  as  to  write  to  him  that 
he  recognized  the  generosity  of  his  feelings,  and  that  his  scruples 
were  an  honor  to  him:  but  lie  kept  his  scruples  dark:  and  the 
falsified  opinions  attributed  to  Christophe  went  on  being  cir- 
culated, provoking  biting  criticism  in. the  Parisian  papers,  and 
later  in  Germany,  where  much  indignation  was  felt  that  a 
German  artist  should  express  himself  with  so  little  dignity  about 
his  country. 


LOVE  AXD  FRIENDSHIP  11 

Christoplie  thought  he  would  be  clever,  and  take  advantage  of 
an  interview  by  the  reporter  of  another  paper  to  protest  his  love 
for  the  Deidschcs  Reich,  where,  he  said,  people  were  at  least  as 
free  as  in  the  French  Republic. — He  was  speaking  to  the  rep- 
resentative of  a  Conservative  paper,  who  at  once  credited  him 
with  anti-Republican  views. 

"  Better  and  better  !  "  said  Christoplie.  "  But  what  on  earth 
has  my  music  to  do  with  politics?" 

"  It  is  usual  with  us,"  said  Olivier.  "  Look  at  the  battles 
that  have  taken  place  over  Beethoven.  Some  people  will  have 
it  that  he  was  a  Jacobin,  others  a  mountebank,  others  still  a 
Pere  Duchesne,  and  others  a  prince's  lackey." 

"  He'd  knock  their  heads  together." 

"Well,  do  the  same." 

Christoplie  only  wished  he  could.  But  he  was  too  amiable 
with  people  who  were  friendly  towards  him.  Olivier  never  felt 
happy  when  he  left  him  alone.  For  they  were  always  coming 
to  interview  him :  and  it  was  no  use  Christoplie  promising  to 
be  guarded :  he  could  not  help  being  confidential  and  unreserved. 
He  said  everything  that  came  into  his  head.  Women  journalists 
would  come  and  make  a  fuss  of  him,  and  get  him  to  talk  about 
his  sentimental  adventures.  Others  would  make  use  of  him  to 
speak  ill  of  such-an-one,  or  so-and-so.  When  Olivier  came  in 
he  would  find  Christoplie  utterly  downcast. 

"  Another  howler  ?  "  he  would  ask. 

"  Of  course,"  Christophe  would  reply  in  despair. 

"  You  are  incorrigible  !  " 

"  I  ought  to  be  locked  up.  .  .  .  But  I  swear  that  it  is  the 
last  time." 

"Yes,  I  know.     Until  the  next.    ..." 

"  Xo.     This  really  is  the  last." 

Xext  clay  Christophe  said  triumphantly  to  Olivier: 

"  Another  one  came  to-day.  I  shut  the  door  in  his 
face." 

"Don't  go  too  far."  said  Olivier.  "Be  careful  with  them. 
'This  animal  is  dangerous.'  He  will  attack  you  if  you  defend 
yourself.  ...  It  is  so  easy  for  them  to  avenge  themselves! 
They  can  twist  the  least  little  thing  you  may  have  said  to  their 
uses." 


12  JEAX-CHEISTOPME:    JOURNEY'S  END 

Christophe  drew  his  hand  across  his  forehead: 

"Oh!     Good  Lord!" 

"  What's  the  matter  ?  " 

"When  I  sliut  the  door  in  his  face  1  told   ..." 

"  What  ? " 

"  The  Emperor's  joke." 

"  The  Emperor's  ?  " 

"Yes.     His  or  one  of  his  people's.    ..." 

"How  awful!     You'll  see  it  to-morrow  on  the  front  page!" 

Christophe  shuddered.  But,  next  day.  what  he  saw  was  a 
description  of  his  room,  which  the  journalist  had  not  seen,  and 
a  report  of  a  conversation  which  he  had  not  had  with  him. 

The  facts  were  more  and  more  embellished  the  farther  they 
spread.  In  the  foreign  papers  then*  were  garnished  out  of  all 
recognition.  Certain  French  articles  having  told  how  in  his 
poverty  he  had  transposed  music-  for  the  guitar,  Christophe 
learned  from  an  English  newspaper  that  he  had  played  the 
guitar  in  the  streets. 

He  did  not  only  read  eulogies.  Far  from  it.  It  was  enough 
for  Christophe  to  have  been  taken  up  by  the  Grand  Journal, 
for  him  to  be  taken  to  task  by  the  other  papers.  They  could 
not  as  a  matter  of  dignity  allow  the  possibility  of  a  rival's 
discovering  a  genius  whom  they  had  ignored.  Some  of  them 
were  rabid  about  it.  Others  commiserated  Christophe  on  his 
ill-luck,  (ioujait.  annoyed  at  having  the  ground  cut  away  from 
under  his  feet,  wrote  an  article,  as  he  said,  to  set  people  right 
on  certain  points.  Me  wrote  familiarly  of  his  old  friend  Chris- 
tophe. to  whom,  when  he  first  came  to  Paris,  lie  had  been  guide 
and  comforter:  lie  was  certainly  a  highly  gifted  musician,  but — 
(he  was  at  liberty  to  say  so,  since  they  were  friends) — verv 
deficient  in  manv  ways,  ill -educated,  unoriginal,  and  inordi- 
nately vain;  so  absurd Iv  to  Hatter  his  vanitv.  as  had  been  done, 
was  to  serve  him  but  ill  at  n  time  wh'>n  he  stood  in  need  of  a 
mentor  who  should  be  wise,  learned,  judicious,  benevolent,  and 
severe,  etc. —  (a  fancy  portrait  of  (ioujart). — The  musicians 
made  hitter  I'un  of  it  all.  They  all'ected  a  lofty  contempt  lor 


LOVE  AND  FRIENDSHIP  13 

abused  Christophe:  others  overwhelmed  him  with  their  com- 
miseration. Some  of  them — (his  colleagues) — laid  the  blame 
on  Olivier. — They  were  only  too  glad  to  pay  him  out  for  his 
intolerance  and  his  way  of  holding  aloof  from  them, — rather, 
if  the  truth  were  known,  from  a  desire  for  solitude  than  from 
scorn  of  any  of  them.  But  men  are  least  apt  to  pardon  those 
who  show  that  they  can  do  without  them. — Some  of  them  almost 
\vent  so  far  as  to  hint  that  he  had  made  money  by  the  articles 
in  the  Grand  Journal.  There  were  others  who  took  upon  them- 
selves to  defend  Christophe  against  him:  they  appeared  to  be 
broken-hearted  at  Olivier's  callousness  in  dragging  a  sensitive 
artist,  a  dreamer,  ill-equipped  for  the  battle  of  life, — Christophe, 
— into  the  turmoil  of  the  market-place,  where  he  could  not  but 
be  ruined :  for  they  regarded  Christophe  as  a  little  boy  not 
strong  enough  in  the  head  to  be  allowed  to  go  out  alone.  The 
future  of  this  man,  they  said,  was  being  ruined,  for,  even  if 
he  were  not  a  trenius,  such  good  intentions  and  such  tremendous 

O  o 

industry  deserved  a  better  fate,  and  he  was  being  intoxicated 
with  incense  of  an  inferior  brand.  It  was  a  great  pity.  Why 
could  they  not  leave  him  in  his  obscurity  to  go  on  working 
patiently  for  years  ? 

Olivier  might  have  had  the  answer  pat: 

"A  man  must  eat  to  work.     Who  will  give  him  his  bread?" 

But  that  would  not  have  abashed  them.  They  would  have 
replied  with  their  magnificent  serenity: 

"  That  is  a  detail.  An  artist  must  suffer.  And  what  does 
a  little  suffering  matter?" 

Of  course,  tliev  were  men  of  the  world,  quite  well  oil',  who 
professed  these  Stoic  theories.  As  the  millionaire  once  said  to 
the  simple  person  who  came  and  asked  him  to  help  a  poverty- 
stricken  artist : 

"But.  sir.  ^lo/art  died  of  poverty.'"' 

They  would  have  thought  it  very  had  taste  on  Olivier  s  part 
if  he  had  told  them  that  Mozart  would  have  asked  nothing 
better  than  to  go  on  living,  and  that  Christophe  was  determined 
to  do  so. 

Christophe  was  getting  heartily  sick  of  the  vulgar  tittle-tattle. 
He  becran  to  wonder  if  it  were  u'oina'  on  forever. — But  it  was  all 


14  JEAN-CHRISTOFHE  :    JOURNEY'S  EXD 

over  in  a  fortnight.  The  newspapers  gave  up  talking  about 
him.  However,  he  had  become  known.  When  his  name  was 
mentioned,  people  said,  not: 

"  The  author  of  David  or  Gargantua," 
but: 

"Oh  yes!     The  Grand  Journal  man!    ..." 

He  was  famous. 

Olivier  knew  it  by  the  number  of  letters  that  came  for 
Christophe,  and  even  for  himself,  in  his  reflected  glory :  offers 
from  librettists,  proposals  from  concert-agents,  declarations  of 
friendship  from  men  who  had  formerly  been  his  enemies,  in- 
vitations from  women.  His  opinion  was  asked,  for  newspaper 
inquiries,  about  anything  and  everything:  the  depopulation  of 
France,  idealist  art,  women's  corsets,  the  nude  on  the  stage, — 
and  did  he  believe  that  Germany  was  decadent,  or  that  music 
had  reached  its  end,  etc.,  etc.  They  used  to  laugh  at  them  all. 
But,  though  he  laughed,  lo  and  behold !  Christophe,  that 
Huron,  steadily  accepted  the  invitations  to  dinner!  Olivier 
could  not  believe  his  eyes. 

"  You  ?  "  he  said. 

"  I !  Certainly,"  replied  Christophe  jecringly.  "  You  thought 
you  were  the  only  man  who  could  go  and  see  the  beautiful 
ladies?  Not  at  all,  my  boy!  It's  my  turn  now.  I  want  to 
amuse  myself !  " 

"You?     Amuse  yourself?     My  dear  old  man!" 

The  truth  was  that  Christophe  had  for  so  long  lived  shut 
up  in  his  own  room  that  lie  felt  a  sudden  longing  to  get  away 
from  it.  Besides,  he  took  a  naive  delight  in  tasting  his  new 
fame.  He  was  terribly  bored  at  parties,  and  thought  the  people 
idiotic.  But  when  he  came  home  he  used  to  take  a  malicious 
pleasure  in  telling  Olivier  how  much  he  had  enjoyed  himself. 
He  would  go  to  people's  houses  once,  but  never  again:  he  would 
invent  the  wildest  excuses,  with  a  frightful  want  of  tact,  to  get 
out  of  their  renewed  invitations.  Olivier  would  be  scandalized, 
and  Christophe  would  shout  with  laughter.  He  did  not  go  to 
their  houses  to  spread  his  fame,  but  to  replenish  his  store  of 
life,  his  collection  of  expressions  and  tones  of  voice — all  the 
material  of  form,  and  sound,  and  color,  with  which  an  artist 
has  periodically  to  enrich  his  palette.  A  musician  docs  not 


LOVE  AXD  FRIENDSHIP  15 

feed  only  on  music.  An  inflection  of  the  human  voice,  the 
rhythm  of  a  gesture,  the  harmony  of  a  smile,  contain  more 
suggestion  of  music  for  him  that  another  man's  symphony. 
But  it  must  be  said  that  the  music  of  faces  and  human  souls 
is  as  stale  and  lacking  in  variety  in  polite  society  as  the  music 
of  polite  musicians.  Each  has  a  manner  and  becomes  set  in  it 
The  smile  of  a  pretty  woman  is  as  stereotyped  in  its  studied 
grace  as  a  Parisian  melody.  The  men  are  even  more  insipid 
than  the  women.  Under  the  debilitating  influence  of  society, 
their  energy  is  blunted,  their  original  characters  rot  away  and 
finally  disappear  with  a  frightful  rapidity.  Christophc  was 
struck  by  the  number  of  dead  and  dying  men  he  met  among 
the  artists :  there  was  one  young  musician,  full  of  life  and 
genius,  whom  success  had  dulled,  stupefied,  and  wiped  out  of 
existence :  he  thought  of  nothing  but  swallowing  down  the 
flattery  in  which  he  was  smothered,  enjoying  himself,  and  sleep- 
ing. What  he  would  be  like  twenty  years  later  was  shown 
in  another  corner  of  the  room,  in  the  person  of  an  old  pomaded 
maestro,  who  was  rich,  famous,  a  member  of  all  the  Academies, 
at  the  very  height  of  his  career,  and,  though  apparently  he  had 
nothing  to  fear  and  no  more  wires  to  pull,  groveled  before 
everything  and  even-body,  and  was  fearful  of  opinion,  power, 
and  the  Press,  dared  not  say  what  he  thought,  and  thought 
nothing  at  all — a  man  who  had  ceased  to  exist,  showing 
himself  off,  an  ass  saddled  with  the  relics  of  his  own  past 
life. 

Behind  all  these  artists  and  men  of  intellect  who  had  been 
great,  or  might  have  been  great,  there  was  certain  to  be  some 
woman  preying  upon  them.  They  were  all  dangerous,  both 
the  fools  and  those  who  were  by  no  means  fools:  both  those 
who  loved  and  those  who  loved  themselves:  the  best  of  them 
were  the  worst:  for  they  were  all  the  more  certain  to  snuff  out 
the  artist  with  their  immoderate  affection,  which  made  them  in 
all  good  faith  try  to  domesticate  genius,  turn  it  to  their  own 
uses,  drag  it  down,  prune  it.  pare  it  down,  scent  it.  until  they 
had  brought  it  into  line  with  their  sensibility,  their  petty  vanity. 
their  mediocrity,  and  the  mediocrity  of  the  world  they  lived  in. 

Although  Christophe  only  passed  through  that  section  of 
society,  he  saw  enough  of  it  to  feel  its  danger.  More  than  one 


JO  JEAN-OH1USTOPHE :    JOURNEY'S   KM) 

woman,  of  course,  tried  to  take  possession  of  liijn  for  her  circle, 
to  [tress  li'ui!  into  her  service:  and.  of  course,  Christophe  nibbled 
at  the  hook  baited  with  friendly  words  and  alluring  smiles. 
But  for  his  sturdy  common  sense  and  the  disquieting  spectacle 
of  the  transformations  already  effected  in  the  men  about  them 
by  these  modern  Circes,  he  would  not  have  escaped  uncon- 
taminated.  But  he  had  no  mind  to  swell  the  herd  of  these 
lovely  goose-girls.  The  danger  would  have  been  greater  for 
him  if  there  had  not  been  so  many  of  them  angling  for  him. 
Now  that  everybody,  men  and  women,  were  properly  convinced 
that  they  had  a  genius  in  their  midst,  as  usual,  they  set  to 
work  to  stifle  him.  Such  people,  when  they  see  a  flower,  have 
only  one  idea :  to  put  it  in  a  pot,- — a  bird  :  to  put  it  in  a  cage, — 
a  free  man :  to  turn  him  into  a  smooth  lackey. 

Christophe  was  shaken  for  a  moment,  pulled  himself  together, 
and  sent  them  all  packing. 

Fate  is  ironical.  Those  who  do  not  care  slip  through  the 
meshes  of  the  net:  but  those  who  are  suspicious,  those  who  are 
prudent,  and  forewarned,  are  never  suffered  to  escape.  It  was 
not  Christophe  who  was  caught  in  the  net  of  .Paris,  but  Olivier. 

He  had  benefited  by  his  friend's  success:  Christophers  fame 
had  given  him  a  reflected  glory,  lie  was  better  known  now, 
for  having  been  mentioned  in  a  few  papers  as  the  man  who  had 
discovered  Christophe,  than  for  anything  he  had  written  during 
the  last  six  years.  He  was  included  in  many  of  the  invitations 
that  came  for  Christophe:  and  he  went  with  him,  meaning  care- 
fully and  discreetly  to  look  after  him.  No  doubt  he  was  too 
much  absorbed  in  doing  so  to  look'  after  himself.  Love  passed 
by  and  caught  him. 

She  was  a  little  fair  girl,  charmingly  slender,  with  soft  hair 
waving  in  little  ripples  about  her  pure  narrow  forehead:  she 
had  fine  eyebrows  and  rather  heavy  eyelids,  eyes  of  a  periwinkle 
blue,  a  delicately  carved  nose  with  sensitive  nostrils;  her  temples 
were  slightly  hollowed:  she  had  a  capricious  chin,  and  a  mobile, 
witty,  and  rather  sensual  mouth,  turning  up  at  the  corners,  and 
the  t'armiyianninesq-uc-  smile  of  a  pure  faun.  She  had  a  long, 
delicate  throat,  a  prettv  waist,  a  slender,  elegant  figure,  and  a 
happy,  pensive  expression  in  her  girlish  face,  in  every  line  of 


LOVE  AXI)  FRIENDSHIP  17 

which  there  was  the  disturbing  poetic  mystery  of  the  wak- 
ing spring, — Frulilingserwaclien.  Her  name  was  Jacqueline 
Langeais. 

She  was  not  twenty.  She  came  of  a  rich  Catholic  family,  of 
great  distinction  and  broad-mindedness.  Her  father  was  a  clever 
engineer,  a  man  of  some  invention,  clear-headed  and  open  to 
new  ideas,  who  had  made  a  fortune,  thanks  to  his  own  hard 
work,  his  political  connections,  and  his  marriage.  He  had 
married  both  for  love  and  money — (the  proper  marriage  for 
love  for  such  people) — a  pretty  woman,  very  Parisian,  who 
was  bred  in  the  world  of  finance.  The  money  had  stayed :  but 
love  had  gone.  However,  he  had  managed  to  preserve  a  few 
sparks  of  it,  for  it  had  been  very  ardent  on  both  sides :  but 
they  did  not  stickle  for  any  exaggerated  notion  of  fidelity. 
They  went  their  ways  and  had  their  pleasures:  and  they  got 
on  very  well  together,  as  friends,  selfishly,  unscrupulously, 
warily. 

Their  daughter  was  a  bond  between  them,  though  she  was 
the  object  of  an  unspoken  rivalry  between  them :  for  they  both 
loved  her  jealously.  They  both  saw  themselves  in  her  with 
their  pet  faults  idealized  by  the  grace  of  childhood:  and  each 
strove  cunningly  to  steal  her  from  the  other.  And  the  child 
had  in  due  course  become  conscious  of  it,  with  the  artful 
candor  of  such  little  creatures,  who  are  only  too  ready  to 
believe  that  the  universe  gravitates  round  themselves :  and  she 
turned  it  to  good  account.  She  had  them  perpetually  outbid- 
ding each  other  for  her  affection.  She  never  had  a  whim  but 
she  was  sure  that  one  of  them  would  indulge  it  if  the  other 
refused:  and  the  other  would  be  so  vexed  at  being  outdone  that 
she  would  at  once  be  offered  an  even  greater  indulgence  than 
the  first.  She  had  been  dreadfully  spoiled:  and  it  was  very 
fortunate  for  her  that  there  was  no  evil  in  her  nature. — out- 
side the  egoism  common  to  almost  all  children,  though  in  chil- 
dren who  are  too  rich  and  too  much  pampered  it  assumes  various 
morbid  shapes,  due  to  the  absence  of  difficulties  and  the  want 
of  any  goal  to  aim  at. 

Though  they  adored  her.  neither  M.  nor  Madame  Langeais 
ever  thought  of  sacrificing  their  own  personal  convenience  to 
her.  They  used  to  leave  the  child  alone,  for  the  greater  part 


18  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE :    JOURNEY'S  END 

of  the  day,  to  gratify  her  thousand  and  one  fancies.  She  had 
plenty  of  time  for  dreaming,  and  she  wasted  none  of  it.  She 
was  precocious  and  quick  to  grasp  at  incautious  remarks  let 
fall  in  her  presence — (for  her  parents  were  never  very  guarded 
in  what  they  said), — and  when  she  was  six  years  old  she  used 
to  tell  her  dolls  love-stories,  the  characters  in  which  were  hus- 
band, wife,  and  lover.  It  goes  without  saying  that  she  saw 
no  harm  in  it.  Directly  she  began  to  perceive  a  shade  of  feeling 
underlying  the  words  it  was  all  over  for  the  dolls:  she  kept 
her  stories  to  herself.  There  was  in  her  a  strain  of  innocent 
sensuality,  which  rang  out  in  the  distance  like  the  sound  of 
invisible  bells,  over  there,  over  there,  on  the  other  side  of  the 
horizon.  She  did  not  know  what  it  was.  Sometimes  it  would 
come  wafted  on  the  wind :  it  came  she  did  not  know  from 
whence,  and  wrapped  her  round  and  made  the  blood  mount  to 
her  cheeks,  and  she  would  lose  her  breath  in  the  fear  and 
pleasure  of  it,  She  could  not  understand  it.  And  then  it 
would  disappear  as  strangely  as  it  had  come.  There  was  never 
another  sound.  Hardly  more  than  a  faint  buzzing,  an  imper- 
ceptible resonance,  fainter  and  fainter,  in  the  blue  air.  Only 
she  knew  that  it  was  yonder,  on  the  other  side  of  the  mountain, 
and  thither  she  must  go,  go  as  soon  as  possible :  for  there  lay 
happiness.  Ah !  If  only  she  could  reach  it !  .  .  . 

In  the  meanwhile,  until  she  should  reach  that  land  of  happi- 
ness, she  wove  strange  dreams  of  what  she  would  find  there. 
For  the  chief  occupation  of  the  child's  mind  was  guessing  at 
its  nature.  She  had  a  friend  of  her  own  age,  Simone  Adam, 
with  whom  she  used  often  to  discuss  these  great  subjects.  Each 
brought  to  bear  on  them  the  light  of  her  twelve  years'  experience, 
conversations  overheard  and  stolen  reading.  On  tip-toe,  cling- 
ing to  the  crannies  in  the  stones,  the  two  little  girls  strained 
to  peer  over  the  old  Avail  which  hid  the  future  from  them.  But 
it  was  all  in  vain,  and  it  was  idle  for  them  to  pretend  that 
they  could  see  through  the  chinks :  they  could  see  nothing  at  all. 
They  were  both  a  mixture  of  innocence,  poetic  salaciousness, 
and  Parisian  irony.  They  used  to  say  the  most  outrageous  tilings 
without  knowing  it,  and  they  were  always  making  mountains 
out  of  molehills.  Jacqueline,  who  was  always  prying,  without 
anybody  to  find  fault  with  her,  used  to  burrow  in  all  her 


LOVE  AND  FRIENDSHIP  19 

father's  books.  Fortunately,  she  was  protected  from  coming 
to  any  harm  by  her  very  innocence  and  her  own  young,  healthy 
instincts :  an  unduly  described  scene  or  a  coarse  word  disgusted 
her  at  once:  she  would  drop  the  book  at  once,  and  she  passed 
through  the  most  infamous  company,  like  a  frightened  cat 
through  puddles  of  dirty  water, — without  so  much  as  a  splash. 

As  a  rule,  novels  did  not  attract  her :  they  were  too  precise, 
too  dry.  But  books  of  poetry  used  to  make  her  heart  flutter 
with  emotion  and  hope  of  finding  the  key  to  the  riddle, — love- 
poems,  of  course.  They  coincided  to  a  certain  extent  with  her 
childish  outlook  on  things.  The  poets  did  not  see  things  as 
they -were,  they  imagined  them  through  the  prism  of  desire  or 
regret :  they  seemed,  like  herself,  to  be  peering  through  the 
chinks  of  the  old  wall.  But  they  knew  much  more,  they  knew 
all  the  things  which  she  was  longing  to  know,  and  clothed  them 
with  sweet,  mysterious  words,  which  she  had  to  unravel  with 
infinite  care  to  find  ...  to  find  .  .  .  Ah !  She  could  find 
nothing,  but  she  was  always  sure  that  she  was  on  the  very  brink 
of  finding  it.  ... 

Their  curiosity  was  indomitable.  They  would  thrill  as  they 
whispered  verses  of  Alfred  do  Mussct  and  Sully  Frudhomme, 
into  which  they  read  abyss  on  abyss  of  perversity:  they  used 
to  copy  them  out,  and  ask  each  other  about  the  hidden  meanings 
of  passages,  which  generally  contained  none.  These  little 
women  of  thirteen,  who  knew  nothing  of  love,  used,  in  their 
innocent  effrontery,  to  discuss,  half  in  jest,  half  in  earnest,  love 
and  the  sweets  of  love:  and,  in  school,  under  the  fatherly  eye 
of  the  master — a  very  polite  and  mild  old  gentleman — verses 
like  the  following,  which  he  confiscated  one  day,  when  they 
made  him  gasp : 

"Let,  oh!  let  me  clasp  you  in  my  arms, 
And  in  your  kisses  drink  insensate  love 
Drop  by  drop  in  one  long  draught.  ..." 

They  attended  lectures  at  a  fashionable  and  very  prosperous 
school,  the  teachers  of  which  were  Masters  of  Art  of  the 
University.  There  they  found  material  for  their  sentimental 
aspirations.  Almost  all  the  girls  were  in  love  with  their  mas- 
ters. If  they  were  young  and  not  too  ugly,  that  was  quite 


20  JEAX-OHRTSTOPIIE:    JOURNEY'S  END 

enough  for  thorn  to  make  havoc  of  their  pupils'  hearts— who 
would,  work  like  angels  to  please  their  sultan.  And  they  would 
weep  when  he  gave  them  bad  marks  in  their  examinations: 
though  they  did  not  care  when  anybody  else  did  the  same. 
If  he  praised  them,  they  would  blush  and  go  pale  by  turns, 
and  gaze  at  him  coquettishly  in  gratitude.  And  if  he  called 
them  aside  to  give  them  advice  or  pay  them  a  compliment,  they 
were  in  Paradise.  There  was  no  need  for  him  to  be  an  eagle 
to  win  their  favor.  When  the  gymnastic  instructor  took 
Jacqueline  in  his  arms  to  lift  her  up  to  the  trapeze,  she  would 
be  in  ecstasies.  And  what  furious  emulation  there  was  between 
them!  How  coaxingly  and  with  what  humility  they  would 
make  eyes  at  the  master  to  attract  his  attention  from  a  pre- 
sumptuous rival !  At  lectures,  when  lie  opened,  his  lips  to 
speak,  pens  and  pencils  would  he  hastily  produced  to  take  down 
what  he  said.  They  made  no  attempt  to  understand:  the  chief 
thing  was  not' to  lose  a  syllable.  And  while  they  went  on  writing 
and  writing  without  ceasing,  with  stealthy  glances  to  take  in 
their  idol's  play  of  expression  and  gestures,  Jacqueline  and 
Simone  would  whisper  to  each  other: 

"  Do  you  think  he  would  look  nice  in  a  tie  with  blue  spots?" 
Then  they  had  a  chromo-litliographic  ideal,  based  on  romantic 
and  fashionable  books  of  verses,  and  poetic  fashion-plates, — 
they  fell  in  love  with  actors,  virtuosi,  authors,  dead  and  alive — 
Mounet- Sully.  Samain,  Debussy, — they  would  exchange  glances 
with  young  men  at  concerts,  or  in  a  drawing-room,  or  in  the 
street,  and  at  once  begin  to  weave1  fanciful  and  passionate  love- 
affairs, — they  could  not  he!])  always  wanting  to  fall  in  love,  to 
have  their  lives  filled  with  a  love-affair,  to  find  some  excuse 
for  being  in  love.  Jacqueline  and  Simone  used  to  confide  every- 
thing to  each  other:  proof  positive  that  they  did  not  feel  any- 
thing much  :  it  was  the  best  sort  of  preventive  to  keep  them 
from  ever  having  any  deep  feeling.  On  the  other  hand,  it 
became  a  sort  of  chronic  illness  with  them:  they  were  the  first 
to  laugh  at  it,  but  they  used  lovingly  to  cultivate  it.  They 
excited  each  other.  Simone  was  more  romantic  and  more 
cautious,  and  used  to  invent  wilder  stories.  'But  Jacqueline, 
being  more  sincere  and  more  ardent,  came  nearer  to  realizing 
them.  She  was  twenty  times  on  the  brink  of  the  most  hopeless 


LOVE  AXD  FRIENDSHIP  21 

folly. — However,  she  did  not  commit  herself,  as  is  the  way  with 
young  people.  There  are  times  when  these  poor  little  crazy 
creatures — (such  as  we  have  all  been) — are  within  an  ace,  some 
of  suicide,  others  of  flinging  themselves  into  the  arms  of  the 
first  man  who  comes  along.  Only,  thank  God,  almost  all  of 
them  stop  short  at  that.  Jacqueline  wrote  countless  rough 
drafts  of  passionate  letters  to  men  whom  she  hardly  knew  by 
sight :  but  she  never  sent  any  of  them,  except  one  enthusiastic 
letter,  unsigned,  to  an  ugly,  vulgar,  selfish  critic,  who  was 
as  cold-hearted  as  he  was  narrow-minded.  She  fell  in  love 
with  him  over  a  few  lines  in  which  she  had  discovered  a  rare 
wealth  of  sensibility.  She  was  fired  also  by  a  great  actor,  who 
lived  near  her:  whenever  she  passed  his  door  she  used  to  say 
to  herself: 

"Shall  I  go  in?" 

And  once  she  made  so  bold  as  to  go  up  to  the  door  of  his 
flat.  When  she  found  herself  there,  she  turned  and  fled.  What 
could  she  have  talked  to  him  about?  She  had  nothing,  nothing 
at  all  to  say  to  him.  She  did  not  love  him.  And  she  knew  it. 
In  the  greater  part  of  her  folly  she  was  deceiving  herself.  And 
for  the  rest  it  was  the  old,  old,  delicious,  stupid  need  of  being 
in  love.  As  Jacqueline  was  naturally  intelligent,  she  knew  that 
quite  well,  and  it  kept  her  from  making  a  fool  of  herself.  A 
fool  who  knows  his  folly  is  worth  two  who  don't. 

She  went  out  a  good  deal.  There  were  many  young  men 
who  felt  her  charm,  and  more  tha:i  one  of  them  was  in  love 
with  her.  She  did  not  care  what  harm  she  did.  A  prettv  girl 
makes  a  cruel  game  of  love.  It  seems  to  her  quite  natural  that 
she  should  be  loved,  and  never  considers  that  she  owes  anything 
to  those  who  love  her:  she  is  apt  to  believe  that  her  lover  is 
happy  enough  in  loving  her.  It  must  be  said,  bv  way  of  excuse. 
that  she  has  no  idea  of  what  love  is.  although  she  thinks  of 
nothing  else  all  day  long.  One  is  inclined  to  think  that  a  young 
girl  in  society,  brought  up  in  the  hot-house  atmosphere  of  a 
great  town,  would  be  more  precocious  than  a  count  rv  girl:  but 
the  opposite  is  the  case.  Her  roadimv  and  conversation  have 
made  her  obsessed  by  love,  so  obsessed  that  in  her  idle  life  it 
often  borders  on  mania:  and  sometimes  it  happens  that  she  has 
read  the  play  beforehand,  and  knows  it  word  for  word  by  heart 


22  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE:    JOURNEY'S  END 

But  she  never  feels  it.  In  love,  as  in  art,  it  is  useless  to  read 
what  others  have  said :  we  can  but  say  what  we  feel :  and  those 
who  make  haste  to  speak  before  they  have  anything  to  say  are 
as  likely  as  not  to  say  nothing. 

Jacqueline,  like  most  young  people,  lived  in  an  atmosphere 
clouded  by  the  dust  of  the  feelings  of  others,  which,  while  it 
kept  her  in  a  perpetual  fever,  with  her  hands  burning,  and  her 
throat  dry,  and  her  e}res  sore,  prevented  her  seeing  anything. 
She  thought  she  knew  everything.  It  was  not  that  she  lacked 
the  wish  to  know.  She  read  and  listened.  She  had  picked  up 
a  deal  of  information,  here  and  there,  in  scraps,  from  conversa- 
tion and  books.  She  even  tried  to  read  what  was  written  in 
herself.  She  was  much  better  than  the  world  in  which  she 
lived,  for  she  was  more  sincere. 

There  was  one  woman  who  had  a  good  influence — only  too 
brief — over  her.  This  was  a  sister  of  her  father's,  a  woman 
of  between  forty  and  fifty,  who  had  never  married.  Tall,  with 
regular  features,  though  sad  and  lacking  in  beauty.  Marthe 
Langeais  was  always  dressed  in  black:  she  had  a  sort  of  stiff 
distinction  of  feature  and  movement :  she  spoke  very  little,  and 
she  had  a  deep  voice,  almost  like  a  man's.  But  for  the  clear 
light  in  her  intelligent  gray  eyes  and  the  kind  smile  on  her 
sad  lips  she  would  have  passed  unnoticed. 

She  only  appeared  at  the  Langeais'  on  certain  days,  when 
they  were  alone.  Langeais  had  a  great  respect  for  her,  though 
she  bored  him.  Madame  Langeais  made  no  attempt  to  disguise 
from  her  husband  how  little  pleasure  his  sister's  visits  gave 
her.  However,  they  faced  their  duty,  and  had  her  to  dinner 
once  a  week,  and  they  did  not  let  it  appear  too  glaringly  that 
they  regarded  it  as  a  duty.  Langeais  used  to  talk  about  himself, 
which  she  always  found  interesting.  Madame  Langeais  would 
think  of  something  else,  and,  as  a  matter  of  habit,  smile  affably 
when  she  was  spoken  to.  The  dinner  always  went  off  very 
well,  and  she  was  invariably  polite.  Sometimes,  even,  she  would 
be  effusively  affectionate  when  her  tactful  sister-in-law  went 
away  earlier  than  she  had  hoped :  and  Madame  Langeais's 
charming  smile  would  be  most  radiant  when  she  had  any 
particularly  pleasant  memories  to  think  of.  Marthe  saw  through 


LOVE  AND  FRIENDSHIP  23 

it  all :  very  little  escaped  her  eyes :  and  she  saw  many  things 
in  her  brother's  house  which  shocked  and  distressed  her.  But 
she  never  let  it  appear :  what  was  the  good  ?  She  loved  her 
brother,  and  had  been  proud  of  his  cleverness  and  success,  like 
the  rest  of  the  family,  who  had  not  thought  the  triumph  of  the 
eldest  son  too  dear  a  price  to  pay  for  their  poverty.  She,  at 
least,  had  preserved  her  independence  of  opinion.  She  was  as 
clever  as  he  was,  and  of  a  liner  moral  fiber,  more  virile— (as 
the  women  of  France  so  often  arc;  they  are  much  superior  to 
the  men), — and  she  knew  him  through  and  through:  and  when 
he  asked  her  advice  she  used  to  give  it  frankly.  But  for  a  long 
time  he  had  not  asked  it  of  her !  He  found  it  more  prudent 
not  to  know,  or — (for  he  knew  the  truth  as  much  as  she  did), — 
to  shut  his  eyes.  She  was  proud,  and  drew  aside.  Nobody 
ever  troubled  to  look  into  her  inward  life,  and  it  suited  the 
others  to  ignore  her.  She  lived  alone,  went  out  very  little,  and 
had  only  a  few  not  very  intimate  friends.  It  would  have  been 
very  easy  to  her  to  turn  her  brother's  influence  and  her  own 
talents  to  account :  but  she  did  not  do  so.  She  had  written  a  few 
articles  for  the  leading  reviews  in  Paris,  historical  and  literary 
portraits,  which  had  attracted  some  attention  by  their  sober, 
just,  and  striking  style.  But  she  had  gone  no  farther.  She 
might  have  formed  interesting  friendships  with  certain  distin- 
guished men  and  women,  who  had  shown  a  desire  to  know  her, 
whom  also  she  would,  perhaps,  have  been  glad  to  know.  She 
did  not  respond  to  their  advances.  Though  she  had  a  reserved 
seat  for  a  theater  when  the  program  contained  music  that  she 
loved,  she  did  not  go :  and  though  she  had  the  opportunity  of 
traveling  to  a  place  where  she  knew  that  she  would  iind  much 
pleasure,  she  preferred  to  stay  at  home.  Her  nature  was  a 
curious  compound  of  stoicism  and  neurasthenia,  which,  however, 
in  no  wise  impaired  the  integrity  of  her  ideas.  Her  life  was 
impaired,  but  not  her  mind.  An  old  sorrow,  known  only  to 
herself,  had  left  its  mark  on  her  heart.  And  even  more  pro- 
found, even  less  suspected — unknown  to  herself,  was  the  secret 
illness  which  had  begun  to  prey  upon  her. —  However,  the 
Langeais  saw  only  the  clear '  expression  of  her  eyes,  which 
sometimes  made  them  feel  embarrassed. 

Jacqueline   used   to   take  hardly   any   notice   of   her   aunt   in 


24  JEAN-CHEISTOPIIE:    JOURNEY'S  END 

the  days  when  she  was  careless  and  gay — which  was  her  usual 
condition  vihen  she  was  a  child.  But  when  she  reached  the 
age  at  which  there  occurs  a  mysterious  change  and  growth  in 
body  and  soul,  which  bring  agony,  disgust,  terror,  and  fearful 
moments  of  depression  in  their  train,  and  moments  of  absurd, 
horrible  dizziness,  which,  happily,  do  not  last,  though  they  make 
their  victim  feel  at  the  point  of  death, — the  child,  sinking  and 
not  daring  to  cry  for  help,  found  only  her  Aunt  Marthe  standing 
by  her  side  and  holding  out  her  hand.  Ah !  the  others  were 
so  far  away !  Her  father  and  mother  were  as  strangers  to  her, 
with  their  selfish  affection,  too  satisfied  with  themselves  to 
think  of  the  small  troubles  of  a  doll  of  fourteen!  But  her 
aunt  guessed  them,  and  comforted  her.  She  did  not  say  any- 
thing. She  only  smiled:  across  the  table  she  exchanged  a 
kindly  glance  with  Jacqueline,  who  felt  that  her  aunt  under- 
stood her,  and  she  took  refuge  by  her  side.  Marthe  stroked 
Jacqueline's  head  and  kissed  her.  and  spoke  no  word. 

The  little  girl  trusted  her.  When  her  heart  was  heavy  she 
would  go  and  see  har  friend,  whc  would  know  and  understand 
as  soon  as  she  arrived;  she  would  be  met  always  with  the  same 
indulgent  eyes,  which  would  infect  her  with  a  little  of  their 
own  tranquillity.  She  iold  her  aunt  hardly  anything  about  her 
imaginary  love-affairs:  she  was  ashamed  of  them,  and  felt  that 
there  was  no  truth  in  them,  But  she  confessed  all  the  vague, 
profound  uneasiness  that  was  in  her,  and  was  more  real,  her 
only  real  trouble. 

"  Aunt,"  she  would  sigh  sometimes,  "  I  do  so  long  to  be 
happy !  " 

"Poor  child!"  Marthe  would  say,  with  a  smile. 

Jacqueline  would  lay  her  head  in  her  aunt's  lap,  and  kiss 
her  hands  as  they  caressed  her  face : 

"Do  you  think  I  shall  be  happy?  Aunt,  tell  me;  do  you 
think  I  shall  be  happy?" 

"  I  don't  know,  my  dear.  It  rather  depends  on  yourself,  .  .  » 
People  can  always  be  happy  if  they  want  to  be." 

Jacqueline  was  incredulous. 

''Are  you  happy?" 

Marthe  smiled  sadly; 

"  Yes." 


LOVE  AND  FRIENDSHIP  25 

"No?     Really?     Arc  you  happy ?" 

"  Don't  you  believe  it  ?  " 

"Yes.     But   ..." 

Jacqueline  stopped  short. 

"  What  is  it  ?  " 

"  I  want  to  be  happy,  but  not  like  you." 

"  Poor  child  !      I  hope  so,  too !  "  said  Marthe. 

"  No."  Jacqueline  went  on  shaking  her  head  decisively. 
"But  I  couldn't  be." 

"  I  should  not  bave  thought  it  possible,  either.  Life  teaches 
one  to  be  able  to  do  many  things." 

"  Oh !  But  I  don't  want  to  learn,"  protested  Jacqueline 
anxiously.  "  I  want  to  be  happy  in  the  way  1  want." 

"  You  would  find  it  very  hard  to  say  how !  " 

"  I  know  quite  well  what  I  want." 

She  wanted  many  things.  But  when  it  came  to  saying  what 
they  were,  she  could  only  mention  one,  which  recurred  again 
and  again,  like  a  refrain: 

"  First  of  all,  I  want  some  one  to  love  me." 

Marthe  went  on  sewing  without  a  word.  After  a  moment 
she  said : 

"  What  good  will  it  be  to  you  if  you  do  not  love?" 

Jacqueline  was  taken  aback,  and  exclaimed: 

"  But,  aunt,  of  course  I  only  mean  some  one  1  loved !  All 
the  rest  don't  count." 

"And  suppose  you  did  not  love  anybody?" 

"The  idea!     One  loves  always,  always." 

Marthe  shook  her  head  doubtfully. 

"  No,"  she  said.  "  We  don't  love.  We  want  to  love.  Love 
is  the  greatest  gift  of  God.  Pray  to  Him  that  He  may  grant 
it  you." 

"But  suppose  my  love  is  not  returned?" 

"  Even  if  your  love  is  not  retained,  you  will  be  all  the 
happier." 

Jacqueline's  face  fell:  she  pouted   a   little: 

"  1  don't  want  that,"  she  said.  "  It  wouldn't  give  me  any 
pleasure." 

Marthe  laughed  indulgently,  looked  at  Jacqueline,  sighed, 
and  then  went  on  with  her  work. 


26  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE:    JOURNEY'S  END 

"  Poor  child !  "  she  said  once  more. 

"  Why  do  you  keep  on  saying:  '  Poor  child '?  "  asked  Jacque- 
line uneasily.  "  I  don't  want  to  be  a  poor  child.  I  want — I 
want  so  much  to  be  happy !  " 

"  That  is  why  I  say  :  '  Poor  child  ! ' : 

Jacqueline  sulked  for  a  little.  But  it  did  not  last  long. 
Marthe  laughed  at  her  so  kindly  that  she  was  disarmed.  She 
kissed  her,  pretending  to  be  angry.  But  in  their  hearts  children 
of  that  age  are  secretly  flattered  by  predictions  of  suffering  in 
later  life,  which  is  so  far  away.  When  it  is  afar  off  there  is  a 
halo  of  poetry  round  sorrow,  and  we  dread  nothing  so  much 
as  a  dull,  even  life. 

Jacqueline  did  not  notice  that  her  aunt's  face  was  growing 
paler  and  paler.  She  observed  that  Marthe  was  going  out  less 
and  less,  but  she  attributed  it  to  her  stay-at-home  disposition, 
about  which  she  used  often  to  tease  her.  Once  or  twice,  Avhen 
she  called,  she  had  met  the  doctor  coming  out.  She  had  asked 
her  aunt: 

"  Are  you  ill  ?  " 

Marthe  replied : 

"It's  nothing." 

But  now  she  had  even  given  up  her  weekly  dinner  at  the 
Langeais'.  Jacqueline  was  hurt,  and  went  and  reproached 
her  bitterly. 

"  My  dear,"  said  Marthe  gently.  "  I  am  rather  tired." 

But  Jacqueline  would  not  listen  to  anything.  That  was  a 
poor  sort  of  excuse ! 

"  It  can't  be  very  exhausting  for  you  to  come  to  our  house 
for  a  couple  of  hours  a  week!  You  don't  love  me,"  she  would 
say.  "  You  love  nothing  but  your  own  fireside." 

But  when  at  home  she  proudly  told  them  how  she  had  scolded 
her  aunt,  Langeais  cut  her  short  with  : 

"Let  your  aunt  be!  Don't  you  know  that  the  poor  creature 
is  very  ill !  " 

Jacqueline  grew  pale:  and  in  a  trembling  voice  she  asked 
what  was  the  matter  with  her  aunt.  They  tried  not  to  tell 
her.  Finally,  she  found  out  that  Marthe  was  dying  of  cancer: 
she  had  had  it  for  some  months. 

For  some  days  Jacqueline  lived  in  a   state   of  terror.     She 


LOVE  AXD  FRIENDSHIP  27 

was  comforted  a  little  when  she  saw  her  aunt.  Marthe  was 
mercifully  not  suffering  any  great  pain.  She  still  had  her 
tranquil  smile,  which  in  her  thin  transparent  face  seemed  to 
shine  like  the  light  of  an  inward  lamp.  Jacqueline  said  to 
herself : 

"  Xo.  It  is  impossible.  They  must  be  mistaken.  She  would 
not  be  so  calm.  ..." 

She  went  on  with  the  talc  of  her  little  confidences,  to  which 
Marthe  listened  with  more  interest  than  heretofore.  Only, 
sometimes,  in  the  middle  of  a  conversation,  her  aunt  would  leave 
the  room,  without  giving  any  sign  to  show  that  she  was  in 
pain :  and  she  would  not  return  until  the  attack  was  over,  and 
her  face  had  regained  its  serenity.  She  did  not  like  anybody 
to  refer  to  her  condition,  and  tried  to  hide  it:  she  had  a  horror 
of  the  disease  that  held  her  in  its  grip,  and  would  not  think 
of  it:  all  her  efforts  were  directed  towards  preserving  the  peace 
of  her  last  months.  The  end  came  sooner  than  it  was  expected. 
Very  soon  she  saw  nobody  but  Jacqueline.  Then  Jacqueline's 
visits  had  to  be  curtailed.  Then  came  the  day  of  parting. 
Marthe  was  lying  in  her  bed,  which  she  had  not  loft  for  some 
weeks,  when  she  took  a  tender  farewell  of  her  little  friend 
with  a  few  gentle,  comforting  words.  And  then  she  shut  her- 
self up,  to  die. 

Jacqueline  passed  through  months  of  despair.  Mart-he's  death 
came  at  the  same  time  as  the  very  worst  hours  of  her  moral 
distress,  against  which  Marthe  had  been  the  only  person  who 
could  help  her.  She  was  horribly  deserted  and  alone.  She 
needed  the  support  of  a  religion.  There  was  apparently  no 
reason  why  she  should  have  lacked  that  support :  she  had  always 
been  made  to  practise  the  duties  of  religion:  her  mother  prac- 
tised them  regularly.  l>ut  that  was  just  the  dilliculty:  her 
mother  practised  them,  but  her  Aunt  Marthe  did  not.  And 
how  was  she  to  avoid  comparison?  The  eves  of  a  child  are 
susceptible  to  many  untruths,  to  which  her  elders  never  give  a 
thought,  and  children  notice  many  weaknesses  and  contradic- 
tions. Jacqueline  noticed  that  her  mother  and  those  who  said 
that  they  believed  had  as  much  fear  of  death  as  though  there 
had  been  no  faith  in  them.  Xo :  religion  was  not  a  strong 
enough  support.  .  .  .  And  in  addition  there  were  certain 


28     JEAN-CHKISTOPHE  :  JOURNEY'S  END 

personal  experiences,  feelings  of  revolt  and  disgust,  a  tactless 
confessor  who  had  hurt  her.  .  .  .  She  went  on  practising, 
but  Avithout  faith,  just  as  she  paid  calls,  because  she  had  been 
well  brought  up.  Keligion,  like  the  world,  seemed  to  her  to 
be  utterly  empty.  Her  only  stay  was  the  memory  of  the  dead 
woman,  in  which  she  was  wrapped  up.  She  had  many  grounds 
for  self-reproach  in  her  treatment  of  her  aunt,  whom  in  her 
childish  selfishness  she  had  often  neglected,  while  now  she  called 
to  her  in  vain.  She  idealized  her  image:  and  the  great  example 
which  Martha  had  left  upon  her  mind  of  a  profound  life  of 
meditation  helped  to  fill  her  with  distaste  for  the  life  of  the 
world,  in  which  there  was  no  truth  or  serious  purpose.  She 
saw  nothing  but  its  hypocrisy,  and  those  amiable  compromises, 
which  at  any  other  time  would  have  amused  her,  now  revolted 
her.  She  was  in  a  condition  of  moral  hypersensitiveness,  and 
everything  hurt  her :  her  conscience  was  raw.  Her  eyes  were 
opened  to  certain  facts  which  hitherto  had  escaped  her  in  her 
heedlessness. 

One  afternoon  she  was  in  the  drawing-room  with  her  mother. 
Madame  Langeais  was  receiving  a  caller, — a  fashionable  painter, 
a  good-looking,  pompous  man,  who  was  often  at  the  house,  but 
not  on  terms  of  intimacy.  Jacqueline  had  a  feeling  that  she 
was  in  the  way,  but  that  only  made  her  more  determined  to 
stay.  Madame  Langeais  was  not  very  well;  she  had  a  headache, 
which  made  her  a  little  dull,  or  perhaps  it  was  one  of  those 
headache  preventives  which  the  ladies  of  to-day  eat  like  sweets, 
so  that  they  have  the  result  of  completely  emptying  their  pretty 
heads,  and  she  was  not  very  guarded  in  what  she  said.  In 
the  course  of  the  conversation  she  thoughtlessly  called  her 
visitor: 

"My  dear   ..." 

She  noticed  the  slip  at  once.  He  did  not  flinch  any  more 
than  she,  and  they  went  on  talking  politely.  Jacqueline,  who 
was  pouring  out  tea,  was  so  amazed  that  she  almost  dropped 
a  cup.  She  had  a  reeling  that  they  were  exchanging  a  meaning 
smile  behind  her  hack.  She  turned  and  intercepted  their  privy 
looks,  which  were  immediately  disguised. — The  discovery  upset 
her  completely.  Though  she  had  been  brought  up  with  the 
utmost  freedom,  and  had  often  heard  and  herself  laughed  and 


LOVE  AND  FRIENDSHIP  29 

talked  about  such  intrigues,  it  hurt  her  so  that  she  could  hardly 
bear  it  when  she  saw  that  her  mother  .  .  .  Her  mother:  no, 
it  was  not  the  same  thing!  .  .  .  With  her  habitual  exaggera- 
tion she  rushed  from  one  extreme  to  the  other.  Till  then  she 
had  suspeeted  nothing.  Thereafter  she  suspected  everything. 
Implacably  she  read  new  meanings  into  this  and  that  detail  of 
her  mother's  behavior  in  the  past.  And  no  doubt  Madame 
Langeais's  frivolity  furnished  only  too  many  grounds  for  her 
suppositions :  but  Jacqueline  added  to  them.  She  longed  to 
be  more  intimate  with  her  father,  who  had  always  been  nearer 
to  her,  his  quality  of  mind  having  a  great  attraction  for  her. 
She  longed  to  love  him  more,  and  to  pity  him.  But  Langeais 
did  not  seem  to  stand  in  much  need  of  pity:  and  a  suspicion, 
more  dreadful  even  than  the  first,  crossed  the  girl's  heated  imagi- 
nation,— that  her  father  knew  nothing,  but  that  it  suited  him 
to  know  nothing,  and  that,  so  long  as  he  were  allowed  to  go 
his  own  way,  he  did  not  care. 

Then  Jacqueline  felt  that  she  was  lost.  She  dared  not  despise 
them.  She  loved  them.  But  she  could  not  go  on  living  in 
their  house.  Her  friendship  with  Sirnone  Adam  was  no  help 
at  all.  She  judged  severely  the  foibles  of  her  former  boon 
companion.  She  did  not  spare  herself:  everything  tlu't  was 
ugly  and  mediocre  in  herself  made  her  suffer  terribly :  she  clung 
desperately  to  the  pure  memory  of  Marthe.  But  that  memory 
was  fading:  she  felt  that  the  stream  of  time,  one  day  following 
another,  would  cover  it  up  and  wash  away  all  trace  of  ii.  And 
then  there  would  be  an  end  of  everything:  she  would  be  like 
the  rest,  sunk  deep  in  the  mire.  .  .  .  Oh!  if  she  could  only 
escape  fjiom  such  a  world,  at  any  cost !  Save  me !  Save 
me !  .  .  . 

It  was  just  when  she  was  in  this  fever  of  despair,  feeling  her 
utter  destitution,  filled  with  passionate  disgust  and  mystic  ex- 
pectancy, holding  out  her  arms  to  an  unknown  saviour,  that 
she  met  Olivier. 

Madame  Langeais.  of  course,  invited  f'hristmihe.  who.  that 
winter,  was  the  musician  of  the  hour.  Christophe  accepted,  and, 
as  usual,  did  not  take  any  trouble  to  make  himself  pleasant. 
However,  Madame  Langeais  thought  him  charming: — he  could 


30  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  :    JOURNEY'S  END 

do  anything  he  liked,  as  long  as  he  was  the  fashion :  everybody 
would  go  on  thinking  him  charming,  while  the  fashion  ran  its 
allotted  course  of  a  few  months. — Jacqueline,  who,  for  the  time 
being,  was  outside  the  current,  was  not  so  charmed  with  him: 
the  mere  fact  that  Christophe  was  belauded  by  certain  people 
was  enough  to  make  her  diffident  about  him.  Besides,  Chris- 
tophe's  bluntness,  and  his  loud  way  of  speaking,  and  his  noisy 
gaiety,  offended  her.  In  her  then  state  of  mind  the  joy  of 
living  seemed  a  coarse  thing  to  her:  her  eyes  were  fixed  on  the 
twilight  melancholy  of  the  soul,  and  she  fancied  that  she  loved 
it.  There  was  too  much  sunlight  in  Christophe. 

But  when  she  talked  to  him  he  told  her  about  Olivier :  he 
always  had  to  bring  his  friend  into  every  pleasant  thing  that 
happened  to  him:  it  would  have  seemed  to  him  a  selfish  use  of 
a  new  friendship  if  he  had  not  set  aside  a  part  of  it  for  Olivier. 
He  told  Jacqueline  so  much  about  him,  that  she  felt  a  secret 
emotion  in  thus  catching  a  glimpse  of  a  soul  so  much  in  accord- 
ance with  her  ideas,  and  made  her  mother  invite  him  too. 
Olivier  did  not  accept  at  first,  so  that  Christophe  and  Jacqueline 
were  left  to  complete  their  imaginary  portrait  of  him  at  their 
leisure,  and,  of  course,  he  was  found  to  be  very  like  it  when 
at  last  he  made  up  his  mind  to  go. 

He  went,  but  hardly  spoke  a  word.  He  did  not  need  to 
speak.  His  intelligent  eyes,  his  smile,  his  refined  manners, 
the  tranquillity  that  was  in  and  inundated  by  his  personality, 
could  not  but  attract  Jacqueline.  Christophe,  by  contrast,  stood 
as  a  foil  to  Olivier's  shining  qualities.  She  did  not  show  any- 
thing, for  she  was  fearful  of  the  feeling  stirring  in  her:  she 
confined  herself  to  talking  to  Christophe,  but  it  was  always 
about  Olivier.  Christophe  was  only  too  happy  to  talk  about  his 
friend,  and  did  not  notice  Jacqueline's  pleasure  in  the  subject 
of  their  conversation.  He  used  to  talk  about  himself,  and  she 
would  listen  agreeably  enough,  though  she  was  not  in  the  least 
interested:  then,  without  seeming  to  do  so,  she  would  bring 
the  conversation  round  to  those  episodes  in  his  life  which  in- 
cluded Olivier. 

Jacqueline's  pretty  ways  were  dangerous  for  a  man  who  was 
not  on  his  guard.  Without  knowing  it  Christophe  fell  in 
love  with  her:  it  gave  him  pleasure  to  go  to  the  house  again; 


LOVE  AXD  FRIENDSHIP  31 

he  took  pains  with  his  dress :  and  a  feeling,  which  he  well  knew, 
began  to  tinge  all  his  ideas  with  its  tender  smiling  languor. 
Olivier  was  in  love  with  her  too,  and  had  been  from  their  first 
meeting:  he  thought  she  had  no  regard  for  him,  and  suffered 
in  silence.  Christophe  made  his  state  even  worse  by  telling 
him  joyously,  as  they  left  the  Langeais'  house,  what  he  had 
said  to  Jacqueline  and  what  she  had  said  to  him.  The  idea 
never  occurred  to  Olivier  that  Jacqueline  should  like  him. 
Although,  by  dint  of  living  with  Christophe,  he  had  become 
more  optimistic,  he  still  distrusted  himself :  he  could  not  believe 
that  any  woman  would  ever  love  him,  for  he  saw  himself  too 
clearly,  and  with  eyes  that  saw  too  truthfully : — what  man  is 
there  would  be  worthy  to  be  loved,  if  it  were  for  his  merits, 
and  not  by  the  magic  and  indulgence  of  love? 

One  evening  when  he  had  been  invited  to  the  Langeais',  he 
felt  that  it  would  make  him  too  unhappy  to  feel  Jacqueline's 
indifference :  he  said  that  he  was  too  tired  and  told  Christophe 
to  go  without  him.  Christophe  suspected  nothing,  and  went  off 
in  high  delight.  In  his  naive  egoism  he  thought  only  of  the 
pleasure  of  having  Jacqueline  all  to  himself.  He  was  not  suf- 
fered to  rejoice  for  long.  When  she  heard  that  Olivier  was  not 
coming,  Jacqueline  at  once  became  peevish,  irritable,  bored,  and 
dispirited :  she  lost  all  desire  to  please :  she  did  not  listen  to 
Christophe,  and  answered  him  at  random :  and  he  had  the 
humiliation  of  seeing  her  stifle  a  weary  yawn.  She  was  near 
tears.  Suddenly  she  went  away  in  the  middle  of  the  evening, 
and  did  not  appear  again. 

Christophe  went  home  discomfited.  All  the  way  home  he 
tried  to  explain  this  sudden  change  of  front :  and  the  truth 
began  dimly  to  dawn  on  him.  When  he  reached  his  rooms  he 
found  Olivier  waiting  for  him,  and  then,  with  a  would-be  in- 
different air.  Olivier  asked  him  about  the  party.  Christophe 
told  him  of  his  discomfiture,  and  he  saw  Olivier's  face  brighten 
as  he  went  on. 

"  Still  tired?  "  he  asked.     "  Why  didn't  you  go  to  bed  ?  " 

"Oh!  I'm  much  better,"  said  Olivier.  "I'm  not  the  least 
tired  now." 

"  Yes,"  said  Christophe  slyly,  "  I  fancy  it  has  done  you  a 
lot  of  good  not  going." 


32  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE :    JOURNEY'S  END 

He  looked  at  him  affectionately  and  roguishly,  and  went  away 
into  his  own  room :  and  then,  when  he  was  alone,  he  began  to 
laugh  quietly,  and  laughed  until  he  cried: 

"Little  minx!''  he  thought.  "She  was  making  a  game  of 
me!  And  he  was  deceiving  me,  too.  What  a  secret  they  made 
of  it !  " 

From  that  moment  he  plucked  out  every  personal  thought  of 
Jacqueline  from  his  heart:  and,  like  a  hroody  hen  hatching  her 
eggs,  he  hatched  the  romance  of  the  young  lovers.  Without 
seeming  to  know  their  secret,  and  without  betraying  either  to 
the  other,  he  helped  them,  though  they  never  knew  it. 

He  thought  it  his  solemn  duty  to  study  Jacqueline's  character 
to  see  if  Olivier  could  be  happy  with  her.  And,  being  very 
tactless,  he  horrified  Jacqueline  with  the  ridiculous  questions  he 
put  to  her  about  her  tastes,  her  morality,  etc.,  etc. 

"Idiot!  \Yhat  does  he  mean?"  Jacqueline  would  think 
angrily,  and  refuse  to  answer  him,  and  turn  her  back  on  him. 

And  Olivier  would  be  delighted  to  sec  Jacqueline  paying  no 
more  attention  to  Christophc.  And  Christophe  would  be  over- 
joyed at  seeing  Olivier's  happiness.  Hi?  joy  was  patent,  and 
revealed  itself  much  more  obstreperously  than  Olivier's.  And 
as  Jacqueline  could  not  explain  it.  and  never  dreamed  that 
Christophe  had  a  much  clearer  knowL  dge  of  their  love  than 
she  had  herself,  she  thought  him  unbearable:  she  could  not 
understand  ho\v  Olivier  could  be  so  infatuated  with  such  a 
vulgar,  cumbersome  friend.  Christophe  divined  her  thoughts, 
and  took  a  malicious  delight  in  infuriating  her:  then  he  would 
step  aside,  and  say  that  he  was  too  busy  to  accept  the  Langcais' 
invitations,  so  as  to  leave  Jacqueline  and  Olivier  alone  together. 

However,  he  was  not  altogether  without  anxiety  concerning 
the  future.  He  regarded  himself  as  responsible  in  a  large 
measure  for  the  marriage  that  was  in  the  making,  and  he  worried 
over  it.  For  he  had  a  fair  insight  into  Jacqueline's  character, 
and  he  was  afraid  of  many  things:  her  wealth  first  of  all.  her 
up-bringing,  her  surroundings,  and.  above  all.  her  weakness.  He 
remembered  his  old  friend  Colette.  1hoiii.yh.  no  doubt,  lie  ad- 
mitted that  Jacqueline  was  truer,  more  frank,  more  passionate: 
there  was  in  the  girl  an  ardent  aspiration  towards  a  life  of 
courage,  an  almost  heroic  desire  for  it. 


LOVE  AND  FRIENDSHIP  33 

(<  But  desiring  isn't  everything,"  thought  Christophe.  remem- 
bering a  jest  of  Diderot's:  "the  chief  thing  is  a  straight  back- 
bone." 

He  would  have  liked  to  warn  Olivier  of  the  danger.  But 
when  he  saw  him  come  hack  from  being  with  Jacqueline,  with 
his  eyes  lit  with  joy.  he  had  not  the  heart  to  speak,  and  he 
thought : 

"  The  poor  things  are  happy.    I  won't  disturb  their  happiness." 

Gradually  his  affection  for  Olivier  made  him  share  his  friend's 
confidence.  He  took  heart  of  grace,  and  at  last  began  to  believe 
that  Jacqueline  was  just  as  Olivier  saw  her  and  as  she  wished 
to  appear  in  her  own  eyes.  She  meant  so  well !  She  loved 
Olivier  for  all  the  qualities  which  made  him  different  from 
herself  and  the  world  she  lived  in:  because  he  was  poor,  because 
he  was  uncompromising  in  his  moral  ideas,  because  he  was  awk- 
ward and  shy  in  society.  Her  love  was  so  pure  and  so  whole 
that  she  longed  to  be  poor  too,  and,  sometimes,  almost  .  .  . 
yes,  almost  to  be  ugly,  so  that  she  might  be  sure  that  be  loved 
her  for  herself,  and  for  the  love  with  which  her  heart  was  so 
full,  the  love  for  which  her  heart  was  so  hungry.  .  .  . 
Ah!  Sometimes,  when  he  was  not  with  her.  she  would 
go  pale  and  her  hands  would  tremble.  She  \vould  seem 
to  scoff  at  her  emotion,  and  pretend  to  be  thinking  of  some- 
thing else,  and  to  take  no  notice  of  it.  She  would  talk 
mockingly  of  things.  But  suddenly  she  would  break  ofT,  and 
rush  away  and  shut  herself  up  in  her  room:  and  then,  with 
the  doors  locked,  and  the  curtains  drawn  <vver  the  window,  she 
would  sit  there,  with  her  knees  tight  together,  and  her  elbows 
close  against  her  sides,  and  her  arms  folded  across  her  breast, 
while  she  tried  to  repress  the  beating  of  her  heart:  she  would  sit 
there  huddled  together,  never  stirring,  hardly  breathing:  she 
dared  not  move  for  fear  lest  her  happiness  should  escape  it  she 
so  much  as  lifted  a  linger.  She  would  sit  holding  her  love  close, 
close  to  her  body  in  silence. 

And  now  Christophe  was  absolutely  determined  that  Olivier 
should  succeed  in  his  wooing.  He  fussed  round  him  like  a 
mother,  supervised  his  dressing,  presumed  to  give  him  advice 
as  to  what  he  should  wear,  and  even — (think  of  it!) — tied  his 
tie  for  him.  Olivier  bore  with  him  patiently  at  the  cost  of 


34  JEAX-CHKISTOPHE  :    JOURNEY'S  END 

having  to  retie  his  tic  on  the  stairs  when  Christophe  was  no 
longer  present.  He  smiled  inwardly,  but  he  was  touched  by 
such  great  affection.  Besides,  his  love  had  made  him  timid,  and 
he  was  not  sure  of  himself,  and  was  glad  of  Christophe's  advice. 
He  used  to  tell  him  everything  that  happened  when  lie  was  with 
Jacqueline,  and  Christophe  would  be  just  as  moved  by  it  as 
himself,  and  sometimes  at  night  he  would  lie  awake  for  hours 
trying  to  find  the  means  of  making  the  path  of  love  smoother 
for  his  friend. 

It  was  in  the  garden  of  the  Langeais'  villa,  near  Paris,  on 
the  outskirts  of  the  forest  of  Isle- Adam,  that  Olivier  and 
Jacqueline  had  the  interview  which  was  the  turning-point  in 
their  lives. 

Christophe  had  gone  down  with  his  friend,  but  he  had  found 
a  harmonium  in  the  house,  and  sat  playing  so  as  to  leave  the 
lovers  to  walk  about  the  garden  in  peace. — Truth  to  tell,  they 
did  not  wish  it.  They  were  afraid  to  be  left  alone.  Jacqueline 
was  silent  and  rather  hostile.  On  his  last  visit  Olivier  had  been 
conscious  of  a  change  in  her  manner,  a  sudden  coldness,  an 
expression  in  her  eyes  which  was  strange,  hard,  and  almost 
inimical.  It  froze  him.  He  dared  not  ask  her  for  an  explana- 
tion, for  he  was  fearful  of  hearing  cruel  words  on  the  lips  of 
the  girl  he  loved.  He  trembled  whenever  he  saw  Christophe 
leave  them,  for  it  seemed  to  him  that  his  presence  was  bis  only 
safeguard  against  the  blow  which  threatened  to  fall  upon 
him. 

It  was  not  that  Jacqueline  loved  Olivier  less.  Rather  she  was 
more  in  love  with  him,  and  it  was  that  that  made  her  hostile. 
Love,  with  which  till  then  she  had  only  played,  love,  to  which 
she  had  so  often  called,  was  there,  before  her  eyes:  she  saw  it 
gaping  before  her  like  an  abyss,  and  she  flung  back  in  terror: 
she  could  not  understand  it,  and  wondered  : 

"Why?     Why?     What  does  it  mean?" 

Then  she  would  look  at  Olivier  with  the  expression  which  so 
hurt  him.  and  think: 

"  Who  is  this  man?  " 

And  she  could  not  toll.     He  was  a  stranger. 

"Whv  do  I  love  him?" 


LOVE  AXD  FRIENDSHIP  35 

She  could  not  tell. 

"  Do  I  love  him  ?  " 

She  could  not  tell.  .  .  .  She  did  not  know:  and  yet  she 
knew  that  she  was  caught :  she  was  in  the  toils  of  love :  she 
was  on  the  point  of  losing  herself  in  love.,  losing  herself  utterly ; 
her  will,  her  independence,  her  egoism,  her  dreams  of  the  future, 
all  were  to  be  swallowed  up  by  the  monster.  And  she  would 
harden  herself  in  anger,  and  sometimes  she  would  feel  that  she 
almost  hated  Olivier. 

•They  went  to  the  very  end  of  the  garden,  into  the  kitchen- 
garden,  which  was  cut  off  from  the  lawns  by  a  hedge  of  tall 
trees.  They  sauntered  down  the  paths  bordered  on  either  side 
with  gooseberry  bushes,  with  their  clusters  of  red  and  golden 
fruit,  and  beds  of  strawberries,  the  fragrance  of  which  scented 
the  air.  It  was  June :  but  there  had  been  storms,  and  the 
weather  was  cold.  The  sky  was  gray  and  the  light  dim :  the 
low-hanging  clouds  moved  in  a  heavy  mass,  drifting  with  the 
wind,  which  blew  only  in  the  higher  air.  and  never  touched  the 
earth;  no  leaf  stirred:  but  the  air  was  verv  fresh.  Everything 

7  «  •  °    e 

was  shrouded  in  melancholy,  even  their  hearts,  swelling  with  the  \ 
grave  happiness  that  was  in  them.  And  from  the  other  end  of 
the  garden,  through  the  open  windows  of  the  ^"illa.  out  of  sight, 
there  came  the  sound  of  the  harmonium,  grinding  out  tbe 
Fugue  in  E  Flat  Minor  of  Johann  Sebastian  Bach.  They  sat 
down  on  the  coping  of  a  well,  both  pale  and  silent.  And  Olivier 
saw  tears  trickling  down  Jacqueline's  cheeks. 

"You  are  crying?"  he  murmured,  with  trembling  lips. 

And  the  tears  came  to  his  own  eyes. 

He  took  her  hand.  She  laid  her  head  on  Olivier's  shoulder. 
She  gave  up  the  struggle:  she  was  vanquished,  and  it  was  such 
sweet  comfort  to  her!  .  .  .  They  wept  silently  as  fhev  sat 
listening  to  the  music  under  the  moving  canopy  of  the  heavy 
clouds,  which  in  their  noiseless  flight  seemed  to  skim  the  tops 
of  the  trees.  They  thought  of  all  that  they  had  suffered,  and 
perhaps — who  knows? — of  all  that  they  were  to  suffer  in  the 
future.  There  are  moments  when  music  summons  forth 
all  the  sadness  woven  into  the  woof  of  a  human  being's  des- 
tiny. .  .  . 

After  a  moment  or  two  Jacqueline  dried  her  eves  and  looked 


36 


JEAX-CHRISTOPHE:    JOURNEY'S  EXD 


at  Olivier.  And  suddenly  they  kissed.  0  boundless  happiness! 
licligious  happiness!  So  sweet  arid  so  profound  that  it  is  almost 
sorrow ! 


Jacqueline  asked: 

"Was  your  sister  like  you?" 

Olivier  felt  a  sudden  pang.     lie  said  : 

"  Why  do  you  ask  me  about  her?     Did  you  know  her?  " 

She  replied: 

"  Christophe  told  me.    .    .    .      You  have  suffered?" 

Olivier  nodded  :  he  was  too  much  moved  to  speak. 

"I  have  suffered  too,"  she  said. 

She  told  him  of  the  friend  who  had  been  taken  from  her, 
her  beloved  Marthe:  and  with  her  heart  big  with  emotion  she 
told  him  how  she  had  wept,  wept  until  she  thought  she  was 
going  to  die. 

"  You  will  help  me?"  she  said,  in  a  beseeching  tone.  "You 
will  help  mo  to  live,  and  be  good,  and  to  be  a  little  like  her? 
Poor  Marthe:  you  will  love;  her  too?" 

"  We  will  love  them  both,  as  they  both  love  each  other." 

"  F  wish  they  were  here." 

"  They  are  here." 

They  sat  there  locked  in  each  other's  arms:  they  hardly 
breathed,  and  could  fed  heart  beating  to  heart.  A  gentle  drix/le 
was  falling,  falling.  Jacqueline  shivered. 

"  Let  us  go  in,"  she  said. 

Under  the  trees  it  was  almost  dark.  Olivier  kissed  Jacque- 
line's wet  hair:  she  turned  her  face  up  to  him,  and.  for  the 
first  time.,  he  felt  loving  lips  against  his,  a  girl's  lips,  warm  and 
parted  a  little.  Tliev  were  nigh  swooning. 

Near  the  house  they  stopped  once  more: 

"How  utterly  alone  we  wore!  "  he  said. 

He  had  already  forgotten  Christophe. 

They  remembered  him  at  length.  The  music  had  stopped. 
They  went  in.  (Christophe  was  sitting  at  the  harmonium  with 
his  head  in  his  hands,  dreaming,  he  too,  of  many  things  in  the 


LOVE  AND  FRIENDSHIP  3? 

past.  When  he  heard  the  door  open,  he  started  from  his  dream, 
and  turned  to  them  affectionately  with  a  solemn,  tender  smile 
lighting  up  his  face.  He  saw  in  their  eyes  what  had  happened, 
pressed  their  hands  warmly,  and  said : 

"  Sit  down,  and  I'll  play  you  something." 

They  sat  down,  and  he  played  the  piano,  telling  in  music  all 
that  was  in  his  heart,  and  the  great  love  he  had  for  them. 
When  he  had  done  they  all  three  sat  in  silence.  Then  he  got 
up  and  looked  at  them.  He  looked  so  kind,  and  so  much  older, 
so  much  stronger  than  they !  For  the  first  time  she  began  to 
appreciate  what  he  was.  He  hugged  them  both,  and  said  to 
Jacqueline : 

"You  will  love  him  dearly,  won't  you?  You  will  love  him 
dearly?" 

They  were  filled  with  gratitude  towards  him.  But  at  once 
he  turned  the  conversation,  laughed,  went  to  the  window,  and 
sprang  out  into  the  garden. 

During  the  days  following  he  kept  urging  Olivier  to  go  and 
propose  his  suit  to  Jacqueline's  parents.  Olivier  dared  not, 
dreading  the  refusal  which  lie  anticipated.  Christophe  also  in- 
sisted on  his  setting  about  finding  work,  for  even  supposing  the 
Langeais  accepted  him,  he  could  not  take  Jacqueline's  fortune 
unless  he  were  himself  in  a  position  to  earn  his  living.  Olivier 
was  of  the  same  opinion,  though  he  did  not  share  his  violent 
and  rather  comic  distrust  of  wealthy  marriages.  It  was  a  rooted 
idea  in  Christophe's  mind  that  riches  are  death  to  the  soul. 
It  was  on  the  tip  of  his  tongue  to  quote  the  saying  of  a  wise 
beggar  to  a  rich  lady  who  was  worried  in  her  mind  about  the 
next  life : 

"What,  madame,  you  have  millions,  and  you  want  to  have 
an  immortal  soul  into  the  bargain?" 

"  Beware  of  women."  he  would  say  to  Olivier — half  in  jest, 
half  in  earnest — "beware  of  women,  but  be  twenty  times  more 
wary  of  rich  women.  Women  love  art.  perhaps,  but  tbey  strangle 
the  artist.  Rich  women  poison  both  art  and  artists.  Wealth 
is  a  disease.  And  women  arc  more  susceptible  to  it  tban  men. 
Every  rich  man  is  an  abnormal  being.  .  .  .  You  laugh  ? 
You  don't  take  me  seriously?  Look  vou :  does  a  rich  man  know 


38     JEAN-CHRISTOPHE :  JOURNEY'S  END 

what  life  is?  Docs  he  keep  himself  in  touch  with  the  raw 
realities  of  life?  Does  he  feel  on  his  face  the  stinging  breath 
of  poverty,  the  smell  of  the  hread  that  he  must  earn,  of  the 
earth  that  he  must  dig?  Can  he  understand,  does  he  even  see 
people  and  things  as  they  are?  .  .  .  When  I  was  a  little  hoy 
I  was  onee  or  twice  taken  for  a  drive  in  the  Grand  Duke's 
landau.  We  drove  through  fields  in  which  T  knew  every  blade 
of  grass,  through  woods  tliat  [  adored,  where  T  used  to  run 
wild  all  by  myself.  Well:  I  saw  nothing  at  all.  The  whole 
country  had  become  as  stiff  and  starched  as  the  idiots  with  whom 
1  was  driving.  Between  the  fields  and  my  heart  there  was  not 
only  the  curtain  of  the  souls  of  those  formal  people.  The 
wooden  planks  beneath  my  feet,  the  moving  platform  being  rolled 
over  the  face  of  Xature,  were  quite  enough.  To  feel  that  the 
earth  is  my  mother,  I  must  have  my  feet  firmly  planted  on  her 
womb,  like  a  newborn  child  issuing  to  the  light.  Wealth  severs 
the  tie  which  binds  men  to  the  earth,  and  holds  the  sons  of  the 
earth  together.  And  then  how  can  you  expect  to  be  an  artist? 
The  artist  is  the  voice  of  the  earth.  A  nch  man  cannot  be  a 
great  artist.  He  would  need  a  thousand  times  more  genius 
to  be  so  under  such  unfavorable  conditions.  Even  if  he  suc- 
ceeds his  art  must  be  a  hot-house  fruit.  The  y-reat  Goethe 
struggled  in  vain:  parts  of  his  soul  were  atrophied,  he  lacked 
certain  of  the  vital  organs,  which  were  killed  bv  his  wealth. 
You  have  nothing  like  the  vitalitv  of  a  Goethe,  and  you  would 
be  destroyed  by  wealth,  especiallv  bv  a  rich  woman,  a  fate  which 
Goethe  did  at  least  avoid.  Only  the  man  can  withstand  the 
scourge,  lie  has  in  him  such  native  brutality,  such  a  rich 
deposit  of  rude,  healthy  instincts  binding  him  to  the  earth, 
that  he  alone  has  anv  chance1  of  escape.  But  the  woman  ib 
tainted  by  the  poison,  and  she  communicates  the  taint  to  others. 
She  acquires  a  taste  for  the  reeking  scent  of  wealth,  and  cannot 
do  without  it.  A  woman  who  can  be  rich  and  yet  remain  sound 
in  heart  is  a  prodigv  as  rare  as  a  millionaire  who  has  genius.  .  .  . 
And  I  don't  like  monsters.  Any  one  who  has  more  than  enough 
to  live  on  is  a  monster — a  human  cancer  preying  upon  the  lives 
of  the  rest  of  humanity.''" 

Olivier  laughed  : 

"  What  do  you  want?  "  he  said.     "  I  can't  stop  loving  Jacque- 


LOVE  AND  FRIENDSHIP  39 

line  because,  she  is  not  poor,  or  force  her  to  become  poor  for 
love  of  me." 

"  Well,  if  you  can't  save  her,,  at  least  save  yourself.  That's 
the  best  way  of  saving  her.  Keep  yourself  pure.  Work." 

Olivier  did  not  need  to  go  to  Christophe  for  scruples,  lie 
was  even  more  nicely  sensitive  than  he  in  such  matters.  Xot 
that  he  took  Christophers  diatribes  against  money  seriously:  he 
had  been  rich,  hi  in  self,  and  did  not  loathe  riches,  and  thought 
them  a  very  good  setting  for  Jacqueline's  pretty  face.  But  it 
was  intolerable  to  think  that  his  love  might  in  any  way  be 
contaminated  with  an  imputation  of  interest,  lie  applied  to 
have  his  name  restored  to  the  University  list.  For  the  time 
being  he  could  not  hope  for  anything  better  than  a  moderate 
post  in  a  provincial  school.  It  was  a  poor  wedding-present  to 
give  to  Jacqueline.  He  told  her  about  it  timidly.  Jacqueline 
found  it  diilicult  at  first  to  see  his  point  of  view:  she  attributed 
it  to  an  excessive  pride,  put  into  his  head  by  Christophe,  and 
she  thought  it  ridiculous :  was  it  not  more  natural  between  lovers 
to  set  no  store  by  riches  or  poverty,  and  was  it  not  rather  shabby 
to  refuse  to  be  indebted  to  her  when  it  would  give  her  such 
great  joy?  .  .  .  However,  she  threw  herself  in  with  Olivier's 
plans:  their  austerity  and  discomfort  were  the  very  things  that 
brought  her  round,  for  she  found  in  them  an  opportunity  of 
gratifying  her  desire  for  moral  heroism.  In  her  condition  of 
proud  revolt  against  her  surroundings  which  had  been  induced 
by  the  death  of  her  aunt,  and  was  exalted  by  her  love,  she  had 
gone  so  far  as  to  deny  every  element  in  her  nature  which  was 
in  contradiction  to  her  mystic  ardor:  in  all  sincerity  her  whole 
being  was  strained,  like  a  bow.  after  an  ideal  of  a  pure  and 
ditlicult  life,  radiant  with  happiness.  .  .  .  The  obstacles,  the 
very  smallness  and  dullness  of  her  future  condition  in  life,  were 
a  joy  to  her.  How  good  and  beautiful  it  would  all  be!  .  .  . 

Madame  Langeais  was  too  much  taken  up  with  herself  to 
pay  much  attention  to  what  was  going  on  about  her.  For  some 
time  past  she  had  been  thinking  of  little  outside  her  health: 
she  spent  her  whole'  time  in  treating  imaginary  illnesses,  and 
trying  one  doctor  alter  another:  each  of  them  in  turn  was 
her  saviour,  and  went  on  enjoying  that  position  for  a  fortnight: 
then  it  was  another's  turn.  She  would  stav  awav  from  home 


40  JEAX-CHRISTOPHE:    JOURXEY'S  EXD 

for  months  in  expensive  sanatoria,  where  she  religiously  carried 
out  all  sorts  of  preposterous  prescriptions  to  the  letter.  She 
had  forgotten  her  husband  and  daughter. 

M.  Langeais  was  not  so  indifferent,  and  had  begun  to 
suspect  the  existence  of  the  affair.  His  paternal  jealousy 
made  him  feel  it.  He  had  for  Jacqueline  that  strange  pure 
affection  which  many  fathers  feel  for  their  daughters,  an 
elusive,  indefinable  feeling,  a  mysterious,  voluptuous,  and 
almost  sacred  curiosity,  in  living  once  more  in  the  lives  of 
fellow-creatures  who  arc  of  their  blood,  who  arc  themselves,  and 
are  women.  In  such  secrets  of  the  heart  there  are  many  lights 
and  shadows  which  it  is  healthier  to  ignore.  Hitherto  it  had 
amused  him  to  sec  his  daughter  making  calh'sh  young  men  fall 
in  love  with  her:  he  loved  her  so,  romantic,  coquettish,  and  dis- 
creet—  (just  as  he  was  himself). — But  when  he  saw  that  this 
affair  threatened  to  become  more  serious,  he  grew  anxious.  ITe 
began  by  making  fun  of  Olivier  to  Jacqueline,  and  then  he 
criticised  him  with  a  certain  amount  of  bitterness.  Jacqueline 
laughed  at  first,  and  said  : 

"Don't  say  such  hard  things,  father:  you  would  find  it  awk- 
ward later  on,  supposing  1  wanted  to  marry  him." 

M.  Langeais  protested  loudly,  and  said  she  was  mad :  with 
the  result  that  she  lost  her  head  completely.  He  declared  that 
he  would  never  let  her  marry  Olivier.  She  vowed  that  she  would 
marry  him.  The  veil  was  rent,  lie  saw  that  he  was  nothing 
to  her.  In  his  fatherly  egoism  it  had  never  occurred  to  him, 
and  he  was  angry.  He  swore  that  neither  Olivier  nor  Christophe 
should  ever  set  foot  inside  his  house  again.  Jacqueline  lost  her 
temper,  and  one  fine  morning  Olivier  opened  the  door  to  admit 
a  young  woman,  pale  and  determined  looking,  who  rushed  in 
like  a  whirlwind,  and  said  : 

"Take  me  away  with  you!  My  father  and  mother  won't 
hear  of  it.  1  will  marry  you.  You  must  compromise  me." 

Olivier  was  alarmed  though  touched  by  it,  and  did  not  even 
try  to  argue  with  her.  Fortunately  Christophe  was  there.  Ordi- 
narily he  was  the  least  reasonable  of  men,  but  now  he  reasoned 
with  them.  He  pointed  out  what  a  scandal  there  would  be,  and 
how  they  would  suffer  for  it.  Jacqueline  bit  her  lip  angrily,  and 
said ; 


LOVE  AND  FRIENDSHIP  41 

"  Very  well.     We  will  kill  ourselves." 

So  far  from  frightening  Olivier,  her  threat  only  helped  to 
make  up  his  mind  to  side  with  her.  Christophe  had  no  small 
difficulty  in  making  the  crazy  pair  have  a  little  patience:  before 
taking  such  desperate  measures  they  might  as  well  try  others: 
let  Jacqueline  go  home,  and  he  would  go  and  see  M.  Langeais 
and  plead  their  cause. 

A  queer  advocate!  M.  Langeais  nearly  kicked  him  out  on 
the  first  words  he  said :  but  then  the  absurdity  of  the  situation 
struck  him,  and  it  amused  him.  Little  by  little  the  gravity  of 
his  visitor  and  his  expression  of  honesty  and  absolute  sincerity 
began  to  make  an  impression :  however,  he  would  not  fall  in 
with  his  contentions,  and  went  on  firing  ironical  remarks  at 
him.  Christophe  pretended  not  to  hear:  but  every  now  and  then 
as  a  more  than  usually  biting  shaft  struck  home  he  would  stop 
and  draw  himself  up  in  silence;  then  he  would  go  on  again. 
Once  he  brought  his  fist  down  on  the  table  with  a  thud,  and  said : 

"  I  beg  of  you  to  believe  that  it  has  given  me  no  pleasure  to 
call  on  you  :  I  have  to  control  myself  to  keep  from  retaliating 
on  you  for  certain  things  you  have  said :  but  I  think  it  my  duty 
to  speak  to  you.  and  I  am  doing  so.  Forget  me,  as  1  forget 
myself,  and  weigh  well  what  I  am  telling  you." 

M.  Langeais  listened:  and  when  he  heard  of  the  project  of 
suicide,  he  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  pretended  to  laugh :  but 
he  was  shaken,  lie  was  too  clever  to  take  such  a  threat  as  a 
joke:  he  knew  that  he  had  to  deal  with  the  insanity  of  a  girl 
in  love.  One  of  his  mistresses,  a  gay.  gentle  creature,  whom 
he  had  thought  incapable  of  putting  her  boastful  threat  into 
practice,  had  shot  herself  with  a  revolver  before  his  eyes:  she 
did  not  kill  herself  at  once,  but  the  scene  lived  in  his  mem- 
ory. .  .  .  Xo.  one  can  never  be  sure  with  women,  lie  felt 
a  pang  at  his  heart.  .  .  .  "She  wishes  it?  Very  well:  so 
be  it,  and  so  much  the  worse  for  her.  little  fool!  ..."  He 
would  have  granted  anything  rather  than  drive  his  daughter  to 
extremes.  In  truth  he  might  have  used  diplomacy,  and  pre- 
tended to  give  his  consent  to  gain  time,  gently  to  wean  Jacque- 
line from  Olivier.  But  doing  so  meant  giving  himself  more 
trouble  than  he  could  or  would  be  bothered  with.  Besides,  he 
was  weak :  and  the  mere  fact  that  he  had  angrily  said  "  No !  " 


43  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE:    JOURNEY'S  EKD 

to  Jacqueline,  now  inclined  him  to  say  "Yes."  After  all,  what 
does  one  know  of  life?  Perhaps  the  child  was  right.  The  great 
thing  was  that  they  should  love  each  other.  M.  Langeais  knew 
quite  well  that  Olivier  was  a  serious  .young  man,  and  perhaps 
had  talent.  .  .  .  He  gave  his  consent. 

The  day  before  the  marriage  the  two  friends  sat  up  together 
into  the  small  hours.  They  did  not  wish  to  lose  the  last  hours 
of  their  dear  life  together. — But  already  it  was  in  the  past. 
It  was  like  those  sad  farewells  on  the  station  platform  when 
there  is  a  long  wait  before  the  train  moves:  one  insists  on  stay- 
ing, and  looking  and  talking.  But  one's  heart  is  not  in  it:  one's 
friend  has  already  gone.  .  .  .  Christophe  tried  to  talk.  He 
stopped  in  the  middle  of  a  sentence,  seeing  the  absent  look  in 
Oliviers  eyes,  and  he  said,  with  a  smile: 

"  You  are  so  far  away !  " 

Olivier  was  confused  and  begged  his  pardon.  It  made  him 
sad  to  realize  that  his  thoughts  were  wandering  during  the  last 
intimate  moments  with  his  friend.  But  Christophe  pressed  his 
hand,  and  said : 

"  Come,  don't  constrain  yourself.  I  am  happy.  Co  on  dream- 
ing, my  boy." 

They  stayed  by  the  window,  leaning  out  side  by  side,  and 
looking  through  the  darkness  down  into  the  garden.  After 
some  time  Christophe  said  to  Olivier: 

"  You  are  running  away  from  me.  You  think  you  can 
escape  me?  You  are  thinking  of  your  Jacqueline,  But  I  shall 
catch  you  up.  I,  too.  am  thinking  of  her." 

"  Poor  old  fellow."  said  Olivier,  "  and  I  was  thinking  of  you! 
And  even  ..." 

He  stopped. 

Christophe  laughed  and  finished  the  sentence  for  him. 

".    .    .    And  even  taking  a  lot  of  trouble  over  it!    .    .    ." 

Christophe  turned  out  very  fine,  almost  smart,  for  the  wed- 
ding. There  was  no  religious  ceremony:  neither  the  indifferent 
Olivier  nor  the  rebellious  Jacqueline  had  wished  it.  Christophe 
had  written  a  symphonic  fragment  for  the  ceremony  at  the 
mairi(\  but  at  the  last  moment  he  gave  up  the  idea  when  he 


LOVE  AXD  FRIENDSHIP  43 

realized  what  a  civil  marriage  is :  he  thought  such  ceremonies 
absurd.  People  need  to  have  lost  both  faith  and  liberty  before 
they  can  have  any  belief  in  them.  When  a  true  Catholic  takes 
the  trouble  to  become  a  free-thinker  he  is  not  likely  to  endow 
a  functionary  of  the  civil  State  with  a  religious  character.  Be- 
tween God  and  his  own  conscience  there  is  no  room  for  a  State; 
religion.  The  State  registers.,  it  does  not  bind  man  and  wife 
together. 

The  marriage  of  Olivier  and  Jacqueline  was  not  likely  to 
make  Christophe  regret  his  decision.  Olivier  listened  with  a 
faintly  ironical  air  of  aloofness  to  the  Mayor  ponderously  fawn- 
ing upon  the  young  couple,  and  the  wealthy  relations,  and  the 
witnesses  who  wore  decorations.  Jacqueline  did  not  listen :  and 
she  furtively  put  out  her  tongue  at  Simone  Adam,  who  was 
watching  her :  she  had  made  a  bet  with  her  that  being  "  married  ' ' 
would  not  affect  her  in  the  least,  and  it  looked  as  though  she 
would  win  it:  it  hardly  seemed  to  occur  to  her  that  it  was  she 
who  was  being  married  :  the  idea  of  it  tickled  her.  The  rest 
were  posing  for  the  onlookers:  and  the  onlookers  were  taking 
them  all  in.  M.  Langeais  was  showing  off:  in  spite  of  his 
sincere  affection  for  his  daughter,  he  was  chiefly  occupied  in 
taking  stock  of  the  guests  to  find  out  whether  he  had  left  any 
gaps  in  his  list  of  invitations.  Only  Christophe  was  moved :  not 
one  of  the  rest,  relations,  bride,  and  bridegroom,  or  the  Mayor 
officiating,  showed  any  emotion :  he  stood  gazing  hungrily  at 
Olivier,  who  did  not  look  at  him. 

In  the  evening  the  young  couple  left  for  Italy.  Christophe 
and  M.  Langeais  went  with  them  to  the  station.  They  seemed 
happy,  not  at  all  sorry  to  be  going,  and  did  not  conceal  their 
impatience  for  the  train  to  move.  Olivier  looked  like  a  boy. 
and  Jacqueline  like  a  little  girl.  .  .  .  What  a  tender,  melan- 
choly charm  is  in  such  partings!  The  father  is  a  little  sad 
to  see  his  child  taken  away  by  a  stranger,  and  for  what!  .  .  . 
and  to  see  her  go  away  from  him  forever.  But  they  feel  nothing 
but  a  new  intoxicating  sense  of  liberty.  There  are  no  more 
hindrances  to  life:  nothing  can  stop  them  ever  again:  they  seem 
to  have  reached  the  very  summit:  now  might  they  die  readily, 
for  they  have  everything,  and  nothing  to  fear.  .  .  .  .But  soon 
they  see  that  it  was  no  more  than  a  stage  in  the  journey.  The 


44     JEAN-CHRISTOPHE:  JOURNEY'S  END 

roud  still  lies  before  them,  and  winds  round  the  mountain: 
and  there  are  very  few  who  reach  the  second  stage.  .  .  . 

The  train  bore  them  away  into  the  night.  Christophe  and 
M.  Langeais  went  home  together.  Christophe  said  with  naive 
archness : 

"Now  we  are  both  widowed!" 

M.  Langeais  began  to  laugh.  He  liked  Christophe  now  that 
he  knew  him  better.  They  said  good-by,  and  went  their  ways. 
They  were  both  unhappy,  with  an  odd  mixture  of  sadness  and 
sweetness.  Sitting  alone  in  his  room  Christophe  thought : 

"  The  best  of  my  soul  is  happy/' 

Nothing  had  been  altered  in  Olivier's  room.  They  had 
arranged  that  until  Olivier  returned  and  settled  in  a  new  house 
his  furniture  and  belongings  should  stay  with  Christophe.  It 
was  as  though  he  himself  was  still  present.  Christophe  looked 
at  the  portrait  of  Antoinette,  placed  it  on  his  desk,  and  said 
to  it: 

"  My  dear,  are  you  glad  ?  " 

He  wrote  often — rather  too  often — -to  Olivier.  He  had  a  few 
vaguely  written  letters,  which  were  increasingly  distant  in  tone. 
He  was  disappointed,  but  not  much  affected  by  it.  He  persuaded 
himself  that  it  must  be  so,  and  he  had  no  anxiety  as  to  the 
future  of  their  friendship. 

His  solitude  did  not  trouble  him.  Far  from  it :  he  did  not 
have  enough  of  it  to  suit  his  taste.  He  was  beginning  to  suffer 
from  the  patronage  of  the  Grand  Journal.  Arsene  Gamache  had 
a  tendency  to  believe  that  he  had  proprietary  rights  in  the 
famous  men  whom  he  had  taken  the  trouble  to  discover:  he 
took  it  as  a  matter  of  course  that  their  fame  should  be  associated 
with  his  own.  much  as  Louis  XIV.  grouped  Moliere,  Le  Brim, 
and  Lulli  about  his  throne.  Christophe  discovered  that  the 
author  of  the  Hymn  to  .'-Eg is  was  not  more  imperial  or  more  of 
a  nuisance  to  art  than  his  patron  of  the  Grand  Journal.  For 
the  journalist,  who  knew  no  more  about  art  than  the  Emperor, 
had  opinions  no  less  decided  about  it:  he  could  not  tolerate  the 
existence  of  anything  he  did  not  like:  he  decreed  that  it  was 
bad  and  pernicious:  and  be  would  ruin  it  in  the  public  interest. 
It  it  both  comic  and  terrible  to  see  such  coarse-grained  uncul- 


LOVE  AND  FRIENDSHIP  45 

tivated  men  of  affairs  presuming  to  control  not  only  politics 
and  money,  but  also  the  mind,  and  offering  it  a  kennel  with  a 
collar  and  a  dish  of  food,  or,  if  it  refuses,  having  the  power  to 
let  loose  against  it  thousands  of  idiots  whom  they  have  trained 
into  a  docile  pack  of  hounds! — Christophe  was  not  the  sort  of 
man  to  let  himself  be  schooled  and  disciplined.  It  seemed  to 
him  a  very  bad  thing  that  an  ignoramus  should  take  upon  him- 
self to  tell  him  what  he  ought  and  ought  not  to  do  in  music : 
and  he  gave  him  to  understand  that  art  needed  a  much  more 
severe  training  than  politics.  Also,  without  any  sort  of  polite 
circumlocution,  he  declined  a  proposal  that  he  should  set  to 
music  a  libretto,  which  the  author,  a  leading  member  of  the 
staff  of  the  paper,  was  trying  to  place,  while  it  was  highly  rec- 
ommended by  his  chief.  It  had  the  effect  of  cooling  his  rela- 
tions with  Gamache. 

Christophe  did  not  mind  that  in  the  least.  Though  he  had 
so  lately  risen  from  his  obscurity,  he  was  longing  to  return  to 
it.  He  found  himself  "exposed  to  that  great  light  in  which  a 
man  is  lost  among  the  many."  There  were  too  many  people 
bothering  their  heads  about  him.  He  pondered  these  words  of 
Goethe : 

"  ~\Yhcn  a  writer  lias  attracted  attention  by  a  good  piece  of 
work,  tlie  public  tries  to  prevent  his  producing  another.  .  .  . 
The  brooding  talent  is  dragged  out  into  the  hurly-burly  of  the 
world,  in  spite  of  itself,  because  every  one  thinks  he  will  be  able 
to  appropriate  a  part  of  it." 

He  shut  his  door  upon  the  outside  world,  and  began  to  seek 
the  company  of  some  of  his  old  friends  in  his  own  house.  He 
revisited  the  Arnauds,  whom  he  had  somewhat  neglected. 
Madame  Arnaud,  who  was  left  alone  for  part  of  the  day.  had 
time  to  think  of  the  sorrows  of  others.  She  thought  how  empty 
Christophers  life  must  be  now  that  Olivier  was  gone:  and  she 
overcame  her  shyness  so  far  as  to  invite  him  to  dinner.  If  she 
had  dared,  she  would  even  have  offered  to  go  in  from  time  to 
time  and  tidv  his  rooms:  but  she  was  not  bold  enough:  and  no 
doubt  it  was  better  so:  for  Christophe  did  not  like  to  have 
people  worrying  about  him.  But  he  accepted  the  invitation  to 
dinner,  and  made  a  habit  of  going  in  to  the  Arnauds'  every 
evening. 


46  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE :    JOUKNEY'S  END 

He  found  them  just  as  united,  living  in  the  same  atmosphere 
of  rather  sad,  sorrowful  tenderness,  though  it  was  even  grayer 
than  before.  Arnaud  was  passing  through  a  period  of  depres- 
sion, brought  on  by  the  wear  and  tear  of  his  life  as  a  teacher, — a 
life  of  exhausting  labor,  in  which  one  day  is  like  unto  another, 
and  each  day's  work  is  like  that  of  the  next,  like  a  wheel  turning 
in  one  place,  without  ever  stopping,  or  ever  advancing.  Though 
he  was  very  patient,  the  good  man  was  passing  through  a  crisis 
of  discouragement,  lie  let  certain  acts  of  injustice  prey  upon 
him,  and  was  inclined  to  think  that  all  his  zeal  was  futile. 
Madame  Arnaud  would  comfort  him  with  kind  words :  she  seemed 
to  be  just  as  calm  and  peaceful  as  in  the  old  days:  but  her  face 
was  thinner.  In  her  presence  Christophe  would  congratulate 
Arnaud  on  having  such  a  sensible  wife. 

"  Yes,"  Arnaud  would  say,  "  she  is  a  good  little  creature ; 
nothing  ever  puts  her  out.  She  is  lucky :  so  am  I.  If  she  had 
suffered  in  this  cursed  life,  I  don't  see  how  I  could  have  got 
through." 

Madame  Arnaud  would  blush  and  say  nothing.  Then  in  her 
even  tones  she  would  talk  of  something  else. — Christophe's  visits 
had  their  usual  good  effect :  they  brought  light  in  their  train  :  and 
he.  for  his  part,  found  it  very  pleasant  to  feel  the  warmth  of 
their  kind,  honest  hearts. 

Another  friend,  a  girl,  came  into  his  life.  Or  rather  he  sought 
her  out:  for  though  she  longed  to  know  him,  she  could  not 
have  made  the  effort  to  go  and  see  him.  She  was  a  young  woman 
of  a  little  more  than  twenty-five,  a  musician,  and  she  had  taken 
the  first  prize  at  the  Conservatoire:  her  name  was  Cecile  Fleury. 
She  was  short  and  rather  thick-set.  She  had  heavy  eyebrows. 
fine,  large  eyes,  with  a  soft  expression,  a  short,  broad,  turned-up 
nose,  inclined  to  redness,  like  a  duck's  beak,  thick  lips,  kind  and 
tender,  an  energetic  chin,  heavy  and  solid,  and  her  forehead  was 
.broad,  but  not  high.  Her  hair  was  done  up  in  a  large  bun  at 
the  back  of  her  neck.  She  had  strong  arms  and  a  pianist's 
hands,  very  long,  with  a  splayed  thumb  and  square  finger-tips. 
The  general  impression  she  gave  was  one  of  a  rather  sluggish 
vitality  and  of  rude  rustic  health.  She  lived  with  her  mother, 
who  was  very  dear  to  her :  a  good,  kind  woman,  who  took  not 
the  smallest  interest  in  music,  though  she  used  to  talk  about 


LOVE  AXD  FRIENDSHIP  47 

it,  because  she  was  always  hearing  about  it,  and  knew  everything 
that  happened  in  Mnsicopolis.  She  had  a  dull,  even  life,  gave 
lessons  all  day  long,  and  sometimes  concerts,  of  which  nobody 
took  any  notice.  She  used  to  go  home  late  at  night,  on  foot 
or  in  an  omnibus,  worn  out,  but  quite  good-tempered :  and  she 
used  to  practise  her  scales  bravely  and  trim  her  own  hats,  talking 
a  great  deal,  laughing  readily,  and  often  singi^-j  for  nothing. 

She  had  not  been  spoiled  by  life.  She  knew  the  value  of  a 
little  comfort  when  she  had  earned  it  by  her  own  efforts, — the 
joy  of  a  little  pleasure,  or  a  little  scarcely  perceptible  advance 
in  her  position  or  her  work.  Indeed,  if  one  month  she-  could 
only  earn  five  francs  more  than  in  the  last,  or  if  she  could  at 
length  manage  to  play  a  certain  passage  of  Chopin  which  she 
had  been  struggling  with  for  weeks, — -she  would  be  quite  happy. 
Her  work,  which  was  not  excessive,  exactly  fitted  her  aptitude 
for  it.  and  gave  her  a  healthy  satisfaction.  Playing,  singing, 
giving  lessons  gave  her  a  pleasant  feeling  of  satisfied  activity, 
normal  and  regular,  and  at  the  same  time  a  modest  competence 
and  a  comfortable  placid  success.  She  had  a  healthy  appetite, 
ate  much,  slept  well,  and  was  never  ill. 

She  was  clear-headed,  sensible,  modest,  perfectly  balanced,  and 
never  worried  about  anything:  for  she  always  lived  in  and  for 
the  present,  without  bothering  her  head  about  what  had  happened 
or  what  was  going  to  happen  in  the  future.  And  as  she  was 
alwavs  well,  and  as  her  life  was  comparatively  secure  from  tbe 
sudden  turns  of  fate,  she  was  almost  always  satisfied.  She  took 
the  same  pleasure  in  practising  her  piano  as  in  keeping  house, 
or  talking  about  things  domestic,  or  doing  nothing.  She  had 
the  art  of  living,  not  from  day  to  day— (she  was  economical  and 
provident) — but  from  minute  to  minute.  She  was  not  possessed 
of  any  sort  of  idealism:  the  only  ideal  she  had.  if  it  could  be 
called  so,  was  bourgeois,  and  was  unostentatiously  expressed  in 
her  every  action,  and  evenly  distributed  through  every  moment 
of  the  day:  it  consisted  in  peacefully  loving  everything  she  was 
doing,  whatever  it  might  he.  She  went  to  church  on  Sundays: 
but  the  feeling  of  religion  had  practically  no  place  in  her  life, 
She  admired  enthusiasts,  like  Christophe.  who  had  faith  or 
genius:  but  she  did  not  envy  them:  what  could  she  have  done 
with  their  uneasiness  and  their  genius  ? 


48  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE:    JOURNEY'S  END 

How  came  it,  then,,  that  she  could  feel  their  music?  She 
would  have  found  it  hard  to  say.  But  it  was  very  certain  that 
she  did  feel  it.  She  was  superior  to  other  virtuosi  by  reason 
of  her  sturdy  quality  of  balance,  physical  and  moral :  in  her 
abounding  vitality,  in  the  absence  of  personal  passion,  the  pas- 
sions of  others  found  a  rich  soil  in  which  to  come  to  flower. 
She  was  not  touched  by  them.  She  could  translate  in  all  their 
energy  the  terrible  passions  which  had  consumed  the  artist  with- 
out being  tainted  by  their  poison :  she  only  felt  their  force  and 
the  great  weariness  that  came  after  its  expression.  When  it  was 
over,  she  would  be  all  in  a  sweat,  utterly  exhausted :  she  would 
smile  calmly  and  feel  very  happy. 

Christophe  heard  her  one  evening,  and  was  struck  by  her 
playing.  He  went  and  shook  hands  with  her  after  the  concert. 
She  was  grateful  to  him  for  it :  there  were  very  few  people  at 
the  concert,  and  she  was  not  so  used  to  compliments  as  to  take 
no  delight  in  them.  As  she  had  never  been  clever  enough  to 
throw  in  her  lot  with  any  musical  coterie,  or  cunning  enough 
to  surround  herself  with  a  group  of  worshipers,  and  as  she  never 
attempted  to  make  herself  particular,  either  by  technical  man- 
nerisms or  by  a  fantastic  interpretation  of  the  hallowed  com- 
positions, or  by  assuming  an  exclusive  right  to  play  some  par- 
ticular master,  such  as  Johann  Sebastian  Bach,  or  Beethoven, 
and  as  she  had  no  theories  about  what  she  played,  but  contented 
herself  with  playing  simply  what  she  felt — nobody  paid  any 
attention  to  her,  and  the  critics  ignored  her:  for  nobody  told 
them  that  she  played  well,  and  they  were  not  likely  to  find  it 
out  for  themselves. 

Christophe  saw  a  good  deal  of  Cecile.  Her  strength  and  tran- 
quillitv  attracted  him  as  a  mystery.  She  was  vigorous  and 
apathetic.  Tn  his  indignation  at  her  not  being  better  known 
he  proposed  that  he  should  get  his  friends  of  the  Grand  Journal 
to  write  about  her.  But  although  she  would  have  liked  to  be 
praised,  she  begged  him  not  to  do  anything  to  procure  it.  She 
did  not  want  to  have  the  struggle  or  the  bother  or  the  jealousies 
it  would  entail:  she  wanted  to  be  left  in  peace.  She  was  not 
talked  about:  so  much  the  better!  She  was  not  envious,  and 
she  was  the  first  to  be  enthusiastic  about  the  technique  of  other 
virtuosi.  She  had  no  ambition,  and  no  desire  for  anything. 


LOVE  AND  FRIENDSHIP  49 

She  was  much  too  lazy  in  mind !  When  she  had  not  any  imme- 
diate and  definite  work  to  do,  she  did  nothing,  nothing;  she  did 
not  even  dream,  not  even  at  night,  in  bed :  she  cither  slept  or 
thought  of  nothing.  She  had  not  the  morbid  preoccupation  with 
marriage,  which  poisons  the  lives  of  girls  who  shiver  at  the 
thought  of  dying  old  maids.  When  she  was  asked  if  she  would 
not  like  to  have  a  husband,  she  would  say : 

"  Why  not  throw  in  fifty  thousand  a  year  ?  One  has  to  take 
what  comes.  If  any  one  offers,  so  much  the  better !  If  not, 
one  goes  without.  Because  one  can't  have  cake,  I  don't  see  why 
one  shouldn't  be  glad  of  honest  bread.  Especially  when  one 
has  had  to  eat  stale  bread  for  so  long ! " 

"  Besides,"  her  mother  would  say,  "  there  are  plenty  of  people 
who  never  get  any  bread  to  eat  at  all !  " 

Cecile  had  good  reason  to  fight  shy  of  men.  Her  father,  who 
had  been  dead  some  years,  was  a  weak,  lazy  creature :  he  had 
wronged  his  wife  and  his  family.  She  had  also  a  brother  who 
had  turned  out  badly  and  did  not  know  what  had  become  of 
him :  every  now  and  then  he  would  ttirn  up  and  ask  for  money : 
she  and  her  mother  were  afraid  of  him  and  ashamed  of  him, 
and  fearful  of  what  they  might  hear  about  him  any  day :  and 
yet  they  loved  him.  Christophe  met  him  once.  He  was  at 
Cecile's  house:  there  was  a  ring  at  the  door:  and  her  mother 
answered  it.  He  heard  a  conversation  being  carried  on  in  the 
next  room,  and  the  voices  were  raised  every  now  and  then. 
Cecile  seemed  ill  at  ease,  and  went  out  also,  leaving  Christophe 
alone.  The  discussion  went  on,  and  the  stranger's  voice  assumed 
a  threatening  tone :  Christophe  thought  it  time  to  intervene,  and 
opened  the  door.  He  hardly  had  time  to  do  more  than  catch  a 
glimpse  of  a  young  and  slightly  deformed  man,  whose  back  was 
turned  towards  him,  for  Cecile  rushed  towards  him  and  implored 
him  to  go  back.  She  Avent  with  him,  and  they  sat  in  silence.  In 
the  next  room  the  visitor  went  on  shouting  for  a  few  minutes 
longer,  and  then  took  his  leave  and  slammed  the  door.  Then 
Ceeile  sighed,  and  said  to  Christophe: 

"  Yes.    ...      He  is  my  brother." 

Christophe  understood : 

"  Ah  !  "  he  said.  ...  "I  know.  ...  I  have  a  brother, 
too.  .'* 


50  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE:    JOURNEY'S  END 

Cecile  took  his  hand  w-ith  an  air  of  affectionate  commiseration: 

"  You  too  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  he  said.    .    .    .      "  Tliese  are  the  joys  of  a  family." 

Cecile  laughed,  and  they  changed  the  conversation.  Xo,  the 
joys  of  a  family  had  no  enchantment  for  her,  nor  had  the  idea 
of  marriage  any  fascination  :  men  were  rather  a  worthless  lot 
on  the  whole.  Her  independent  life  had  many  advantages:  her 
mother  had  often  sighed  after  her  liberty:  she  had  no  desire  to 
lose  it.  The  only  day-dream  in  which  she  indulged  was  that 
some  day— Heaven  knows  when  ! — she  would  not  have  to  give 
lessons  any  more,  and  would  be  able  to  live  in  the  country.  But 
she  did  not  even  take  the  trouble  to  imagine  such  a  life  in  detail : 
she  found  it  too  fatiguing  to  think  of  anything  so  uncertain:  it 
was  better  to  sleep, — or  do  her  work.  .  .  . 

In  the  meanwhile,  in  default  of  her  castle  in  Spain,  she  used 
to  hire  a  little  house  in  the  outskirts  of  Paris  for  the  summer, 
and  lived  there  with  her  mother.  It  was  twenty  minutes'  journey 
by  train.  The  house  was  some  distance  away  from  the  station. 
standing  alone  in  the  midst  of  a  stretch  of  waste  lands  which 
were  called  "fields,"  and  Cecile  used  often  to  return  late  at 
night.  But  she  was  not  afraid,  and  did  not  believe  there  was 
any  danger.  She  had  a  revolver,  but  she  always  used  to  leave 
it  at  home.  Besides,  it  was  doubtful  if  she  would  have  known 
how  to  use  it. 

Sometimes,  when  he  went  to  see  her.  Christophe  would  make 
her  play.  It  amused  him  to  see  her  keen  perception  of  the 
music,  especially  Avhen  he  had  dropped  a  hint  which  put  her  on 
the  track  of  a  feeling  that  called  for  expression.  He  had  dis- 
covered that  she  had  an  excellent  voice,  but  she  had  no  idea  of  it. 
He  made  her  practise  it,  and  would  give  her  old  German  Vicdc.r 
or  his  own  music  to  sing:  it  gave  her  pleasure,  and  she  made 
such  progress  as  to  surprise  herself  as  much  as  him.  She  was 
marvelously  gifted.  The  fire  of  music  had  miraculously  de- 
scended upon  this  daughter  of  Parisian  middle-class  parents  who 
were  utterly  devoid  of  anv  artistic  feeling.  Philomela — (for  so 
he  used  to  call  her) — used  sometimes  to  discuss  music  with 
Christophe,  but  always  in  a  practical,  never  in  a  sentimental, 
way:  she  seemed  only  to  be  interested  in  the  technique  of  singing 
and  the  piano.  Generally,  when  they  were  together  and  were 


LOVE  AND  FRIENDSHIP  51 

not  playing  music,  they  talked  of  the  most  commonplace  things, 
and  Christophe,  who  could  not  for  a  moment  have  tolerated 
such  conversations  with  an  ordinary  woman,  would  discuss  these 
subjects  as  a  matter  of  course  with  Philomela. 

They  used  to  spend  whole  evenings  alone  together,  and  were 
genuinely  fond  of  each  other,  though  their  affection  was  per- 
fectly calm  and  even  almost  cold.  One  evening,  when  he  had 
dined  with  her,  and  had  stayed  talking  longer  than  usual,  a 
violent  storm  came  on :  she  said : 

"  You  can't  go  now !     Stay  until  to-morrow  morning." 

He  was  fitted  up  with  an  improvised  bed  in  the  little  sitting- 
room.  Only  a  thin  partition  was  between  it  and  Ceeile's  bed- 
room, and  the  doors  were  not  locked.  As  he  lay  there  he  could 
hear  her  bed  creaking  and  her  soft,  regular  breathing.  In  five 
minutes  she  ,vas  asleep:  and  very  soon  he  followed  her  example 
without  either  of  them  having  had  the  faintest  shadow  of  an 
uneasy  thought. 

At  the  same  time  there  came  into  his  life  a  number  of  other 
unknown  friends,  drawn  to  him  by  reading  his  works.  Most 
of  them  lived  far  away  from  Paris  or  shut  up  in  their  homes, 
and  never  met  him.  Even  a  vulgar  success  does  a  certain  amount 
of  good  :  it  makes  the  artist  known  to  thousands  of  good  people 
in  remote  corners  whom  he  could  never  have  readied  without 
the  stupid  articles  in  the  papers.  Christophe  entered  into  cor- 
respondence with  some  of  them.  There  were  lonely  young  men, 
living  a  life  of  hardship,  their  whole  being  aspiring  to  an  ideal 
of  which  they  were  not  sure,  and  they  came  greedily  to  slake 
their  thirst  at  the  well  of  Christophe's  brotherly  spirit.  There 
were  humble  people  in  the  provinces  who  read  his  UcJer  and 
wrote  to  him,  like  old  Schulz,  and  felt  themselves  one  with  him. 
There  were  poor  artists, — a  composer  among  others. — who  had 
not,  and  could  not  attain,  not  only  success,  but  pelf-expression, 
and  it  made  them  glad  to  have  their  ideas  realized  by  Christophe. 
And  dearest  of  all.  perhaps. — there  were  those  who  wrote  to 
him  without  giving  their  names,  and,  beino-  thus  more  free  to 
speak,  naively  laid  bare  their  touching  confidence  in  the  elder 
brother  who  had  come  to  their  assistance.  Christophe's  heart 
would  grow  big  at  the  thought  that  he  would  never  know  these 
charming  people  whom  it  would  have  given  him  such  joy  to 


52  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE :    JOURNEY'S  END 

love :  he  would  kiss  some  of  these  anonymous  letters  as  the 
writers  of  them  kissed  his  lieder;  and  each  to  himself  would 
think : 

"  Dear  written  sheets,  what  a  deal  of  good  you  have  done  me  !  " 

So,  according  with  the  unvaried  rhythm  of  the  universe,  there 
was  formed  about  him  the  little  family  of  genius,  grouped  about 
him,  giving  him  food  and  taking  it  from  him,  which  grows  little 
by  little,  and  in  the  end  becomes  one  great  collective  soul,  of 
which  he  is  the  central  fire,  like  a  gleaming  world,  a  moral 
planet  moving  through  space,  mingling  its  chorus  of  brotherhood 
with  the  harmony  of  the  spheres. 

And  as  these  mysterious  links  were  forged  between  Christophe 
and  his  unseen  friends,  a  revolution  took  place  in  his  artistic 
faculty :  it  became  larger  and  more  human.  He  lost  all  interest 
in  music  which  was  a  monologue,  a  soliloquy,  and  even  more 
so  in  music  which  was  a  scientific  structure  built  entirely  for 
the  interest  of  the  profession.  He  wished  his  music  to  be  an 
act  of  communion  with  other  men.  There  is  no  vital  art  save 
that  which  is  linked  with  the  rest  of  humanity.  Johann  Sebas- 
tian Bach,  even  in  his  darkest  hours  of  isolation,  was  linked 
with  the  rest  of  humanity  by  his  religious  faith,  which  he  ex- 
pressed in  his  art.  Handel  and  Mozart,  by  dint  of  circumstances, 
wrote  for  an  audience,  and  not  for  themselves.  Even  Beethoven 
had  to  reckon  with  the  multitude.  It  is  salutary.  It  is  good 
for  humanity  to  remind  genius  every  now  and  then : 

"What  is  there  for  us  in  your  art?  If  there  is  nothing,  out 
you  go !  " 

In  such  constraint  genius  is  the  first  to  gain.  There  are, 
indeed,  great  artists  who  express  only  themselves.  But  the 
greatest  of  all  are  those  whose  hearts  beat  for  all  men.  If  any 
man  would  see  the  living  God  face  to  face,  he  must  seek  Him, 
not  in  the  empty  firmament  of  his  own  brain,  but  in  the  love 
of  men. 

The  artists  of  that  time  were  far  removed  from  that  love. 
They  wrote  only  for  a  more  or  less  anarchical  and  vain  group, 
uprooted  from  the  life  of  the  country,  who  preened  themselves 
on  not  sharing  the  prejudices  and  passions  of  the  rest  of  human- 
ity, or  else  made  a  mock  of  them.  It  is  a  fine  sort  of  fame  that 
is  won  by  self-amputation  from  life,  so  as  to  be  unlike  other 


LOVE  AND  FRIENDSHIP  53 

men !  Let  all  such  artists  perish !  We  will  go  with  the  living, 
be  suckled  at  the  breasts  of  the  earth,  and  drink  in  all  that  is 
most  profound  and  sacred  in  our  people,  and  all  its  love  from 
the  family  and  the  soil.  In  the  greatest  age  of  liberty,  among 
the  people  with  the  most  ardent  worship  of  beauty,  the  young 
Prince  of  the  Italian  Renaissance,  Raphael,  glorified  maternity 
in  his  transteverine  Madonnas.  Who  is  there  now  to  give  us  in 
music  a  Madonna  a  la  Chaise?  Who  is  there  to  give  us  music 
meet  for  every  hour  of  life?  You  have  nothing,  you  have 
nothing  in  France.  When  you  want  to  give  your  people  songs, 
you  are  reduced  to  bringing  up  to  date  the  German  masters 
of  the  past.  In  your  art,  from  top  to  bottom,  everything  re- 
mains to  be  done,  or  to  be  done  again.  .  .  . 

Christophe  corresponded  with  Olivier,  who  was  now  settled 
in  a  provincial  town.  He  tried  to  maintain  in  correspondence 
that  collaboration  which  had  been  so  fruitful  during  the  time 
when  they  had  lived  together.  He  wanted  him  to  write  him 
fine  poetic  words  closely  allied  with  the  thoughts  and  deeds  of 
everyday  life,  like  the  poems  which  are  the  substance  of  the  old 
German  lieder.  Short  fragments  from  the  Scriptures  and  the 
Hindoo  poems,  and  the  old  Greek  philosophers,  short  religious 
and  moral  poems,  little  pictures  of  Nature,  the  emotions  of  love 
or  family  life,  the  whole  poetry  of  morning,  evening,  and  night, 
that  is  in  simple,  healthy  people.  Four  lines  or  six  are  enough 
for  a  lied:  only  the  simplest  expressions,  and  no  elaborate  de- 
velopment or  subtlety  of  harmony.  What  have  I  to  do  with  your 
esthetic  tricks?  Love  my  life,  help  me  to  love  it  and  to  live 
it.  Write  me  the  Hours  of  France,  my  Great  and  Small  Hours. 
And  let  us  together  find  the  clearest  melody.  Let  us  avoid  like 
the  plague  any  artistic  language  that  belongs  to  a  caste  like 
that  of  so  many  writers,  and  especially  of  so  many  French  musi- 
cians of  to-day.  We  must  have  the  courage  to  speak  like  men, 
and  not  like  "  artists."  We  must  draw  upon  the  common  fund 
of  all  men,  and  unashamedly  make  use  of  old  formulae,  upon 
which  the  ages  have  set  their  seal,  formula;  which  the  ages 
have  filled  with  their  spirit.  Look  at  what  our  forefathers 
have  done.  It  was  by  returning  to  the  musical  language  of 
all  men  that  the  art  of  the  German  classics  of  the  eighteenth 
century  came  into  being.  The  melodies  of  Gluck  and  the  ere- 


54  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE :    JOURNEY'S  EXT) 

ators  of  the  symphony  arc  sometimes  trivial  and  commonplace 
compared  with  the  subtle  and  erudite  phrases  of  Johann  Sebas- 
tian Bach  and  TJamcau.  It  is  their  raciness  of  the  soil  that 
gives  such  zest  to,  and  has  procured  such  immense  popularity 
for  the  German  classics.  They  began  with  the  simplest  musical 
forms,  the  lied  and  the  Sin(/xpiel,  the  little  flowers  of  everyday 
lift'  which  impregnated  the  childhood  of  men  like  Mo/.art  and 
Weber. — Do  you  do  the  same.  Write  songs  for  all  and  sundry. 
Upon  that  basis  you  will  soon  build  quartettes  and  symphonies. 
What  is  the  good  of  rushing  ahead?  The  pyramids  were  not 
begun  at  the  top.  Your  symphonies  at  present  are  trunklcss 
heads,  ideas  without  any  stuffing.  Oh.  you  fair  spirits,  become 
incarnate!  There  must  be  generations  of  musicians  patiently 
and  joyously  and  piously  living  in  brotherhood  with  these  people. 
No  musical  art  was  ever  built  in  a  day. 

Christophe  was  not  content  to  apply  these  principles  in  music: 
he  urged  Olivier  to  set  himself  at  the  head  of  a  similar  move- 
ment in  literature : 

'•'The  writers  of  to-day,"  he  said,  "waste  iheir  energy  in 
describing  human  rarities,  or  cases  that  are  common  enough 
in  the  abnormal  groups  of  men  and  women  living  on  the  fringe, 
of  the  great  society  of  active,  healthy  human  bemgs.  Sine*1  they 
themselves  have  shut  themselves  off  from  life,  leave  them  and 
go  where  there  are  men.  Show  the  life  of  every  day  to  the  men 
and  women  of  every  day:  that  life  is  deeper  and  more  vast  than 
the  sea.  The  smallest  among  you  bears  the  infinite  in  his  soul. 
The  infinite  is  in  every  man  who  is  simple  enough  to  be  a  man, 
in  the  lover,  in  the  friend,  in  the  woman  who  pavs  with  her 
pangs  for  the  radiant  glory  of  the  day  of  childbirth,  in  every 
man  and  every  woman  who  lives  in  obscure  self-sacrifice  which 
will  never  be  known  to  another  soul  :  it  is  the  very  river  of 
life,  flowing  from  one  to  another,  from  one  to  another,  and 
'hack  again  and  round.  .  .  .  Write  the  pimple  life  of  one  of 
these  simple  men.  write  the  peaceful  'epic  of  the  days  and  nights 
following,  following  one  like  to  another,  and  yet  all  different,  all 
sons  of  the  same  mother,  from  the  dawning  of  the  first  day  in 
the  life  of  the  world.  Write  it  simply,  as  simple  as  its  own 
unfolding.  Waste  no  thought  upon  the  word,  and  the  letter,  and 
the  subtle  vain  researches  in  which  the  force  of  the  artists  of 


LOVE  A XI)  FRIENDSHIP  55 

to-day  is  turned  to  nought.  You  are  addressing  all  rncn :  use 
the  language  of  all  men.  There  are  no  words  noble  or  vulgar ; 
there  is  no  style  chaste  or  impure:  there  are  only  words  and  styles 
which  say  or  do  not  say  exactly  what  they  have  to  say.  Be 
sound  and  thorough  in  all  you  do:  think  just  what  you  think, — 
and  feel  }ust  what  you  feel.  Let  the  rhythrn  of  your  heart 
prevail  in  your  writings !  The  style  is  the  soul." 

Olivier  agreed  with  Christophe,  but  he  replied  rather  iron- 
ically: 

"Such  a  book  would  be  fine:  but  it  would  never  reach  the 
people  Avho  would  care  to  read  it.  The  critics  would  strangle 
it  on  the  way." 

"There  speaks  my  little  French  bourgeois!"  replied  Chris- 
tophe.  "Worrying  his  mind  about  what  the  critics  will  or  will 
not  think  of  his  work!  .  .  .  The  critics,  my  boy.  are  only 
there  to  register  victory  or  defeat.  The  great  thing  is  to  be 
victor.  ...  I  have  managed  to  get  along  without  them  !  You 
must  learn  how  to  disregard  them,  too.  ..." 

But  Olivier  had  learned  how  to  disregard  something  entirely 
different!  He  had  turned  aside  from  art,  and  Christophe,  and 
everybody.  At  that  time  he  was  thinking  of  nothing  but  Jacque- 
line, and  Jacqueline  was  thinking  of  nothing  but  him. 

The  selfishness  of  their  love  had  cut  them  off  from  everything 
and  everybody:  they  were  recklessly  destroying  all  their  future 
resources. 

They  were  in  the  blind  wonder  of  the  first  days,  when  man 
and  woman,  joined  together,  have  no  thought  save  that  of  losing 
themselves  in  each  other.  .  .  .  With  every  part  of  themselves, 
body  and  soul,  they  touch  and  taste  and  seek  to  probe  into  the 
very  inmost  depths.  Thev  are  alone  together  in  a  lawless  uni- 
verse, a  very  chaos  of  love,  when  the  confused  elements  know 
not  as  yet  Avhat  distinguishes  one  from  the  other,  and  strive 
greedily  to  devour  each  other.  Fach  in  other  finds  nothing 
save  delight:  each  in  other  finds  another  self.  What  is  the 
world  to  them?  Like  the  antique  Androgyne  slumbering  in 
his  dream  of  voluptuous  and  harmonious  delights,  their  eyes 
are  closed  to  the  world.  All  the  world  is  in  themselves. 


56     JEAX-CHKISTOPHE:  JOURNEY'S  EXD 

0  days,  0  nights,  weaving  one  web  of  dreams,  hours  fleeting 
like  the  floating  white  clouds  in  the  heavens,  leaving  nought 
but  a  shimmering  waive  in  dazzled  eyes,  the  warm  wind  breathing 
the  languor  of  spring,  the  golden  warmth  of  the  body,  the  sunlit 
arbor  of  love,  shameless  chastity,  embraces,  and  madness,  and 
sighs,  and  happy  laughter,  happy  tears,  what  is  there  left  of 
the  lovers,  thrice  happy  dust?  Hardly,  it  seems,  that  their 
hearts  could  ever  remember  to  beat :  for  when  they  were  one 
then  time  had  ceased  to  exist. 

And  all  their  days  are  one  like  unto  another.  .  .  .  Sweet, 
sweet  dawn.  .  .  .  Together,  embracing,  they  issue  from  the 
abyss  of  sleep :  they  smile  and  their  breath  is  mingled,  their 
eyes  open  and  meet,  and  they  kiss.  .  .  .  There  is  freshness 
and  youth  in  the  morning  hours,  a  virgin  air  cooling  their 
fever.  ..  .  .  There  is  a  sweet  languor  in  the  endless  day  still 
throbbing  with  the  sweetness  of  the  night.  .  .  .  Summer 
afternoons,  dreams  in  the  fields,  on  the  velvety  sward,  beneath 
the  rustling  of  the  tall  white  poplars.  .  .  .  Dreams  in  the 
lovely  evenings,  when,  under  the  gleaming  sky,  they  return, 
clasping  each  other,  to  the  house  of  their  love.  The  wind 
whispers  in  the  bushes.  In  the  clear  lake  of  the  sky  hovers 
the  fleecy  light  of  the  silver  moon.  A  star  falls  and  dies, — 
hearts  give  a  little  throb — a  world  is  silently  snuffed  out.  Swift 
silent  shadows  pass  at  rare  intervals  on  the  road  near  by.  The 
bells  of  the  town  ring  in  the  morrow's  holiday.  They  stop  for 
a  moment,  she  nestles  close  to  him,  they  stand  so  without  a 
word.  .  .  .  Ah!  if  only  life  could  be  so  forever,  as  still  and 
silent  as  that  moment!  .  .  .  She  sighs  and  says: 
"Why  do  I  love  you  so  much?  ..." 

After  a  few  weeks'  traveling  in  Italy  they  had  settled  in  a 
town  in  the  west  of  France,  where  Olivier  had  gained  an  appoint- 
ment. They  saw  hardly  anybody.  They  took  no  interest  in 
anything.  When  they  were  forced  to  pay  calls,  their  scandalous 
indifference  was  so  open  that  it  hurt  some,  while  it  made  others 
smile.  Anything  that  was  said  to  them  simply  made  no  im- 
pression. They  had  the  impertinently  solemn  manner  common 
to  young  married  people,  who  seem  to  say: 

"You  people  don't  know  anything  at  all.    ..." 


LOVE  AND  FRIENDSHIP  57 

Jacqueline's  pretty  pouting  face,  with  its  absorbed  expression, 
Olivier's  happy  eyes  that  looked  so  far  away,  said  only : 

"  If  you  knew  how  boring  we  find  you !  .  .  .  When  shall 
we  be  left  alone  ?  " 

Even  the  presence  of  others  could  not  embarrass  them.  It 
was  hard  not  to  see  their  exchange  of  glances  as  they  talked. 
They  did  not  need  to  look  to  see  each  other:  and  they  would 
smile:  for  they  knew  that  they  were  thinking  of  the  same  things 
at  the  same  time.  When  they  were  alone  once  more,  after 
having  suffered  the  constraint  of  the  presence  of  others,  they 
would  shout  for  joy — indulge  in  a  thousand  childish  pranks. 
They  would  talk  baby-language,  and  find  grotesque  nicknames  for 
each  other.  She  used  to  call  him  Olive,  Olivet,  01  if  ant.  Fanny. 
Mami,  Mime,  Minaud.  Quinaud,  Kaunitx,  Cosima,  Cobourg, 
Panot,  Xacot,  Ponette,  Xaquet,  and  Canot.  She  would  behave 
like  a  little  girl;  but  she  wanted  to  be  all  things  at  once  to 
him,  to  give  him  every  kind  of  love:  mother,  sister,  wife,  sweet- 
heart, mistress. 

It  was  not  enough  for  her  to  share  his  pleasures :  as  she  had 
promised  herself,  she  shared  his  work:  and  that,  too,  was  a 
game.  At  first  she  brought  to  bear  on  it  the  amused  ardor  of 
a  woman  to  whom  work  is  something  new:  she  seemed  really 
to  take  a  pleasure  in  the  most  ungrateful  tasks,  copying  in  the 
libraries,  and  translating  dull  books:  it  was  pail  of  her  plan 
of  life,  that  it  should  be  pure  and  serious,  and  wholly  conse- 
crated to  noble  thoughts  and  work  in  common.  And  all  went 
well  as  long  as  the  light  of  love  was  in  them:  for  she  thought 
only  of  him,  and  not  of  what  she  was  doing.  The  odd  thing 
was  that  everything  she  did  in  that  way  was  well  done.  Tier 
mind  found  no  difficulty  in  taking  in  abstract  ideas,  which  at 
any  other  time  of  her  life  she  would  have  found  it  hard  to 
follow:  her  whole  being  was,  as  it  were,  uplifted  from  the 
earth  by  love;  she  did  not  know  it:  like  a  sleep-walker  moving 
easily  over  roofs,  gravely  and  gaily,  without  seeing  anything  at 
all,  she  lived  on  in  her  dream.  .  .  . 

And  then  she  began  to  see  the  roofs:  but  that  did  not  give 
her  any  qualms :  only  she  asked  what  she  was  doing  so  high  up, 
and  became  herself  again.  "Work  bored  her.  She  persuaded 
herself  that  it  stood  in  the  wav  of  her  love :  no  doubt  because 


58  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE :    JOURNEY'S  EXD 

her  love  had  already  become  less  ardent.  But  there  was  no 
evidence  of  that.  They  could  not  bear  to  be  out  of  each  other's 
sight.  They  shut  themselves  olf  from  the  world,  and  closed 
their  doors  and  refused  all  invitations.  They  were  jealous  of 
the  affections  of  other  people,  even  of  their  occupations,  of 
everything  which  distracted  them  from  their  love.  Olivicr's 
correspondence  with  Christophe  dwindled.  Jacqueline  did  not 
like  it:  he  was  a  rival  to  her,  representing  a  part  of  Olivicr's 
past  life  in  which  she  had  had  no  share;  and  the  more  room 
he  filled  in  Olivier's  life,  the  more  she  sought,  instinctively, 
to  rob  him  of  it.  Without  any  deliberate  intention,  she  gradu- 
ally and  steadily  alienated  Olivier  from  his  friend:  she  made 
sarcastic  comments  on  Christophe's •  manners,  his  face,  his  way 
of  writing,  his  artistic  projects:  there  was  no  malice  in  what 
she  said,  nor  slyness:  she  was  too  good-natured  for  that.  Olivier 
was  amused  by  her  remarks,  and  saw  no  harm  in  them :  lie 
thought  he  still  loved  Christophe  as  much  as  ever,  but  he  loved 
only  his  personality:  and  that  counts  for  very  little  in  friend- 
ship: he  did  not  see  that  little  by  little  he  was  losing  his  under- 
standing of  him,  and  his  interest  in  his  ideas,  and  the  heroic 
idealism  in  which  they  had  been  so  united.  .  .  .  Love  is  too 
sweet  a  joy  for  the  heart  of  youth:  compared  with  it,  what  other 
faith  can  hold  its  ground?  The  body  of  the  beloved  and  the 
sou!  that  breathes  in  it  are  all  science  and  all  faith.  With 
what  a  pitying  smile  does  a  lover  regard  the  object  of  another's 
adoration  and  the  things  which  he  himself  once  adored!  Of  all 
the  might  of  life  and  it<  bitter  struggles  the  lover  sees  nothing 
but  the  passing  (lower,  which  he  believes  must  live  forever.  .  .  . 
Love  absorbed  Olivier.  In  the  beginning  his  happiness  was 
not  so  great  but  it  left  him  with  the  energy  to  express  it  in 
graceful  verse.  Then  even  that  seemed  vain  to  him:  it  was  a 
theft  of  time  from  love.  And  .Jacqueline  also  set  to  work  to 
destroy  their  every  source  of  life,  to  kill  the  tree  of  life,  without 
the  support  of  which  the  ivy  of  love  must  die.  Thus  in  their 
happiness  they  destroyed  each  other. 

Alas!  we  so  soon  grow  used  to  happiness!  When  selfish 
happiness  is  the  sole  aim  of  life,  life  is  soon  left  without  an 
aim.  It  becomes  a  habit,  a  sort  of  intoxication  which  we  cannot 


LOVE  AXD  FRIENDSHIP  59 

do  without.  And  ho\v  vitally  important  it  is  that  we  should 
do  without  it.  ...  Happiness  is  an  instant  in  the  universal 
rhythm,  one  of  the  poles  hetween  which  the  pendulum  of  life 
swings :  to  stop  the  pendulum  it  must  be  broken.  .  .  . 

They  knew  the  "  boredom  of  well-being  which  sets  the  nerves 
on  edge."  Their  hours  of  sweetness  dragged,  drooped,  and 
withered  like  flowers  without  water.  The  sky  was  still  blue  for 
them,  but  there  was  no  longer  the  light  morning  breeze.  All 
was  still :  Xature  was  silent.  They  were  alone,  as  they  had 
desired. — And  their  hearts  sank. 

An  indefinable  feeling  of  emptiness,  a  vague  weariness  not 
without  a  certain  charm,  came  over  them.  They  knew  not 
what  it  was,  and  they  were  darkly  uneasy.  They  became  mor- 
bidly sensitive.  Their  nerves,  strained  in  the  close  watching 
of  the  silence,  trembled  like  leaves  at  the  least  unexpected  clash 
of  life.  Jacqueline  was  often 'in  tears  without  any  cause  for 
weeping,  and  although  she  tried  hard  to  convince  herself  of  it. 
it  was  not  only  love  that  made  them  flow.  After  the  ardent 
and  tormented  years  that  had  preceded  her  marriage  the  sudden 
stoppage  of  her  efforts  as  she  attained — attained  and  passed — 
her  end. — the  sudden  futility  of  any  new  course  of  action — 
and  perhaps  of  all  that  she  had  done  in  the -past. — Hung  her 
into  a  state  of  confusion,  which  she  could  not  understand,  so 
that  it  appalled  and  crushed  her.  She  would  nov  allow  that 
it  was  so:  she  attributed  it  to  her  nerves,  and  pretended  to 
laugh  it  off:  but  her  laughter  was  no  less  uneasy  than  her  tears. 
She  tried  bravelv  to  take  up  her  work  again:  but  as  soon  as 
she  began  she  could  not  understand  how  she  could  ever  have 
taken  any  interest  in  such  stupid  things,  and  she  thing  them 
aside  in  disgust.  She  made  an  effort  to  pick  up 
of  her  social  life  once  more:  but  with  no  better 
had  committed  herself,  and  she  had  lost  the  trick 
with  the  commonplace  people  and  their  commonplace  remarks 
that  are  inevitable  in  life:  she  thought  them  grotesque:  and  she 
flung  back  into  her  isolation  with  her  husband,  and  tried  hard  to 
persuade  herself,  as  a  result  of  these  unhappy  experiences,  that 
there  was  nothing  good  in  the  world  save  love.  And  for  a  time 
she  seemed  really  to  be  more  in  love  than  ever. 

Olivier,  being  less  passionate  and  having  a  Beater  store  of 


60  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE :    JOURNEY'S  END 

tenderness,  was  less  susceptible  to  these  apprehensions :  only 
every  now  and  then  he  would  feel  a  qualm  of  uneasiness.  Be- 
sides, his  love  was  preserved  in  some  measure  hy  the  constraint 
of  his  daily  occupation,  his  work,  which  was  distasteful  to  him. 
But  as  he  was  highly  strung  and  sensitive,  and  everything  that 
happened  in  the  heart  of  the  woman  he  loved  affected  him  also, 
Jacqueline's  secret  uneasiness  infected  him. 

One  fine  afternoon  they  went  for  a  walk  together  in  the 
country.  They  had  looked  forward  to  the  walk  eagerly  and 
happily.  All  the  world  was  bright  and  gay  about  them.  But 
as  soon  as  they  set  out  gloom  and  heavy  sadness  descended  upon 
them:  they  felt  chilled  to  the  heart.  They  could  find  nothing 
to  say  to  each  other.  However,  they  forced  themselves  to  speak, 
but  every  word  they  said  rang  hollowly,  and  made  them  feel  the 
emptiness  of  their  lives  at  tha£  moment.  They  finished  their 
walk  mechanically,  seeing  nothing,  feeling  nothing.  They  re- 
turned home  sick  at  heart.  It  was  twilight:  their  rooms  were 
cold,  black,  and  empty.  They  did  not  light  up  at  once,  to 
avoid  seeing  each  other.  Jacqueline  went  into  her  room,  and, 
instead  of  taking  off  her  hat  and  cloak,  she  sat  in  silence  by 
the  window.  Olivier  sat.  too,  in  the  next  room  with  his  arms 
resting  on  the  table.  The  door  was  open  between  the  two 
rooms ;  they  were  so  near  that  they  could  have  heard  each  other's 
breathing.  And  in  the  semi-darkness  they  both  wept,  in 
silence,  bitterly.  They  held  their  hands  over  their  mouths,  so 
that  they  should  make  no  sound.  At  last,  in  agony,  Olivier 
said : 

"Jacqueline.    ..." 

Jacqueline  gulped  down  her  sobs,  and  said: 

"What  is  it?" 

"  Aren't  you  coming  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I'm  coming." 

She  took  off  her  hat  and  cloak,  and  went  and  bathed  her  eyes. 
He  lit  the  lamp.  In  a  few  minutes  she  came  into  the  room. 
They  did  not  look  at  each  other.  Each  knew  that  the  other 
hafl  been  weeping.  And  they  could  not  console  each  other,  for 
they  knew  not  why  it  was. 

Then  came  a  time  when  they  could  no  longer  conceal  their 
unhappiness.  And  as  they  would  not  admit  the  true  cause  of 


LOVE  AXD  FRIENDSHIP  61 

it,  they  cast  about  for  another,  and  had  no  difficulty  in  finding 
it.  They  set  it  down  to  the  dullness  of  provincial  life  and 
their  surroundings.  They  found  comfort  in  that.  M.  Langeais 
was  informed  of  their  plight  by  his  daughter,  and  was  not 
greatly  surprised  to  hear  that  she  was  beginning  to  weary  of 
heroism.  He  made  use  of  his  political  friends,  and  obtained  a 
post  in  Paris  for  his  son-in-law. 

When  the  good  news  reached  them,  Jacqueline  jumped  for 
joy  and  regained  all  her  old  happiness.  Xow  that  they  were 
going  to  leave  it,  they  found  that  they  were  quite  fond  of  the 
dull  country:  they  had  sown  so  many  memories  of  love  in  it! 
They  occupied  their  last  days  in  going  over  the  traces  of  their 
love.  There  was  a  tender  melancholy  in  their  pilgrimage. 
Those  calm  stretches  of  country  had  seen  them  happy.  An 
inward  voice  murmured : 

"  You  know  what  you  are  leaving  behind  you.  Do  you  know 
what  lies  before  you  ?  " 

Jacqueline  wept  the  day  before  they  left.  Olivier  asked  her 
why.  She  would  not  say.  They  took  a  sheet  of  paper,  and 
as  they  always  did  when  they  were  fearful  of  the  sound  of 
words,  wrote : 

"My  dear,  dear  Olivier.    ..." 

"My  dear,  dear  Jacqueline.    .    .    ." 

"  I  am  sorry  to  be  going  away." 

"  Going  away  from  what  ?  " 

"  From  the  place  where  we  have  been  lovers." 

"Going  where?" 

"  To  a  place  where  we  shall  be  older." 

"  To  a  place  where  we  shall  be  together." 

"  But  never  so  loving." 

"  Always  more  loving." 

"  Who  'can  tell  ?  " 

"I  know." 

"  I  will  be." 

Then  they  drew  two  circles  at  the  bottom  of  the  paper  for 
kisses.  And  then  she  dried  her  tears,  laughed,  and  dressed  him 
up  as  a  favorite  of  Henri  III.  by  putting  her  toque  on  his  head 
and  her  white  cape  with  its  collar  turned  up  like  a  rutl'  round 
his  shoulders. 


G2  JEAN -CHRISTOPHE:    JOVRXEY'S  EXD 

In  Paris  they  resumed  all  their  old  friendships,  but  they  did 
not  find  their  friends  just  as  they  had  left  them.  When  he 
heard  of  Olivier's  arrival,  Christophe  rushed  to  him  delightedly. 
Olivier  \vas  equally  rejoiced  to  see  him.  But  as  soon  as  they 
met  they  felt  an  unaccountable  constraint  between  them.  They 
both  tried  to  break  through  it.  but  in  vain.  Olivier  was  very 
affectionate,  but  there  was  a  change  in  him,  and  Christophe 
felt  it.  A  friend  who  marries  may  do  what  he  will  :  he  cannot 
be  the  friend  of  the  old  days.  The  woman's  soul  is.  and  must 
be,  merged  in  the  man's.  Christophe  could  detect  the  woman 
in  everything  that  Olivier  said  and  did,  in  the  imperceptible 
light  of  his  expression,  in  the  unfamiliar  turn  of  his  lips,  in 
the  new  inflections  of  his  voice  and  {he  trend  of  his  ideas. 
Olivier  was  oblivious  of  it:  but  he  was  amazed  to  find  Christophe 
so  different  from  the  man  he  had  left.  He  did  not  go  so  far 
as  to  think  that  it  was  Christophe  who  had  changed:  he  recog- 
nized that  the  change  was  in  himself,  and  ascribed  it  to  normal 
evolution,  the  inevitable  result  of  the  passing  years:  and  he  was 
surprised  not  to  find  the  same  progress  in  Christophe:  he  thought 
reproachfully  that  he  had  remained  stationary  in  his  ideas,  which 
had  once  been  so  dear  to  him,  though  now  they  seemed  na'i've 
and  out  of  date.  The  truth  was  that  they  did  not  sort  well 
with  the  stranger  soul  which,  unknown  to  himself,  had  taken 
up  its  abode  in  him.  He  was  most  clearly  conscious  of  it  when 
Jacqueline  was  present  when  they  were  talking:  and  then  be- 
tween Olivier's  eyes  and  Christophe  there  was  a  veil  of  irony. 
However,  they  tried  to  conceal  what  they  felt.  Christophe 
went  often  to  see  them,  and  Jacqueline  innocently  let  flv  at 
him  her  barbed  and  poisoned  shafts.  He  suffered  her.  But 
when  he  returned  home  lie  would  feel  sad  and  sorrv. 

Their  first  months  in  Paris  were  fairlv  happy  for  Jacqueline, 
and  consequently  for  Olivier.  At  first  she  was  busv  with  their 
new  house:  they  had  found  a  nice  little  flat  looking  on  to  a 
garden  in  an  old  street  at  Passy.  ('boosing  furniture  and  wall- 
papers kept  her  time  full  for  a  few  weeks.  Jacqueline  flung 
herself  into  it  energetically,  and  almost  passionately  and  ex- 
aggeraledly :  it  was  as  though  her  eternal  happiness  depended 
on  the  color  of  her  hangings  or  the  shape  of  an  old  chest. 
Then  she  resumed  intercourse  with  her  father  und  mother  and 


LOVE  A  XT)  FRIENDSHIP  63 

her  friends.  As  she  had  entirely  forgotten  them  during  her 
year  of  love,  it  was  as  though  she  had  made  their  acquaintance 
for  the  first  time :  just  as  part  of  her  soul  was  merged  in 
Olivier's,  so  part  of  Olivier's  soul  was  merged  in  hers,  and  she 
saw  her  old  friends  witli  new  eyes.  They  seemed  to  her  to 
have  gained  much.  Olivier  did  not  lose  by  it  at  first.  They 
were  a  set-oil'  to  each  oilier.  The  moral  reserve  and  the  poetic 
light  and  shade  of  her  husband  made  Jacqueline  find  more 
pleasure  in  those  worldly  people  who  only  think  of  enjoying 
themselves,  and  of  being  brilliant  and  charming:  and  the  seduc- 
tive but  dangerous  failings  of  their  world,  which  she  knew  so 
much  better  because  she  belonged  to  it,  made  her  appreciate 
the  security  of  her  lover's  affection.  She  amused  herself  with 
these  comparisons,  and  loved  to  linger  over  them,  the  better 
to  justify  her  choice. — She  lingered  over  them  to  such  an  extent 
that  sometimes  she  could  not  tell  why  she  had  made  that  choice. 
Happily,  such  moments  never  lasted  long.  She  would  be  sorry 
for  them,  and  was  never  so  tender  with  Olivier  as  when  they 
were  past.  Thereupon  she  would  begin  again.  By  the  time  it 
had  become  a  habit  with  her  it  had  ceased  to  amuse  her:  and 
the  comparison  became  more  aggressive:  instead  of  complement- 
ing each  other,  the  two  opposing  worlds  declared  war  on  each 
other.  She  began  to  wonder  whv  Olivier  lacked  the  qualities, 
if  not  some  of  the  failings,  which  she  now  admired  in  her 
Parisian  friends.  She  did  not  tell  him  so:  but  Olivier  often 
felt  his  wife  looking  at  him  without  any  indulgence  in  her  eyes, 
and  it  hurt  him  and  made  him  uneasy. 

However,  he  had  not  lost  the  ascendancy  over  Jacqueline 
which  love  had  given  him:  and  they  would  have  gone1  on  quite 
happily  living  their  life  of  tender  and  hard-working  intimacy 
for  Ion  a;  enough  had  it  not  been  for  circumstances  which  altered 
their  material  condition  and  destroyed  its  delicate  balance. 

Quivi  tro ram  mo   Pluto   U  (/run   -ncinico,    .    .    . 

A  sister  of  "Madame  Langeais  died.  She  was  the  widow  of  a 
rich  manufacturer,  and  had  no  children.  Her  whole  estate 
passed  to  the  Langeais.  Jacqueline's  .fortune  was  more  than 
doubled  by  it,  \Vhen  she  came  in  for  her  legacy,  Olivier  re- 
membered what  Christophe  had  said  about  money,  and  re- 
marked : 


64  JEAN"-CHBISTOPHE:    JOURNEY'S  END 

"  We  were  quite  well  off  without  it :  perhaps  it  will  be  a  bad 
thing  for  us." 

Jacqueline  laughed  at  him : 

"  Silly !  "  she  said.  "  As  though  money  could  ever  do  any 
harm !  We  won't  make  any  change  in  our  way  of  living  just 

yet.;' 

Their  life  remained  the  same  to  all  appearances :  so  much 
the  same  that  after  a  certain  time  Jacqueline  began  to  complain 
that  they  were  not  well  enough  off :  proof  positive  that  there 
was  a  change  somewhere.  And,  in  fact,  although  their  income 
had  been  doubled  or  tripled,  they  spent  the  whole  of  it  without 
knowing  how  they  did  it.  They  began  to  wonder  how  they  had 
managed  to  live  before.  The  money  flew,  and  was  swallowed 
up  by  a  thousand  new  expenses,  which  seemed  at  once  to  be 
habitual  and  indispensable.  Jacqueline  had  begun  to  patronize 
the  great  dressmakers:  she  had  dismissed  the  family  sempstress 
who  came  by  the  day,  a  woman  she  had  known  since  she  was  a 
child.  The  days  of  the  little  fourpenny  hats  made  out  of  noth- 
ing, though  they  were  quite  pretty  all  the  same,  Avore  gone. — 
gone  the  days  of  the  frocks  which  were  not  impeccably  smart, 
though  they  had  much  of  her  own  grace,  and  were,  indeed,  a 
part  of  herself !  The  sweet  intimate  charm  which  shone  upon 
all  about  her  grew  fainter  every  day.  The  poetry  of  her  nature 
was  lost.  She  was  becoming  commonplace,. 

They  changed  their  flat.  The  rooms  which  they  had  furnished 
with  so  much  trouble  and  pleasure  seemed  narrow  and  ugly. 
Instead  of  the  cozy  little  rooms,  all  radiant  with  her  spirit, 
with  a  friendl}-  tree  waving  its  delicate  foliage  against  the 
windows,  they  took  an  enormous,  comfortable,  well-arranged 
flat  which  they  did  not,  could  not,  love,  where  they  were  bored 
to  death.  Instead  of  their  old  friendly  belongings,  they  obtained 
furniture  and  hangings  which  were  strangers  to  them.  There 
was  no  place  left  for  memories.  The  first  years  of  their  married 
life  were  swept  away  from  their  thoughts.  ...  It  is  a  great 
misfortune  for  two  people  living  together  to  have  the  ties  which 
bind  them  to  their  past  .love  broken!  The  image  of  their  love 
is  a  safeguard  against  the  disappointment  and  hostility  which 
inevitably  succeed  the  first  years  of  tenderness.  .  .  .  The 
power  to  spend  largely  had  brought  Jacqueline,  both  in  Paris 


LOVE  AND  FRIENDSHIP  65 

and  abroad — (for  now  that  they  were  rich  they  often  traveled) 
— into  touch  with  a  class  of  rich  and  useless  people,  whose 
society  gave  her  a  sort  of  contempt  for  the  rest  of  mankind, 
all  those  who  had  work  to  do.  With  her  marvelous  power  of 
adaptation,  she  very  quickly  caught  the  color  of  these  sterile 
and  rotten  men  and  women.  She  could  not  fight  against  it. 
At  once  she  became  refractory  and  irritable,  regarding  the  idea 
that  it  was  possible — and  right — to  be  happy  in  her  domestic 
duties  and  the  aurca,  mcdiocritus  as  mere  "  vulgar  manners." 
She  had  lost  even  the  capacity  to  understand  the  bygone  days 
when  she  had  so  generously  given  herself  in  love. 

Olivier  was  not  strong  enough  to  fight  against  it.  He,  too, 
had  changed.  lie  had  given  up  his  work,  and  had  no  fixed 
and  compulsory  occupation.  He  wrote,  and  the  balance  of  his 
life  was  adjusted  by  it.  Till  then  he  had  suffered  because  he 
could  not  give  his  whole  life  to  art.  Now  that  he  could  do  so 
he  felt  utterly  lost  in  the  cloudy  world.  Art  which  is  not  also 
a  profession,  and  supported  by  a  healthy  practical  life,  art  which 
knows  not  the  necessity  of  earning  the  daily  bread,  loses  the 
best  part  of  its  force  and  its  reality.  It  is  only  the  flower  of 
luxury.  It  is  not — (what  in  the  greatest,  the  only  great,  artists 
it  is) — the  sacred  fruit  of  human  suffering. — Olivier  felt  a  dis- 
inclination to  work,  a  desire  to  ask:  "  What  is  the  good  of  it?" 
There  was  nothing  to  make  him  write:  lie  would  let  his  pen 
run  on.  he  dawdled  about,  he  had  lost  his  bearings.  He  had 
lost  touch  with  his  own  class  of  men  and  women  patiently  plow- 
ing the  hard  furrow  of  their  lives.  He  bad  fallen  into  a  differ- 
ent world,  where  he  was  ill  at  ease,  though  on  the  whole  he 
did  not  find  it  unpleasant.  Weak,  amiable,  and  curious,  he  fell 
complacently  to  observing  that  world  which  was  entirely  lacking 
in  consistency,  though  it  was  not  without  charm  :  and  he  did 
not  sec  that  little  by  little  he  was  becoming  contaminated  by  it: 
it  was  undermining  bis  faith. 

No  doubt  the  transformation  was  not  so  rapid  in  him  as  it 
was  in  Jacqueline. — Women  have  the  terrible  privilege  of  being 
able  suddenly  to  undergo  a  complete  change.  The  way  in  which 
they  suddenly  die  and  then  as  suddenly  come  to  life  again  is 
appalling  to  those  who  love  them.  And  yet  it  is  perfectly 
natural  for  a  human  being  who  is  full  of  life  without  the  curb 


6G     JEAN-CHR1STOPHE :  JOURNEY'S  EXD 

of  the  will  not  to  be  to-morrow  what  it  is  to-day.  A  woman  is 
like  running  water.  The  man  who  loves  her  must  .follow  the 
stream  or  divert  it  into  the  channel  of  his  own  life.  In  hoth 
cases  there  must  he  change.  l>ut  it  is  a  dangerous  experience1, 
and  no  man  really  knows  love  until  he  has  gone  through  it. 
And  its  harmony  is  so  delicate  during  the  iirst  years  of  married 
life  that  often  the  very  smallest  change  in  either  husband  or 
wife  is  enough  to  destroy  their  whole  relationship.  How  much 
more  perilous,  then,  is  a  sudden  change  of  fortune  or  of  cir- 
cumstance !  They  must  needs  be  very  strong — or  very  indifferent 
to  each  other — to  withstand  it. 

Jacqueline  and  Olivier  were  neither  indifferent  nor  strong. 
They  began  to  see  each  other  in  a  new  light:  and  the  face  of 
the  beloved  became  strange  to  them.  When  first  they  made  the 
sad  discovery,  they  hid  it  from  each  other  in  loving  pity:  for 
they  still  loved  each  other.  Olivier  took  refuge  in  his  work, 
and  by  applying  himself  to  it  regularly,  though  with  even  less 
conviction  than  before,  won  through  to  tranquillity.  Jacqueline 
had  nothing.  She  did  nothing.  She  would  stay  in  bed  for 
hours,  or  dawdle  over  her  toilette,  sitting  idly,  half  dressed, 
motionless,  lost  in  thought:  and  gradually  a  dumb  misery  crept 
over  her  like  an  icy  mist.  She  could  not  break  away  from  the 
fixed  idea  of  love.  .  .  .  Love!  Of  things  human  the  most 
Divine  when  it  is  the  gift  of  self,  a  passionate  and  blind  sacri- 
fice. But  when  it  is  no  more  than  the  pursuit  of  happiness,  it 
is  the  most  senseless  and  the  most  elusive.  ...  It  was  im- 
possible for  her  to  conceive  anv  oilier  aim  in  life.  In  moments 
of  benevolence  she  had  tried  to  take  an  interest  in  the  sorrows 
of  other  people:  but  she  could  not  do  it.  The  sull'erings  of 
others  filled  her  with  an  ungovernable  feeling  of  repulsion:  her 
nerves  were  not  strong  enough  to  bear  them.  To  appease  her 
conscience  she  had  occasionally  done  something  which  looked 
like  philanthropy:  but  the  result  had  been  tame  and  disap- 
pointing. 

"You  see,"  she  would  say  to  Christophe,  '"'when  one  tries 
to  do  good  one  does  harm.  It  is  much  better  not  to  try.  I'm 
not,  cut  out  for  it." 

(Miristophe  would  look  at  her:  and  he  would  think  of  a  girl 
he  had  met.  a  selfish,  immoral  little  grisette,  absolutely  incapable 


LOVE  AND  FRIENDSHIP  (J7 

of  real  affection,  though,  as  soon  as  she  saw  anybody  suffering, 
she  was  filled  with  motherly  pity  for  him,  even  though  she  had 
not  cared  a  rap  for  him  before,  even  though  lie  were  a  stranger 
to  her.  She  was  not  abashed  by  the  most  horrible  tasks,  and 
she  would  even  take  a  strange  pleasure  in  doing  those  which 
demanded  the  greatest  self-denial.  She  never  stopped  to  think 
about  it:  she  seemed  to  lind  in  it  a  use  for  her  obscure,  heredi- 
tary, and  eternally  unexpressed  idealism:  her  soul  was  atro- 
phied as  far  as  the  rest  of  her  life  was  concerned,  but  at  such 
rare  moments  it  breathed  again:  it  gave  her  a  sense  of  well- 
being  and  inward  joy  to  be  able  to  allay  suffering:  and  her  joy 
was  then  almost  misplaced. — The  goodness  of  that  woman,  who 
was  selfish,  the  selfishness  of  Jacqueline,  who  was  good  in 
spite  of  it,  were  neither  vice  nor  virtue,  but  in  both  cases 
only  a  matter  of  health.  But  the  lirst  was  in  the  better 
case. 

Jacqueline  was  crushed  by  the  mere  idea  of  suffering.  She 
would  have  preferred  death  to  physical  illness.  She  would 
have  preferred  death  to  the  loss  of  either  of  her  sources  of  joy  : 
her  beauty  or  her  youth.  That  she  should  not  have  all  the 
happiness  to  which  she  thought  herself  entitled. —  (for  t 
lieved  in  happiness,  it  was  a  matter  of  faith  with  her, 
heartedly  and  absurdly,  a  religious  belief), — and  that 
should  have  more  happiness  than  herself,  would  have  ; 
to  her  the  most  horrible  injustice.  Happiness  was  not 
religion  to  her;  it  was  a  virtue.  To  be  unhappy  seemed 
to  he  an  infirmity.  Her  whole1  life  gradually  came  to 
round  that  principle.  Her  real  character  had  broken  through 
the  veils  of  idealism  in  which  in  girlish  bashful  modesty  she  had 
enshrouded  herself.  Jn  her  reaction  against  the  idealism  of 
the  past  she  began  to  see  things  in  a  hard,  crude  light.  Things 
were  only  true  for  her  in  proportion  as  they  coincided  with  the 
opinion  of  the  world  and  the  smoothness  of  life.  She  bad 
readied  her  mother's  state  of  mind:  she  went  to  church,  and 
practised  religion  punctiliously  and  indifferently.  She  never 
stopped  to  ask  herself  whether  there  was  any  real  truth  in  it: 
she  had  other  more  positive1  mental  dillicult  ies :  and  she  would 
think  of  the  mystical  revolt  of  her  childhood  with  pitving 
irony. — And  yet  her  new  positivism  was  no  more  real  than  her 


68  JEAN-CHRISTOPIIE  :    JOURNEY'S  END 

old  idealism.  She  forced  it.  She  was  neither  angel  nor  brute. 
She  was  just  a  poor  bored  woman. 

She  was  bored,  bored,  bored :  and  her  boredom  was  all  the 
greater  in  that  she  could  not  excuse  herself  on  the  score  of 
not  being  loved,  or  by  saying  that  she  could  not  endure  Olivier. 
Her  life  seemed  to  be  stunted,  walled  up,  with  no  future  pros- 
pect: she  longed  for  a  new  happiness  that  should  be  perpetually 
renewed;  her  longing  was  utterly  childish,  for  it  never  took 
into  account  her  indifferent  capacity  for  happiness.  She  was 
like  so  many  women  living  idle  lives  with  idle  husbands,  who 
have  every  reason  to  be  happy,  and  yet  never  cease  torturing 
themselves.  There  are  many  such  couples,  who  are  rich  and 
blessed  with  health  and  lovely  children,  and  clever  and  capable 
of  feeling  fine  things,  and  possessed  of  the  power  to  keep  them- 
selves employed  and  to  do  good,  and  to  enrich  their  own  lives 
and  the  lives  of  others.  And  they  spend  their  time  in  moaning 
and  groaning  that  they  do  not  love  each  other,  that  they  love 
some  one  else,  or  that  they  do  not  love  somebody  else — perpetu- 
ally taken  up  with  themselves,  and  their  sentimental  or  sensual 
relations,  and  their  pretended  right  to  happiness,  their  conflict- 
ing egoism,  and  arguing,  arguing,  arguing,  playing  with  their 
sham  grand  passion,  their  sham  great  suffering,  and  in  the  end 
believing  in  it,  and — suffering.  ...  If  only  some  one  would 
say  to  them  : 

"  Yon  are  not  in  the  least  interesting.  It  is  indecent  to  be 
so  sorry  for  yourselves  when  you  have  so  many  good  reasons  for 
being  happy !  " 

Tf  onlv  some  one  would  take  away  their  money,  their  health, 
all  the  marvelous  gifts  of  which  they  are  so  unworthy!  Tf 
only  some  one  would  once  more  lay  the  yoke  of  poverty  and 
real  suffering  on  these  slaves  who  are  incapable  of  being  free 
and  are  driven  mad  by  their  liberty!  Tf  they  had  to  earn  their 
bread  in  the  sweat  of  their  brows,  they  would  be  glad  enough 
to  cat  it.  And  if  they  wcr^-  to  come  face  to  face  with  grim 
suffering,  they  would  never  dare  to  play  with  the  sham.  .  .  . 

But,  when  all  is  said  and  done,  they  do  suffer.  They  are  ill. 
TTow.  then,  are  they  not  to  be  pitied? — Poor  Jacqueline  was 
quite  innocent,  as  innocent  in  drifting  apart  from  Olivier  as 
Olivier  was  in  not  holding  her.  She  was  what  Nature  had 


LOVE  AND  FRIENDSHIP  69 

made  her.  She  did  not  know  that  marriage  is  a  challenge  to 
Nature,  and  that,  when  one  has  thrown  down  the  gauntlet  to 
Nature,  it  is  only  to  be  expected  that  she  will  arise  and  begin 
valiantly  to  wage  the  combat  which  one  has  provoked.  She 
saw  that  she  had  been  mistaken,  and  she  was  exasperated  with 
herself;  and  her  disillusion  turned  to  hostility  towards  the 
thing  she  had  loved.  Olivier's  faith,  which  had  also  been  her 
own.  An  intelligent  woman  has,  much  more  than  a  man. 
moments  of  an  intuitive  perception  of  things  eternal:  but  it  is 
more  difficult  for  her  to  maintain  her  grip  on  them.  Once  a 
man  has  come  by  the  idea  of  the  eternal,  lie  feeds  it  with  his 
life-blood.  A  woman  uses  it  to  feed  her  own  life:  she  absorbs 
it.  and  does  not  create  it.  She  must  always  be  throwing  fresh 
fuel  into  her  heart  and  mind:  she  cannot  lie  self-sufficing.  And 
if  she  cannot  believe  and  love,  she  must  destroy — except  she 
possess  the  supreme  virtue  of  serenity. 

Jacqueline  had  believed  passionately  in  a  union  based  on  a 
common  faith,  in  the  happiness  of  struggling  and  suffering 
together  in  accomplishment.  But  she  had  only  believed  in  that 
endeavor,  that  faith,  while  they  were  gilded  by  the  sun  of 
love:  and  as  the  sun  died  down  she  saAv  them  as  barren,  gloomy 
mountains  standing  out  against  the  emptv  sky:  and  her  strength 
failed  her.  so  that  she  could  go  no  farther  on  the  road  :  what 
was  the  good  of  reaching  the  summit?  What  was  there  071  the 
other  side?  It  was  a  gigantic  phantom  and  a  snare!  .  .  . 
Jacqueline  could  not  understand  how  Olivier  could  go  on 
being  taken  in  by  such  fantastic  notions  which  consumed  life: 
and  she  began  to  tell  herself  that  he  was  not  very  clever,  nor 
very  much  alive.  She  was  stifling  in  his  atmosphere,  in  which 
she  could  not  breathe,  and  the  instinct  of  self-preservation  drove 
her  on  to  the  attack,  in  self-defense.  She  strove  to  scatter  and 
bring  to  dust  the  injurious  beliefs  of  the  man  she  still  loved: 
she  used  (-very  weapon  of  ironv  and  seductive  pleasure  in  her 
armory:  she  trammeled  him  with  the  tendrils  of  her  desires 
and  her  petty  cares:  she  longed  to  make  him  a  reflection  of 
herself,  .  .  .  herself  who  knew  neither  what  she  wanted  nor 
what  she  was!  She  was  humiliated  by  Olivier's  want  of  success: 
and  she  did  not  care  whether  it  were  just  or  unjust:  for  she 
had  come  to  believe  that  the  onlv  tiling  which  saves  a  man  of 


TO  JEAN-CHKISTOPHE :    JOURNEY'S  END 

talent  from  failure  is  success.  Olivier  was  oppressed  by  his 
consciousness  of  her  doubts,  and  his  strength  was  sapped  by  it. 
However,  he  struggled  on  as  best  he  could,  as  so  many  men  have 
struggled,  and  will  struggle,  for  the  most  part  vainly,  in  the 
unequal  conflict  in  which  the  selfish  instinct  of  the  woman 
upholds  itself  against  the  man's  intellectual  egoism  by  playing 
upon  his  weakness,  his  dishonesty,  and  his  common  sense,  which 
is  the  name  with  which  he  disguises  the  wear  and  tear  of  life 
and  his  own  cowardice. — At  least,  Jacqueline  and  Olivier  were 
better  than  the  majority  of  such  combatants.  For  he  would 
never  have  betrayed  his  ideal,  as  thousands  of  men  do  who  drift 
with  the  demands  of  their  laziness,  their  vanity,  and  their  loves, 
into  renunciation  of  their  immortal  souls.  And.  if  lie  had  done 
so,  Jacqueline  would  have  despised  him.  But,  in  her  blindness, 
she  strove  to  destroy  that  force  in  Olivier,  which  was  hers  also, 
their  common  safeguard :  and  by  an  instinctive  strategical  move- 
ment she  undermined  the  friendship  by  which  that  force  was 
upheld. 

Since  the  legacy  Christophe  had  become  a  stranger  in  their 
household.  The  affectation  of  snobbishness  and  a  dull  practical 
outlook  on  life  which  Jacqueline  used  wickedly  to  exaggerate 
in  her  conversations  with  him  were  more  than  he  could  bear. 
He  would  lash  out  sometimes,  and  say  hard  things,  which  were 
taken  in  bad  part.  They  could  never  have  brought  about  a 
rupture  between  the  two  friends:  they  were  too  fond  of  each 
other.  Nothing  in  the  world  would  have  induced  Olivier  to 
give  up  Christophe.  But  he  could  not  make  Jacqueline  feel  the 
same  about  him  ;  and,  his  love  making  him  weak,  he  was  incapable 
of  hurting  her.  Christophe,  who  saw  what  was  happening 
to  him,  and  how  he  was  suffering,  made  the  choice  easy  by 
a  voluntary  withdrawal,  lie  saw  tbat  he  could  not  help  Olivier 
in  any  way  by  staying,  but  rather  made  things  worse.  He  was 
the  first  to  give  his  friend  reasons  for  turning  from  him:  and 
Olivier,  in  his  weakness,  accepted  those  inadequate  reasons,  while 
he  guessed  what  the  sacrifice  must  have  cost  Christophe,  and 
was  bitterly  sorry  for  it. 

Christophe  bore  him  no  ill-will.  He  thought  that  there  was 
much  truth  in  the  saying  that  a  man's  wife  is  his  better  half 
For  a  man  married  is  but  the  half  of  a  man. 


LOVE  AXD  FRIENDSHIP  71 

He  tried  to  reconstruct  his  life  without  Olivier.  But  it  was 
all  in  vain,  and  it  was  idle  for  him  to  pretend  that  the  separa- 
tion would  only  he  for  a  short  time:  in  spite  of  his  optimism, 
he  had  many  hours  of  sadness.  He  had  lost  the  habit  of  lone- 
liness. He  had  been  alone,  it  is  true,  during  Olivior's  sojourn 
in  the  provinces :  but  then  he  had  been  able  to  pretend  and  tell 
himself  that  his  friend  was  away  for  a  time,  and  would  return. 
Xow  that  his  friend  had  come  back  he  was  farther  away  than 
ever.  His  affection  for  him,  which  had  filled  his  life  for  a 
number  of  years,  was  suddenly  taken  from  him  :  it  was  as  though 
he  had  lost  his  chief  reason  for  working.  Since  his  friendship 
for  Olivier  lie  had  grown  used  to  thinking  with  him  and  bringing 
him  into  everything  he  did.  His  work  was  not  enough  to  supply 
the  gap :  for  Christophe  had  grown  used  to  weaving  the  image 
of  his  friend  into  his  work.  And  now  that  his  friend  no  longer 
took  any  interest  in  him,  Christophe  was  thrown  off  his  balance : 
he  set  out  to  find  another  affection  to  restore  it. 

Madame  Arnaud  and  Philomela  did  not  fail  him.  But  just 
then  such  tranquil  friendship  as  theirs  was  not  enough. 

However,  the  two  women  seemed  to  divine  Christophe's  sorrow, 
and  they  secretly  sympathized  with  him.  Christophe  was  much 
surprised  one  evening  to  see  Madame  Arnaud  come  into  his 
room.  Till  then  she  had  never  ventured  to  call  on  him.  She 
seemed  to  be  somewhat  agitated.  Christophe  paid  no  heed  to 
it,  and  set  her  uneasiness  down  to  her  shyness.  She  sat  down, 
and  for  some  time  said  nothing.  To  put  her  at  her  ease.  Chris- 
tophe  did  the  honors  of  his  room.  They  talked  of  Olivier,  witb 
memories  of  whom  the  room  was  filled.  Christophe  spoke  of 
him  gaily  and  naturally,  without  giving  so  much  as  a  hint  of 
what  had  happened.  But  Madame  Arnaud.  knowing  it,  could 
not  help  looking  at  him  pityingly  and  saying: 

"You  don't  sec  each  other  now?''" 

He  thought  she  had  come  to  console  him.  and  felt  a  gust 
of  impatience,  for  he  did  not  like  any  meddling  with  his  affairs, 
He  replied : 

"Whenever  we  like." 

She  blushed,  and  said: 

"  Oh  !  it  was  not  an  indiscreet  question  !  " 

He  was  sorry  for  his  gruffness,  and  took  her  hands: 


72  JEAN-CHE1STOPHE:    JOUltflEY'S  E.NJ) 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  ho  said.  "  1  am  always  afraid  of  his 
being  blamed.  Poor  boy!  He  is  suffering  as  much  as  I.  .  .  . 

No.  we  don't  see  each  other  now." 

"  And  he  doesn't  write  to  you  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Christophe.  rather  shamefacedly.    .    .    . 

"How  sad  life  is!  "  said  Madame  Arnaud,  after  a  moment. 

"  Xo;  life  is  not  sad,"  he  said.  "  But  there  are  sad  moments 
in  it." 

Madame  Arnaud  went  on  with  veiled  bitterness: 

"  We  love,  and  then  we  love  no  longer.  What  is  the  good 
of  it  all?" 

Christophe  replied: 

"  It  is  good  to  have  loved." 

She  went  on : 

"You  have  sacrificed  yourself  for  him,  If  only  our  self- 
sacrifice  could  be  of  any  use  to  those  we  love!  But  it  makes 
them  none  the  happier!" 

"  I  have  not  sacrificed  myself."  said  Christophe  angrily.  "  And 
if  I  have,  it  is  because  it  pleased  me  to  do  so.  There's  no  room 
for  arguing  about  it.  One  does  what  one  has  to  do.  If  one 
did  not  do  it,  one  would  be  unhappy,  and  sutler  for  it!  There 
never  was  anything  so  idiotic  as  this  talk  of  sacrifice!  Clergy- 
men, in  the  poverty  of  their  hearts,  mix  it  up  with  a  cramped 
and  morose  idea  of  Protestant  gloom.  Apparently,  if  an  act 
of  sacrifice  is  to  be  good,  it  must  be  besotted.  .  .  .  (lood  Lord  ! 
if  a  sacrifice  means  sorrow  to  you.  and  not  joy.  then  don't  do 
it;  you  are  unworthy  of  it.  A  man  doesn't  sacrifice  himself 
for  the  King  of  Prussia,  but  for  himself.  If  you  don't  feel  the 
happiness  that  lies  in  the  gift  of  yourself,  then  get  out!  You 
don't  deserve  to  live." 

Madame  Arnaud  listened  to  Christophc  without  daring  to  look 
at  him.  Suddenly  she  got  up  and  said: 

"  Good-by." 

Then  he  saw  that  she  had  conn1  to  confide  in  him,  and  said  : 

"Oh!  forgive  me.  I'm  a  selfish  oaf.  and  can  only  talk  about 
.myself.  Please  stay.  Won't  you?" 

She   said: 

"  Xo :  T  cannot.    .    .    .      Thank  you.    .    .    ." 

And  she  left  him. 


LOVE  AND  FTNEXDSHTP  73 

It  was  some  timo  before  they  met  again.  She  gave  no  sign 
of  life;  and  he  did  not  go  to  see  either  her  or  Philomela,  lie 
was  fond  of  both  of  them:  but  he  was  afraid  of  having  to  talk 
to  them  about  things  that  made  him  sad.  And.  besides,  for  the 
time  being,  their  calm,  dull  existence,  with  its  too  rarefied  air. 
was  not  suited  to  his  needs.  He  wanted  to  see  new  faces:  it 
was  imperative  that  he  should  find  a  new  interest,  a  new  love, 
to  occupy  his  mind. 

By  way  of  being  taken  out  of  himself  he  began  to  frequent 
the  theaters  which  he  had  neglected  for  a  long  time.  The 
theater  seemed  to  him  to  be  an  interesting  school  for  a  musician 
who  wishes  to  observe  and  take  note  of  the  accents  of  the 
passions. 

It  was  not  that  he  had  any  greater  sympathy  with  French 
plays  than  when  he  first  came  to  live  in  Paris.  Outside  his 
small  liking  for  their  eternal  stale  and  brutal  subjects  connected 
with  the  psycho-physiology  of  love,  it  seemed  to  him  that  the 
language  of  the  French  theater,  especially  in  poetic  drama,  was 
ultra-false.  Xeither  their  prose  nor  their  verse  had  anything 
in  common  with  the  living  language  and  the  genius  of  the 
people.  Their  prose  was  an  artificial  language,  the  language 
of  a  polite  chronicle  with  the  best,  that  of  a  vulgar  feuilletonist 
with  the  worst.  Their  poetrv  justified  Goethe's  gibe: 

"Poetry  is  all  rcry  n-ell  for  those  who  hare,  nothing  to 
say." 

It  was  a  wordy  and  inverted  prose:  the  profusion  of  metaphors 
clumsily  tacked  on  to  it  in  imitation  of  the  Ivricism  of  other 
nations  produced  an  effect  of  utter  falsity  upon  any  sincere 
person.  Christophe  set  no  more  store  by  these  poetic  dramas 
than  he  did  by  the  Italian  operas  \viih  their  shrill  mellifluous 
airs  and  their  ornamental  vocal  exercises.  He  was  much  more 
interested  in  the  actors  than  the  plavs.  And  the  authors  had 
tried  hard  to  imitate  them.  "  //  -irax  hopelcnx  to  think  that  a 
play  could  be  performed  irilli  nm/  xitrcexs  unlcx*  the  author  had 
looked  to  it  thai  lii*  character*  ire  re  modeled  on  the  rices  of 
tlte  actors."  The  situation  was  hardly  at  all  changed  since  the 
time  when  Diderot  wrote  those  lines.  The  actors  had  become 
the  models  of  the  art  of  the  theater.  As  soon  as  anv  one  of 


74  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE:    JOURNEY'S  END 

them  reached  success,  he  had  his  theater,  his  compliant  tailor- 
authors,  and  his  plays  made  to  measure. 

Among  these  great  mannikins  of  literary  fashions  Franchise 
Oudon  attracted  Christophe.  Paris  had  been  infatuated  with 
her  for  a  couple  of  years  or  so.  She,  too,  of  course,  had  her 
theater  and  her  purveyors  of  parts:  however,  she  did  not  only 
act  in  plays  written  for  her :  her  mixed  repertory  ranged  from 
Ibsen  to  Sardou,  from  Gabriele  d'Annunzio  to  Dumas  fils,  from 
Bernard  Shaw  to  the  latest  Parisian  playwrights.  Upon  occa- 
sion she  would  even  venture  into  the  Versailles'  avenues  of  the 
classic  hexameter,  or  on  to  the  deluge  of  images  of  Shakespeare. 
But  she  was  ill  at  ease  in  that  galley,  and  her  audience  was 
even  more  so.  Whatever  she  played,  she  played  herself,  nothing 
but  herself,  always.  It  was  both  her  weakness  and  her  strength. 
Until  the  public  had  been  awakened  to  an  interest  in  her  per- 
sonality, her  acting  had  had  no  success.  As  soon  as  that  in- 
terest was  roused,  everything  she  did  appeared  marvelous.  And, 
indeed,  it  was  well  worth  while  in  watching  her  to  forget  the 
usually  pitiful  plays  which  she  betrayed  by  endowing  and  adorn- 
ing them  with  her  vitality.  The  mystery  of  the  woman's  body, 
swayed  by  a  stranger  soul,  was  to  Christophe  far  more  moving 
than  the  plays  in  which  she  acted. 

She  had  a  fine,  clear-cut,  rather  tragic  profile.  She  had  not 
the  marked  heavy  lines  of  the  Roman  style :  on  the  contrary, 
her  lines  were  delicate  and  Parisian,  a  la  Jean  Goujon— as  much 
like  a  boy's  as  a  woman's.  A  short,  finely-mod  el  ed  nose.  A 
beautiful  mouth,  with  thin  lips,  curling  rather  bitterly.  Bright 
cheeks,  girlishly  thin,  in  which  there  was  something  touching, 
the  light  of  inward  suffering.  A  strong  chin.  Pale  complexion. 
One  of  those  habitually  impassive  faces  which  are  transparent 
in  spite  of  themselves.,  and  reveal  the  soul  quivering  behind  it, 
as  though  it  were  exposed  in  its  nakedness;  one  of  those  faces 
in  which  the  soul  seems  to  be  ever,  in  every  part  of  it,  just 
beneath  the  skin.  She  had  very  fine  hair  and  eyebrows,  and 
her  changing  eyes  were  gray  and  amber-colored,  passing  quickly 
from  one  light  to  another,  greenish  and  golden,  like  the  eyes 
of  a  cat.  And  there  was  something  catlike  in  all  her  nature, 
in  her  apparent  torpor,  her  semi-somnolence,  with  eyes  wide 
open,  always  on  the  watch,  always  suspicious,  while  suddenly 


LOVE  AXD  FRIENDSHIP  75 

she  would  nervously  and  rather  cruelly  relax  her  watchfulness. 
She  was  not  so  tall  as  she  appeared,  nor  so  slender;  she  had 
beautiful  shoulders,  lovely  arms,  and  fine,  long  hands.  She 
was  very  neat  in  her  dress,  and  her  coiffure,  always  trim  and 
tasteful,'  with  none  of  the  Bohemian  carelessness  or  the  ex- 
aggerated smartness  of  many  artists — even  -  in  that  she  was 
catlike,  instinctively  aristocratic,  although  she  had  risen  from 
the  gutter.  At  bottom  she  was  incurably  shy  and  wild. 

She  must  have  been  a  little  less  than  thirty.  Christophe  had 
heard  people  speak  of  her  at  Gamache's  with  coarse  admiration, 
as  a  woman  of  great  freedom,  intelligence,  and  boldness,  tre- 
mendous and  inflexible  energy,  and  burning  ambition,  but  bitter, 
fantastic,  perplexing,  and  violent,  a  woman  who  had  waded 
through  a  deal  of  mud  before  she  had  reached  her  present 
pinnacle  of  fame,  and  had  since  avenged  herself. 

One  day,  when  Christophe  was  going  by  train  to  see  Philomela 
at  Meudon,  as  he  opened  the  door  of  a  compartment,  he  saw 
the  actress  sitting  there.  She  seemed  to  be  agitated  and  per- 
turbed, and  Christophe's  appearance  annoyed  her.  She  turned 
her  back  on  him,  and  looked  obstinately  out  of  the  opposite 
window.  But  Christophe  was  so  struck  by  the  changed  expres- 
sion in  her  face,  that  he  could  not  stop  gazing  at  her  with  a 
naive  and  embarrassing  compassion.  It  exasperated  her,  and 
she  flung  an  angry  look  at  him  which  he  did  not  understand. 
At  the  next  station  she  got  out  and  went  into  another  com- 
partment. Then  for  the  first  time  it  occurred  to  him — rather 
late  in  the  day — that  he  had  driven  her  away:  and  he  was 
greatly  distressed.  A  few  days  later,  at  a  station  on  the  same 
line,  he  was  sitting  on  the  only  seat  in  the  platform,  waiting 
for  the  train  back  to  Paris.  She  appeared,  and  came  and  sat 
bv  his  side.  lie  began  to  move,  but  she  said: 
'  "  Stay." 

They  were  alone.  lie  begged  her  pardon  for  having  forced 
her  to  go  to  another  compartment  the  other  day.  saying  that 
if  he  had  had  any  idea  that  he  was  incommoding  her  he 
would  have  got  out  himself.  She  smiled  ironically,  and  only 
replied : 

"  You  were  certainly  unbearable  with  your  persistent  staring." 

He  said: 


76  JEAN'-CTITHSTOPHE:    JOURNEY'S  EXD 

"  I  begged  your  pardon :  I  could  not  help  it.  ...  Yon 
looked  so  unhappy." 

"  Well,  what  of  it?  "  she  said. 

"  It  was  too  strong  for  me.  If  you  saw  a  man  drowning, 
wouldn't  you  hold  out  your  hand  to  him?" 

"I?  Certain]}-,  not."  she  said.  "I  would  push  him  under 
water,  so  as  to  get  it  over  quickly." 

She  spoke  with  a  mixture  of  bitterness  and  humor :  and,  when 
he  looked  at  her  in  amazement,  she  laughed. 

The  train  came  in.  It  was  full  up,  except  for  the  last  car- 
riage. She  got  in.  The  porter  told  them  to  hurry  up.  Chris- 
tophe,  who  had  no  mind  to  repeat  the  scene  of  a  few  days 
before,  was  for  finding  another  compartment,  but  she  said: 

"  Come  in." 

lie  got  in,  and  she  said  : 

"'To-day  I  don't  mind." 

They  began  to  taJk.  Christophe  tried  very  seriously  to  prove 
to  her  that  it  was  not  right  not  to  take  an  interest  in  others, 
and  that  people  could  do  so  much  for  each  other  by  helping  and 
comforting  each  other.  .  .  . 

"Consolation,"  she  said,  "'is  not  much  in  my  line.    ..." 

And  as  Christophe  insisted: 

"Yes,"  she  said,  with  her  impertinent  smile;  "the  part  of 
comforter  is  all  very  well  for  the  man  who  plays  it." 

It  was  a  moment  or  two  before  he  grasped  her  meaning. 
When  he  understood,  when  he  fancied  that  she  suspected  him 
of  seeking  his  own  interest,  while  he  was  only  thinking  of  her, 
he  got  up  indignantly  and  opened  the  door,  and  made  as  though 
to  climb  out,  although  the  I  rain  was  moving.  She  prevented 
him,  though  not  without  diHicully.  lie  sat  down  again  angrily, 
and  shut  the  door  just  as  the  train  shot  into  a  tunnel. 

"'You  see,''  she  said,  "you  might  have  been  killed." 

"  I  don't  care,"  he  said. 

Ho  refused  to  speak  to  her  again. 

"People  are  so  stupid,"  he  said.  "They  make  each  other 
suffer,  they  suffer,  and  when  a  man  goes  to  help  another  fellow- 
creature,  he  is  suspected.  It  is  disgusting.  People  like  that 
are  not  human." 

She  laughed  and  tried  to  soothe  him.     She  laid  her  gloved 


LOVE  AND  FRIENDSHIP  77 

hand  on  his:  she  spoke  to  him  gently,  and  called  him  by  his 
name. 

"What?"  he  said.     "You   know   me?'' 

"As  if  everybody  didn't  know  everybody  in  Paris!  We're 
all  in  the  same  boat.  But  it  was  horrid  of  me.  to  speak  to 
you  as  I  did.  You  are  a  good  fellow.  J  can  see  that.  Come; 
calm  yourself.  Shake  hands  !  Let  us  make  peace !  " 

They  shook  hands,  and  went  on  talking  amicably.     She  said: 

"  It  is  not  my  fault,  you  know.  1  have  had  so  many  ex- 
perience? with  men  that  I  have  become  suspicious." 

"They  have  deceived  me.  too,  many  a  time,"  said  Christophe. 
"  But  I  always  give  them  credit  for  something  better." 

"I  see;  you  were  born  to  be  gulled." 

He  began  to  laugh  : 

"Yes;  I've  been  taken  in  a  good  many  times  in  my  life; 
I've  gulped  down  a  good  many  lies.  But  it  does  me  no  harm. 
I've  a  good  stomach.  I  can  put  up  with  worse  things,  hard- 
ship, poverty,  and.  if  necessary,  I  can  gulp  down  wi'th  their 
lies  the  poor  fools  who  attack  me.  It  docs  me  good,  if  any- 
thing." 

"You're  in  luck,"  she  said.     "You're  something  like  a  man." 

"  And   you.     Y^ou're  something  like  a  woman." 

"That's  no  great  thing." 

"It's  a  fine  thing,"  he  said,  "and  it  may  be  a  good  thing, 
too !  " 

She  laughed : 

"  To  be  a  woman !  "  she  said.  "  But  what  does  the  world 
make  of  women  ?  " 

"  Y'ou  have  to  defend  yourself." 

"  But  goodness  never  lasts  long." 

"  Then  you  can't  have  much  of  it." 

"'Possibly.  And  then.  J  don't  think  one  ought  to  ?uffer  too 
much.  There  is  a  point  beyond  which  suffering  withers  you 
up." 

He  was  just  about  to  tell  her  how  he  pitied  her.  but  he 
remembered  how  she  had  received  it  a  short  while  before.  .  .  . 

"You'll  only  talk  about  the  advantages  of  the  part  of  com- 
forter. .  .  ." 

"No/'  she  said,  "I  won't  say  it  again.     I  feel  that  you  are 


78  JEAN-CHBISTOPHE :    JOUHNEY'S  END 

kind  and  sincere.     Thank  you.     Only,  don't  say  anything.     You 
cannot  know.    .    .    .      Thank  you." 

They  had  reached  Paris.  They  parted  without  exchanging 
addresses  or  inviting  each  other  to  call. 

A  few  months  later  she  came  of  her  own  accord  and  knocked 
at  Christophe's  door. 

"  I  came  to  see  you.  I  want  to  talk  to  you.  I  have  been 
thinking  of  you  sometimes  since  our  meeting." 

She  took  a  seat. 

"  Only  for  a  moment.     I  shan't  disturb  you  for  long." 

He  began  to  talk  to  her.     She  said : 

"  Wait  a  moment,  please." 

They  sat  in  silence.     Then  she  said  with  a  smile: 

"  I  couldn't  bear  it  any  longer.     I  feel  better  now." 

He  tried  to  question  her. 

"i\To,"  she  said.     "  Xot  that!" 

She  looked  round  the  room,  examined  and  appraised  the  things 
in  it,  and  saw  the  photograph  of  Louisa: 

"Your  mother?"  she  said. 

"  Yes." 

She  took  it  and  looked  at  it  sympathetically. 

"  What  a  good  old  woman !  "  she  said.     "  You  are  lucky!  " 

"Alas!  she  is  dead." 

"That  is  nothing.  You  have  had  the  luck  to  have  her  for 
your  mother." 

"Yes.     And  you?" 

But  she  turned  the  subject  with  a  frown.  She  would  not  let 
him  question  her  about  herself. 

"No;  tell  me  about  yourself.  Tell  me.  .  .  .  Something 
about  your  life.  ..." 

"How  can  it  be  of  any  interest  to  you?" 

"Tell  me,  all  the  same.    ..." 

He  would  not  tell  her:  but  lu-  rould  not  avoid  answering  her 
questions,  for  she  cross-examined  him  very  skilfully:  so  much 
so,  that  he  told  her  something  oi'  what  he  was  suffering,  the 
story  of  his  friendship,  and  how  Olivier  had  left  him.  She 
listened  with  a  pitying  ironical  smile.  .  .  .  Suddenly  she 
asked : 


LOVE  AND  FRIENDSHIP  79 

"What  time  is  it?  Oh!  good  Heavens!  I've  boon  here  two 
whole  hours !  .  .  .  Please  forgive  me.  .  .  .  All !  what  a 
rest  it  has  been !  .  .  ." 

She  added : 

"Will  you  let  me  come  again?  .  .  .  Xot  often.  .  .  . 
Sometimes.  ...  It  would  do  me  good.  But  I  wouldn't  like 
to  bore  you  or  waste  your  time.  .  .  .  Only  a  minute  or  two 
every  now  and  then.  .  .  ." 

"  I'll  come  and  see  you."  said  Christophe. 

"  Xo,  don't  do  that.  I  would  much  rather  come  to  see 
you.  ..." 

But  she  did  not  come  again  for  a  long  time.  One  evening 
he  heard  by  accident  that  she  was  seriously  ill,  and  had  not 
been  acting  for  some  weeks.  He  went  to  see  her,  although  she 
had  forbidden  it.  She  was  not  at  home :  but  when  she  heard 
who  it  was,  she  sent  and  had  him  brought  back  as  he  was  going 
down  the  stairs.  She  was  in  bed,  but  much  better:  she  had  had 
pneumonia,  and  looked  altered:  but  she  still  had  her  ironical 
manner  and  her  watchful  expression,  which  there  was  no  dis- 
arming. However,  she  seemed  to  lie  really  pleased  to  see  Chris- 
tophe. She  made  him  sit  bv  her  bedside,  and  talked  about 
herself  in  a  mocking,  detached  way,  and  said  that  she  had  almost 
died.  He  was  much  moved,  and  showed  it.  Then  she  teased 
him.  He  reproached  her  for  not  having  let  him  know. 

"Let  von  know?  And  have  you  coming  to  sec  me? 
Xever !  " 

"  I  bet  you  never  even  thought  of  me." 

"  You've  won,"  she  said,  with  her  sad  little  mocking  smile. 
"  I  didn't  think  of  you  for  a  moment  while  I  was  ill.  To  be 
precise,  1  never  thought  of  you  until  to-day.  There's  nothing 
to  be  glum  about,  come.  When  I  am  ill  I  don't  think  of  any- 
body. 1  only  ask  one  thing  of  people:  to  be  left  alone  in  peace. 
I  turn  my  face  to  the  wall  and  wail  :  I  want  to  be  alone.  I 
want  to  die  alone,  like  a  rat  in  a  hole.'' 

"  And  yet  it  is  hard  to  suffer  alone." 

"  I'm  used  to  it.  I  have  been  unhappy  for  years.  Xo  one 
ever  came  to  my  assistance.  Xow  it  has  become  a  habit.  .  .  . 
Besides,  it  is  better  so.  Xo  one  can  do  anvthin<r  for  YOU.  A 


80     JEAN-CHRISTOPHE :  JOURNEY'S  END 

noise  in  the  room,  worrying  attentions,  hypocritical  jere- 
miads. .  .  .  j^o;  I  would  rather  die  alone." 

"  You  are  very  resigned  !  " 

"Resigned?  I  don't  even  know  what  the  word  means.  No: 
I  set  1113-  teeth  and  1  hate  the  illness  which  makes  me  suffer." 

He  asked  her  if  she  had  no  one  to  see  her,  no  one  to  look 
after  her.  She  said  that  her  comrades  at  the  theater  were  kind 
enough, — idiots, — hut  obliging  and  compassionate  (in  a  super- 
ficial sort  of  way). 

"  But  I  tell  you,  I  don't  want  to  see  them.  I'm  a  surly 
sort  of  customer." 

"  I  would  put  up  with  it,"  he  said. 

She  looked  at  him  pityingly : 

"  You,  too  !     You're  going  to  talk  like  the  rest?  " 

He  said : 

"Pardon,  pardon.  .  .  .  Good  Heavens!  I'm  becoming  a 
Parisian !  I  am  ashamed.  ...  I  swear  that  I  didn't  even 
think  what  I  was  saying.  .  .  ." 

He  buried  his  face  in  the  bedclothes.  She  laughed  frankly, 
and  gave  him  a  tap  on  the  head ! 

"  Ah  !  that's  not  Parisian  !  That's  something  like  !  I  know 
you  again.  Come,  show  your  face.  Don't  weep  all  over  my 
bed." 

"  Do  you  forgive  me?  " 

"  I  forgive  you.     But  don't  do  it  again." 

She  talked  to  him  a  little  more,  asked  him  what  he  was 
doing,  and  was  then  tired,  bored,  and  dismissed  him. 

He  had  a i  ranged  to  go  and  see  her  again  the  following  week. 
But  just  as  he  was  setting  out  ho  received  a  telegram  from  her 
telling  him  not  to  come:  she  was  having  a  bad  day. — Then,  the 
next  day  but  one,  she  sent  for  him.  He  went,  and  found  her 
convalescent,  sitting  by  the  window,  with  her  feet  up.  It  was 
early  spring,  with  a  sunny  sky  and  the  young  buds  on  the  trees. 
She  was  more  gentle  and  affectionate  than  he  had  yet  seen  her. 
She  told  him  that  she  could  not  see  anybody  the  other  day, 
and  would  have  detested  him  as  much  as  anybody  else. 

"  And  to-day  ?  " 

'''  To-day  I  feel  young  and  Fresh,  and  I  feel  fond  of  everything 
else  about  me  that  feels  voung  and  fresh — as  you  do." 


LOVE  AND  FRIENDSHIP  81 

"  And.  yet  I  am  neither  very  young  nor  very  fresh." 
"  You  will  be  both  until  the  day  of  your  death." 
They  talked  about  what  he  had  been  doing  since  their  last 
meeting,  and  about  the  theater  in  which  she  was  going  to  resume 
her  work  soon:  and  on  that  she  told  him  what  she  thought  of 
the    theater,    which    disgusted    her,    while    it    held    her    in    its 
grip. 

She  did  not  want  him  to  come  again,  and  promised  to  resume 
her  visits  to  his  flat.  He  told  her  the  times  when  she  would 
be  least  likely  to  disturb  his  work.  They  arranged  a  counter- 
sign. She  was  to  knock  at  the  door  in  a  certain  way,  and  he 
was  to  open  or  not  as  he  felt  inclined.  .  .  . 

She  did  not  go  beyond  bounds  at  first.  But  once,  when 
she  was  going  to  a  society  At  Home,  where  she  was  to  recite, 
the  idea  of  it  bored  her  at  the  last  moment:  she  stopped  on  the 
way  and  telephoned  to  say  that  she  could  not  come,  and  she 
told  her  man  to  drive  to  Christophe's.  She  only  meant  to  say 
good-night  to  him  as  she  passed.  But,  as  it  turned  out,  she 
began  to  confide  in  him  that  night,  and  told  him  all  her  life 
from  her  childhood  on. 

A  sad  childhood !  An  accidental  father  whom  she  had  never 
known.  A  mother  who  kept  an  ill-famed  inn  in  a  suburb  of 
a  town  in  the  north  of  France:  the  carters  used  to  go  and  drink 
there,  use  the  proprietress,  and  bully  her.  One  of  them  married 
her  because  she  had  some  small  savings:  he  used  to  beat  her 
and  get  drunk.  Franchise  had  an  elder  sister  who  was  a  servant 
in  the  inn :  she  was  worked  to  death ;  the  proprietor  made  her 
his  mistress  in  the  sight  and  knowledge  of  her  mother;  she  was 
consumptive,  and  had  died.  Francoise  had  grown  \ip  amid 
scenes  of  violence  and  shameful  things.  She  saw  her  mother 
and  sister  weep,  suffer,  accept,  degrade  themselves,  and  die. 
And  desperately  she  made  up  her  mind  not  to  submit  to  it. 
and  to  escape  from  her  infamous  surroundings:  she  was  a  rebel 
by  instinct:  certain  acts  of  injustice  would  set  her  beside  her- 
self: she  used  to  scratch  and  bite  when  she  was  thrashed.  Once 
she  tried  to  hang  herself.  She  did  not  succeed:  she  had  hardly 
set  about  it  than  she  was  afraid  lest  she  might  succeed  onry  too 
well ;  and,  even  while  she  was  beginning  to  choke  and  desperately 


82  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  :    JOURNEY'S  END 

clutching  at  the  rope  and  trying  to  loosen  it  with  stiff  fumbling 
fingers,  there  was  writhing  in  her  a  furious  desire  to  live.  And 
since  she  could  not  escape  by  death, —  (Christophe  smiled  sadly, 
remembering  his  own  experiences,) — she  swore  that  she  would 
win,  and  be  free,  rich,  and  trample  under  foot  all  those  who 
oppressed  her.  She  had  made  it  a  vow  in  her  lair  one  evening, 
when  in  the  next  room  she  could  hear  the  oaths  of  the  man.  and 
the  cries  of  her  mother  as  he  beat  her,  and  her  sister's  sobs. 
How  utterly  wretched  she  felt !  And  yet  her  vow  had  been 
some  solace.  She  clenched  her  teeth  and  thought: 

"  I  will  crush  the  lot  of  you." 

In  that  dark  childhood  there  had  been  one  ray  of  light: 

One  day,  one  of  the  little  grubby  boys  with  whom  she  used 
to  lark  in  the  gutter,  the  son  of  the  stage-door  keeper  of  the 
theater,  got  her  in  to  the  rehearsal,  although  it  was  strictly 
forbidden.  They  stole  to  the  very  back  of  the  building  in  the 
darkness.  She  was  gripped  by  the  mystery  of  the  stage,  gleam- 
ing in  the  darkness,  and  by  the  magnificent  and  incomprehensi- 
ble things  that  the  actors  were  saying,  and  by  the  queenly  bearing 
of  the  actress, — who  was,  in  fact,  playing  a  queen  in  a  romantic 
melodrama.  She  was  chilled  by  emotion:  and  at  the  same  time 
her  heart  thumped.  ..."  That — that  is  what  I  must  be 
some  day!"  .  .  .  Oh!  if  she  could  ever  be  like  that!  .  .  . 
— When  it  was  over  she  wanted  at  all  costs  to  see  the  evening 
performance.  She  let  her  companion  go  out,  and  pretended  to 
follow  him:  and  then  she  turned  back  and  hid  herself  in  the 
theater:  she  cowered  away  under  a  seat,  and  stayed  there  for 
three  hours  without  stirring,  choked  by  the  dust:  and  when 
the  performance  was  about  to  begin  and  the  audience  was  arriv- 
ing, just  as  she  was  creeping  out  of  her  hiding-place,  she  had 
the  mortification  of  being  pounced  on,  ignominiously  expelled 
amid  jeers  and  laughter,  and  taken  home,  where  she  was  whipped. 
She  would  have  died  that  night  had  she  not  known  now  what 
she  must  do  later  on  to  master  these  people  and  avenge  herself 
on  them. 

Her  plan  was  made.  She  took  a  situation  as  a  servant  in 
the  Hotel  ci  Cafe  da  Theatre,  where  the  actors  put  up.  She 
could  hardly  read  or  write:  and  she  had  read  nothing,  for  she 
had  nothing  to  read.  She  wanted  to  learn,  and  applied  herself 


LOVE  AXD  FRIENDSHIP  83 

to  it  with  frantic  energy.  She  used  to  steal  books  from  the 
guests'  rooms,  and  read  them  at  night  by  moonlight  or  at  dawn, 
so  as  not  to  use  her  candle.  Thanks  to  the  untidiness  of  the 
actors,  her  larcenies  passed  unnoticed  or  else  the  owners  put 
up  with  cursing  and  swearing.  She  used  to  restore  their  books 
when  she  had  read  them, — except  one  or  two  which  had  moved 
her  too  much  for  her  to  be  able  to  part  with  them ; — but  she 
did  not  return  them  intact.  She  used  to  tear  out  the  pages 
which  had  pleased  her.  When  she  took  the  books  back,  she  used 
careful!}'  to  slip  them  under  the  bed  or  the  furniture,  so  as 
to  make  the  owners  of  them  believe  that  they  had  never  left 
the  room.  She  used  to  glue  her  ears  to  the  door  to  listen  to 
the  actors  going  over  their  parts.  And  when  she  was  alone, 
sweeping  the  corridor,  she  would  mimic  their  intonations  in  a 
whisper  and  gesticulate.  When  she  was  caught  doing  so  she 
was  laughed  at  and  jeered  at.  She  would  say  nothing,  and  boil 
with  rage. — That  sort  of  education  might  have  gone  on  for  a 
long  time  had  she  not  on  one  occasion  been  imprudent  enough 
to  steal  the  script  of  a  part  from  the  room  of  an  actor.  The 
actor  stamped  and  swore.  Xo  one  had  been  to  his  room  except 
the  servant:  he  accused  her.  She  denied  it  boldly:  he  threat- 
ened to  have  her  searched :  she  threw  herself  at  his  feet  and 
confessed  everything,  even  to  her  other  pilferings  and  the  pages 
she  had  torn  out  of  the  books:  the  whole  boiling.  He  cursed 
and  swore  frightfully:  but  he  was  not  so  angry  as  lie  seemed. 
He  asked  why  she  had  done  it.  When  she  told  him  that  she 
wanted  to  become  an  actress  Fie  roared  with  laughter.  He  ques- 
tioned her,  and  she  recited  whole  pages  which  she  had  learned 
by  heait:  lie  was  struck  by  it,  and  said: 

"Look  here,  would  you  like  me  to  give  you  lessons?" 

She  was  in  the  highest  heaven  of  delight,  and  kissed  his  hands. 

"Ah!"  she  said  to  Christophe,  ''how  I  should  have  loved 
him!" 

But  at  once  he  added : 

"  Only,  my  dear,  you  know  you  can't  have  anything  for 
nothing.  ..." 

She  was  chaste,  and  had  always  been  scared  and  modest  with 
those  who  had  pursued  her  with  their  overtures.  Her  absolute 
chastity,  her  ardent  need  of  purity,  her  disgust  with  things 


84  JEAX-OIIRISTOPHE:    JOl'KXEY'S  END 

unclean  and  ignoble  loveless  sensuality,  had  been  with  her  always 
from  her  childhood  on,  as  a  result  of  the  despair  and  nausea 
of  the  sad  sights  which  she  saw  about  her  on  all  sides  at  home : — 
and  they  were  with  her  still.  .  .  .  Ah!  unhappy  creature! 
She  had  borne  much  punishment!  .  .  .  What  a  mockery  of 
Fate!  .  .  . 

"  Then,"  asked   Christophe,  ''you  consented?" 

"Ah!"  she  said,  "I  would  have  gone  through  fire  to  get 
out  of  it.  He  threatened  to  have  me  arrested  as  a  thief.  I 
had  no  choice. — That  was  how  I  was  initiated  into  art — and 
life." 

"  The  blackguard  !  "  said  Christophe. 

"Yes,  I  hated  him.  But  I  have  met  so  many  men  since  that 
he  does  not  seem  to  me  to  be  one  of  the  worst.  He  did  at  least 
keep  his  word.  He  taught  me  what  he  knew — (not  much!)  — 
of  the  actor's  trade.  He  got  me  into  his  company.  At  first 
I  was  everybody's  servant.  I  played  little  scraps  of  parts.  Then 
one  night,  when  the  soubrette  was  ill,  they  risked  giving  me 
her  part.  I  went  on  from  that.  They  thought  me  impossible, 
grotesque,  uncouth.  I  was  ugly  then.  I  remained  ugly  until 
I  was  decreed,— if  not  'divine'  like  the  other  Woman,- — the 
highest,  the  ideal  type  of  woman,  .  .  /Woman/  .  .  .  Idiots! 
&.s  for  my  acting,  it  was  thought  extravagant  and  incorrect. 
The  public  did  not  like  me.  The  other  players  used  to  make 
fun  of  me.  I  was  kept  on  because  I  was  useful  in  spite  of 
everything,  and  was  not  expensive.  Xot  only  was  1  not  ex- 
pensive, but  I  paid!  Ah!  I  paid* for  every  step,  every  advance, 
rung  by  rung,  with  my  suffering,  with  my  body.  Fellow-actors, 
the  manage]1,  the  impresario,  the  impresario's  friends.  .  .  ." 

She  stopped:  her  face  was  very  pale,  her  lips  were  pressed 
together,  there  was  a  hard  stare  in  her  eyes:  no  tears  came, 
but  it  was  plain  to  see  that  her  soul  was'  shedding  tears  of 
blood.  In  a  flash  she;  was  living  through  the  shameful  past, 
and  the  consuming  desire  to  conquer  which  had  upheld  her — 
a  desire  that  burned  the  more  with  every  fresh  stain  and  degra- 
dation that  she  had  had  to  endure.  She  would  sometimes  have 
been  glad  to  die:  but  it  would  have  been  too  abominable  to 
succumb  in  the  midst  of  humiliation  and  to  go  no  farther. 
Better  to  take  her  life  before — if  so  it  must  be — or  after  vie- 


LOVE  AND  FRIENDSHIP  85 

tory.     But  not  when  slie  had  degraded  herself  and  not  enjoyed 
the  price  of  it.   ... 

She  said  no  more.     Christophe  was  pacing  up  and  down  the 
room  in  anger:  he  was  in  a  mood  to  slay  these  men  who  had 
made  this  woman  suffer  and  besmirched  her.     Then  he  looked 
at  her  with  the  eyes  of  pity :  and  lie  stood  near  her  and  took 
her  face  in  his  hands  and  pressed  it  fondly,  and  said: 
"Poor  little  woman!  " 
She  made  to  thrust  him  away.     lie  said : 
"  You  must  not  be  afraid  of  me.     1  love  you." 
Then  the  tears  trickled  down  her  pale  cheeks.     He  knelt  down 
by  her  and  kissed — 

"La,  lunga  man  d'ognl  bellezza  piena.   .    .    ," 

— the  long  delicate  hands  on  which  two  tears  had  fallen. 

He  sat  down  again,  and  she  recovered  herself  and  calmly  went 
on  with  her  story : 

An  author  had  at  last  launched  her.  He  had  discovered  in 
the  strange  little  creature  a  daimon,  a  genius, — and,  even  better 
for  his  purpose,  "  a  dramatic  type,  a  new  woman,  representative 
of  an  epoch."  Of  course,  he  made  her  his  mistress  after  so 
many  others  had  done  the  same.  And  she  let  him  take  her, 
as  she  had  suffered  the  others,  without  love,  and  even  with  the 
opposite  of  love.  But  he  had  made  her  famous:  and  she  had 
done  the  same  for  him. 

"  And  now,"  said  Christophe.  "  the  others  cannot  do  anything 
to  you:  you  can  do  what  you  like  with  them." 

''You  think  so?"  she  said  bitterly. 

Then  she  told  him  of  Fate's  other  mockery,— her  passion 
for  a  knave  whom  she  despised:  a  literary  man  who  had  ex- 
ploited her,  had  plucked  out  the  most  sorrowful  secrets  of 
her  soul,  and  turned  them  into  literature,  and  then  had  left 
her. 

"I  despise  him,"  she  said,  ''as  1  despise  the  dirt  on  my 
boots:  and  I  tremble  with  rage  when  I  think  that  I  love1  him. 
that  he  has  but  to  hold  up  his  linger,  and  1  should  go  running 
to  him,  and  humble  myself  before  such  a  cur.  But  what  can 
I  do?  I  have  a  heart  that  will  never  love  what  my  mind 


8G  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE :    JOURNEY'S  END 

desires.  And  I  am  compelled  alternately  to  sacrifice  and  humili- 
ate one  or  the  other.  I  have  a  heart :  I  have  a  body.  And  they 
cry  out  and  cry  out  and  demand  their  share  of  happiness.  And 
I  have  nothing  to  curb  them  with,  for  I  believe  in  nothing. 
I  am  free.  .  .  .  Free?  I  am  the  slave  of  my  heart  and  my 
body,  which  often,  almost  always,  in  spite  of  myself,  desire 
and  have  their  will.  They  carry  me  away,  and  I  am  ashamed. 
But  what  can  I  do?  .  .  ." 

She  stopped  for  a  moment,  and  mechanically  moved  the  cinders 
in  the  fire  with  the  tongs. 

"  I  have  read  in  books,"  she  said,  "  that  actors  feel  nothing. 
And,  indeed,  those  whom  I  meet  are  nearly  all  conceited,  grown- 
up children  who  are  never  troubled  by  anything  but  petty  ques- 
tions of  vanity.  I  do  not  know  if  it  is  they  who  are  not  true 
comedians,  or  myself.  I  fancy  it  must  be  I.  In  any  case,  I 
pay  for  the  others." 

She  stopped  speaking.  It  was  three  in  the  morning.  She 
got  up  to  go.  Christophe  told  her  to  wait  until  the  morning 
before  she  went  home,  and  proposed  that  she  should  go  and 
lie  down  on  his  bed.  She  preferred  to  stay  in  the  arm-chair  by 
the  dead  fire,  and  went  on  talking  quietly  while  all  the  house 
was  still. 

"  You  will  be  tired  to-morrow." 

"  I  am  used  to  it.  But  what  about  you  ?  .  .  .  What  are 
you  doing  to-morrow  ?  " 

"  I  am  free.  I  have  a  lesson  to  give  about  eleven.  .  .  . 
Besides,  I  am  strong." 

"  All  the  more  reason  why  you  should  sleep  soundly." 

"Yes;  I  sleep  like  a  log.  Not  even  pain  can  stand  out 
against  it,  I  am  sometimes  furious  with  myself  for  sleeping 
so  well.  So  many  hours  wasted!  ...  I  am  delighted  to  be 
able  to  take  my  revenge  on  sleep  for  once  in  a  wav,  and  to 
cheat  it  of  a  night." 

They  went  on  talking  in  low  tones,  with  long  intervals  of 
silence.  And  Christophe  went  to  sleep.  Franeoise  smiled  and 
supported  his  head  to  keep  him  from  falling.  .  .  .  She  sat 
by  the  window  dreaming  and  looking  down  into  the  darkness  of 
the  garden,  which  presently  was  lit  up.  About  seven  o'clock 
she  woke  Christophe  gently,  and  said  good-by. 


LOVE  AXD  FRIENDSHIP  87 

In  the  course  of  the  month  she  came  at  times  when  Christophe 
was  out,  and  found  the  door  shut.  Christophe  sent  her  a  key 
to  the  flat,,  so  that  she  could  go  there  when  she  liked.  She  went 
more  than  once  when  Christophe  was  away,  and  she  would  leave 
a  little  bunch  of  violets  on  the  table,  or  a  few  words  scribbled 
on  a  sheet  of  paper,  or  a  sketch,  or  a  caricature — just  to  show 
that  she  had  been. 

And  one  evening,  when  she  left  the  theater,  she  went  to  the 
flat  to  resume  their  pleasant  talk.  She  found  him  at  work,  and 
they  began  to  talk.  But  at  the  very  outset  they  both  felt  that 
the  friendly  comfortable  mood  of  the  last  occasion  was  gone. 
She  tried  to  go :  but  it  was  too  late.  Xot  that  Christophe  did 
anything  to  prevent  her.  It  was  her  own  will  that  failed  her 
and  would  not  let  her  go.  They  stayed  there  with  the  gathering 
consciousness  of  the  desire  that  was  in  them. 

Following  on  that  night  she  disappeared  for  some  weeks.  In 
him  there  had  been  roused  a  sensual  ardor  that  had  lain  dormant 
for  months  before,  and  he  could  not  live  without  her.  She  had 
forbidden  him  to  go  to  her  house:  he  went  to  see  her  at  the 
theater.  He  sat  far  back,  and  he  was  aflame  with  love  and 
devotion :  every  nerve  in  his  body  thrilled :  the  tragic  intensity 
which  she  brought  to  her  acting  consumed  him  also  in  its  fire. 
At  last  he  wrote  to  her : 

"My  DEAR, — Are  you  angry  with  me?  Forgive  me  if  I  have 
hurt  you." 

When  she  received  his  humble  little  note  she  hastened  to 
him  and  flung  herself  into  his  arms. 

"  It  would  have  been  better  to  be  just  friends,  good  friends. 
But  since  it  is  impossible,  it  is  no  good  holding  out  against  the 
inevitable.  Come  what  may  !  " 

They  lived  together.  They  kept  on  in  their  separate  flats, 
and  each  of  them  was  free.  Franeoise  could  not  have  submitted 
to  living  openly  with  Christophe.  Besides,  her  position  would 
not  allow  it.  She  used  to  go  to  Christophers  flat  and  spend  part 
of  the  day  and  night  with  him:  but  she  used  to  return  to  her 
own  place  every  day  and  also  sleep  there, 


S8  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE :    JOrRXEVS  END 

During  the  vacation,  when  the  theater  was  closed,  they  took  a 
house  together  outside  Paris,  near  Gif.  The}"  had  many  happy 
days  there,  though  there  were  clouds  of  sadness  too.  They  were 
days  of  confidence  and  work.  They  had  a  beautiful  light  room. 
high  up,  with  a  wide  view  over  the  fields.  At  night  through 
the  window  they  could  set1  the  strange  shadows  of  the  clouds 
floating  across  the  clear,  dull  darkness  of  the  sky.  Half  asleep, 
they  could  hear  the  joyous  crickets  chirping  and  the  showers 
falling;  the  hreath  of  the  autumn  earth — honeysuckle,  clematis, 
glyeine,  and  new-mown  hay — tilled  the  house  and  soothed  their 
senses.  The  silence  of  the  night.  In  the  distance  dogs  barked. 
Cocks  crowed.  Dawn  comes.  The  tinkling  angelus  rings  in 
the  distant  belfry,  through  the  cold,  gray  twilight,  and  they 
shiver  in  the  warmth  of  their  nest,  and  yet  more  lovingly  hold 
each  other  close.  The  voices  of  the  birds  awake  in  the  trellis 
on  the  wall.  Christophe  opens  his  eyes,  holds  his  breath,  and 
his  heart  melts  as  he  looks  down  at  the  dear  tired  face  of  his 
sleeping  beloved,  pale  with  the  paleness  of  love.  .  .  . 

Their  love  was  no  selfish  passion.  It  was  a  profound  love 
in  comradeship,  in  which  the  body  also  demanded  its  share. 
They  did  not  hinder  each  other.  They  both  went  on  with  their 
work.  Christophe's  genius  and  kindness  and  moral  liber  were 
dear  to  Erancoise.  She  felt  older  than  he  in  many  ways,  and 
she  found  a  maternal  pleasure  in  the  relation.  She  regretted 
her  inability  to  understand  anything  he  played:  music  was  a 
closed  book  to  her.  except  at  rare  moments,  when  she  would  be 
overcome  by  a  wild  emotion,  which  came  less  from  the  music 
than  from  her  own  inner  self,  from  the  passion  in  which  she 
was  steeped  at  that  time,  she  and  everything  about  her,  the 
country,  people,  color,  and  sound.  But  she  was  none  the  less 
conscious  of  Christophe's  genius,  because  i(  was  expressed  in  a 
mysterious  language  which  she  did  not  understand.  It  was  like 
watching  a  great  actor  playing  in  a  foreign  language.  Her 
own  genius  was  rekindled  by  it.  Christophe,  thanks  to  love, 
could  project  his  ideas  and  body  forth  his  passions  in  the  mind 
of  the  woman  and  her  beloved  person:  they  seemed  to  him 
more1  beautiful  there  than  they  were  in  himself — endowed  with 


LOVE  AND  FRIENDSHIP  89 

an  antique  and  seemingly  eternal  beauty.  Intimacy  with  such 
a  soul,  so  feminine,  so  weak  and  kind  and  cruel,  and  genial  in 
flashes,  was  a  source  of  boundless  wealth.  She  taught  him  much 
about  life,  and  men — about  women,  of  whom  he  knew  very  little, 
while  she  judged  them  with  swift,  unerring  perception.  But 
especially  he  was  indebted  to  her  for  a  better  understanding 
of  the  theater;  she  helped  him  to  pierce  through  to  the  spirit 
of  that  admirable  art,  the  most  perfect  of  all  arts,  the  fullest 
and  most  sober.  She  revealed  to  him  the  beauty  of  that  magic 
instrument  of  the  human  dream, — and  made  him  PIT  that  he 
must  write;  for  it  and  not  for  himself,  as  he  had  a  tendency  to 
do. —  (the  tendency  of  too  many  artists,  who,  like  Beethoven, 
refuse  to  write  "  for  a  confounded  violin  irJn'ii  tlic  Spirit  xpcaks 
to  1li an  '").- — A  great  dramatic  poet  is  not  ashamed  to  work 
for  a  particular  theater  and  to  adapt  his  ideas  to  the  actors  at 
his  disposal  :  he  sees  no  belittlement  in  that:  but  he  knows  that 
a  vast  auditorium  calls  for  different  methods  of  expression  than 
those  necessary  for  a  smaller  space,  and  that  a  man  does  not 
write  trumpet-blares  for  the  flute.  The  theater,  like  the  fresco, 
is  art  fitted  to  its  place.  And  therefore  it  is  above  all  else  the 
human  art,  the  living  art. 

Franchise's  ideas  were  in  accordance  with  Christophe's,  who, 
at  that  stage  in  his  career,  was  inclined  towards  a  collective  art, 
in  communion  with  other  men.  Franchise's  experience  helped 
him  to  grasp  the  mysterious  collaboration  which  is  set  up  be- 
tween the  audience  and  the  actor.  Though  Franco! se  was  a 
realist,  and  had  very  few  illusions,  yet  she  had  a  great  perception 
of  the  [lower  of  reciprocal  suggestion,  the  waves  of  sympathy 
which  pass  between  the  actor  and  the  multitude,  the  great  silence 
of  thousands  of  men  and  women  from  which  arises  the  single 
voice  of  their  interpreter.  Naturallv  she  could  only  feel  it  in 
intermittent  Hashes,  very,  very  rare,  which  were  hardly  ever 
reproduced  at  the  same  passages  in  the  same  plav.  For  the 
rest  her  work  was  a  soulless  trade,  an  intelligent  and  coldlv 
mechanical  routine.  Putt  the  interest  of  it  lay  in  the  exception 
— the  Hash  of  light  which  pierced  the  darkness  of  the  abyss, 
the  common  soul  of  millions  of  men  and  women  whose  living 
force  was  expressed  in  her  for  the  space  of  a  second  oi 
eternitv. 


90  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE :    JOURNEY'S  END 

It  was  this  common  soul  which  it  was  the  lousiness  of  the 
great  artist  to  express.  His  ideal  should  be  a  living  objectivism, 
in  which  the  poet  should  throw  himself  into  those  for  whom 
he  sings,  and  denude  himself  of  self,  to  clothe  the  collective 
passions  which  are  blown  over  the  world  like  a  mighty  wind. 
Franchise  was  all  the  more  keenly  conscious  of  the  necessity. 
inasmuch  as  she  was  incapable  of  such  disinterestedness,  and 
always  played  herself. — For  the  last  century  and  a  half  the  dis- 
ordered efflorescence  of  individual  lyricism  has  been  tinged  with 
morbidity.  Moral  greatness  consists  in  feeling  much  and  con- 
trolling much,  in  being  sober  in  words  and  chaste  in  thought, 
in  not  making  a  parade  of  it,  in  making  a  look  speak  and 
speak  profoundly,  without  childish  exaggeration  or  effeminate 
effusiveness,  to  those  who  can  grasp  the  half-spoken  thought,  to 
men.  Modern  music,  which  is  so  loquaciously  introspective. 
dragging  in  indiscreet  confidences  at  every  turn,  is  immodest 
and  lacking  in  taste.  It  is  like  those  invalids  who  can  think 
of  nothing  but  their  illnesses,  and  never  weary  of  discussing 
them  with  other  people  and  going  into  repulsive  petty  details. 
This  travesty  of  art  has  been  growing  more  and  more  prevalent 
for  the  last  century.  Francoise,  who  was  no  musician,  was 
disposed  to  see  a  sign  of  decadence  in  the  development  of  music 
at  the  expense  of  poetry,  like  a  polypus  sucking  it  drv.  Chris- 
tophc  protested  :  but,  upon  reflection,  he  began  to  wonder  whether 
there  might  not  be  some  truth  in  it.  The  first  licdrr  written 
to  poems  of  Goethe  were  sober  and  apt:  soon  Schubert  came  and 
infused  his  romantic  sentimentality  into  them  and  gave  them  a 
twist:  Schumann  introduced  bis  girlish  languor:  and.  down  to 
Hugo  Wolf,  the  movement  had  gone  on  towards  more  stress 
in  declamation,  indecent  analysis,  a  presumptuous  endeavor  to 
leave  no  smallest  corner  of  the  soul  unlit.  Kvery  veil  about  the 
mysteries  of  the  heart  was  rent.  Things  said  in  all  earnestness 
bv  a  man  were;  now  screamed  aloud  bv  shameless  girls  who 
showed  themselves  in  their  nakedness. 

Christophe  was  rather  ashamed  of  such  art,  by  which  he  was 
himself  conscious  of  being  contaminated  :  and.  without  seeking  to 
go  back  to  the  past, —  (an  absurd,  unnatural  desire), — he  steeped 
himself  in  the  spirit  of  those  of  the  masters  of  the  past  who 
had  been  haughtily  discreet  in  their  thought  and  had  possessed 


LOVE  AND  FRIENDSHIP  91 

the  sense  of  a  great  collective  art:  like  Handel,  \vlio,  scorning 
the  tearful  piety  of  his  time  and  country,  wrote  his  colossal 
Anthems  and  his  oratorios,  those  heroic  epics  which  are  songs 
of  the  nations  for  the  nations.  The  difficulty  was  to  find  in- 
spiring subjects,  which,  like  the  Bible  in  Handel's  time,  could 
arouse  emotions  common  to  all  the  nations  of  modern  Europe. 
Modern  Europe  had  no  common  hook:  no  poem,  no  prayer,  no 
act  of  faith  which  was  the  property  of  all.  Oh  !  the  shame  that 
should  overwhelm  all  the  writers,  artists,  thinkers,  of  to-day! 
Xot  one  of  them  has  written,  not  one  of  them  lias  thought,  for 
all.  Only  Beethoven  has  left  a  few  pages  of  a  new  Gospel  of 
consolation  and  brotherhood  :  but  only  musicians  can  read  it, 
and  the  majority  of  men  will  never  hear  it.  Wagner,  on  the 
hill  at  Bayreuth,  has  tried  to  build  a  religious  art  to  bind  all 
men  together.  But  his  great  soul  had  too  little  simplicity  and 
too  many  of  the  blemishes  of  the  decadent  music  and  thought 
of  his  time:  not  the  fishers  of  Galilee  have  come  to  the  holy 
hill,  but  the  Pharisees. 

Christophe  felt  sure  what  he  had  to  do :  but  he  had  no  poet, 
and  he  was  forced  to  he  self-sufficing  and  to  confine  himself 
to  music.  And  music,  whatever  people  say,  is  not  a  universal 
language:  the  bow  of  words  is  necessary  to  send  the  arrow  of 
sound  into  the  hearts  of  all  men. 

Christophe  planned  to  write  a  suite  of  symphonies  inspired 
by  everyday  life.  Among  others  he  conceived  a  Domestic  Sym- 
phony, in  his  own  manner,  which  was  very  different  from  that 
of  Richard  Strauss.  He  was  not  concerned  with  materializing 
family  life  in  a  cinematograph  picture,  by  making  use  of  a 
conventional  alphabet,  in  which  musical  themes  expressed  arbi- 
trarily the  various  characters  whom,  if  the  auditor's  eyes  and 
ears  could  .stand  it.  were  presently  to  be  seen  going  through 
divers  evolutions  together.  That  seemed  to  him  a  pedantic  and 
childish  game  for  a  great  contrapuntist.  He  did  not  try  to 
describe  characters  or  actions,  but  only  to  express  emotions 
familiar  to  every  man  and  woman,  in  which  they  could  lind 
the  echo  of  their  own  souls,  and  perhaps  comfort  and  relief. 
The  lirst  movement  expressed  the  grave  and  simple  happiness 
of  a  loving  young  couple,  with  its  tender  sensuality,  its  con- 
fidence in  the  future,  its  joy  and  hopes.  The  second  movement 


02  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE :    JOUHNEY'S  END 

was  an  elegy  on  the  death  of  a  child.  Christophe  had  avoided 
with  horror  any  effort  to  depict  death,  and  realistic  detail  in 
the  expression  of  sorrow:  there  was  only  the  utter  misery  of 
it, — -yours,  mine,  everybody's,  of  being  face  to  face  with  a  mis- 
fortune which  falls  or  may  fall  to  the  lot  of  everybody.  The 
soul,  prostrate  in  its  grief,  from  which 'Christophe  had  banned 
the  usual  effects  of  sniveling  melodrama,  recovered  bit  by  bit, 
in  a  sorrowful  effort,  to  offer  its  suffering  as  a  sacrifice  to  God. 
Once  more  it  set  bravely  out  on  tbe  road,  in  the  next  movement, 
which  was  linked  with  the  second, — a  headstrong  fugue,  the 
bold  design  and  insistent  rhythm  of  which  captivated,  and. 
through  struggles  and  tears,  led  on  to  a  mighty  march,  full  of 
indomitable  faith.  The  last  movement  depicted  the  evening  of 
life.  The  themes  of  the  opening  movement  reappeared  in  it 
with  their  touching  confidence  and  their  tenderness  which  could 
not  grow  old,  but  riper,  emerging  from  the  shadow  of  sorrow, 
crowned  with  light,  and,  like  a  rich  blossoming,  raising  a  re- 
ligious hymn  of  love  to  life  and  (Hod. 

Christophe  also  rummaged  in  the  books  of  the  past  for  great, 
simple,  human  subjects  speaking  to  the  best  in  the  hearts  of 
all  men.  He  chose  two  such  stories:  Joxt'pli  and  Xiobe.  But 
then  Christophe  was  brought  up  not  only  against  his  need  of 
a  poet,  but  against  the  vexed  question,  which  has  been  argued 
for  centuries  and  never  solved,  of  the  union  of  poetry  and 
music.  His  talks  with  Francoise  had  brought  him  back  to 
his  idea,  sketched  out  long  ago  with  ("online,  of  a  form  of 
musical  drama,  somewhere  between  recitative  opera  and  the 
spoken  drama. — the  art  of  the  free  word  united  with  free  music. 
— an  art  of  which,  hardly  anv  artist  of  to-dav  has  a  glimmering, 
an  art  also  which  the  routine  critics,  imbued  with  the  Wagneriar. 
tradition,  deny,  as  fhev  deny  every  really  new  work:  for  it  is 
not  a  matter  of  following  in  the  footsteps  of  Beethoven.  Weber. 
Schumann,  Irixet.  although  they  used  the  melodramatic  form 
with  genius:  it  is  not  a  matter  of  yoking  any  sort  of  speaking 
voice  to  anv  sort  of  mu^ic.  and  producing,  at  all  costs,  with 
absurd  tremolos,  coarse  effect1'  upon  coarse  audiences:  it  is  a 
matter  of  creating  a  new  form,  in  which  musical  voices  will  b^ 
wedded  to  instruments  attuned  to  those  voices,  discreetly 
minii'ling  with  their  harmonious  periods  the  echo  of  dreams  and 


LOVE  AND  FRIENDSHIP  93 

the  plaintive  murmur  of  music.  It  goes  without  saying  that 
such  a  form  could  only  lie  applied  to  a  narrow  range  of  sub- 
jects, to  intimate  and  introspective  moments  of  the  soul,  so  as 
to  conjure  up  its  poetic  perfume.  In  no  art  should  there  be 
more  discretion  and  aristocracy  of  feeling.  It  is  only  natural, 
therefore,  that  it  should  have  little  chance  of  coming  to  flower 
in  an  age  which,  in  spite  of  the  pretensions  of  its  artists,  reeks 
of  the  deep-seated  vulgarity  of  upstarts. 

Perhaps  Christophe  was  no  more  suited  to  such  an  art  than 
the  rest:  his  very  qualities,  his  plebeian  force,  were  obstacles 
in  tiie  way.  lie  could  only  conceive  it,  and  with  the  aid  of 
Franeoisc  realize  a  few  rough  sketches. 

In  this  way  he  set  to  music  passages  from  the  Bible,  almost 
literally  transcribed. — like  the  immortal  scene  in  which  Joseph 
makes  himself  known  to  his  brothers,  and.  after  so  many  trials, 
can  no  longer  contain  his  emotion  and  tender  feeling,  and 
whispers  the  words  which  have  wrung  tears  from  old  Tolstoy, 
and  many  another : 

ef  Then  Joseph  could  not  refrain  himself.  .  .  .  I  am  Joseph; 
doth  my  father  yet  live?  I  am  Joseph,  your  brother,  whom  ye 
sold  into  Efjypt.  I  am  Joseph.  ..." 

Their  beautiful  and  free  relation  could  not  last.  They  had 
moments  splendid  and  full  of  life:  but  they  were  too  different. 
They  were  both  strong-willed,  and  then  often  clashed.  But  their 
differences  were  never  of  a  vulgar  character:  for  (.'hristophe  bad 
won  Franchise's  respect.  And  Franchise,  who  could  sometimes 
be  so  cruel,  was  kind  to  those  who  were  kind  to  her;  no  power 
on  earth  could  have  made  her  do  anything  to  hurt  them.  And 
besides,  both  of  them  bad  a  fund  of  gav  humor.  She  was  always 
the  first  to  lauyli  at  herself.  She  was  still  eating  her  heart  out: 
for  the  old  passion  still  had  its  grip  on  her:  she  still  thought 
of  the  blackguard  she  loved:  and  she  could  not  bear  to  be  in 
so  humiliating  a  position  or.  above  all.  to  have  Christophe  sus- 
pecting what  she  was  feeling. 

Christoplu'  would  sometimes  tind  her  for  days  together  silent 
and  restless  and  given  up  to  melancholy,  and  could  not  under- 
stand how  she  could  be  unhappy.  She  had  achieved  her  end; 
she  was  a  great  artist,  admired,  flattered.  .  . 


94  JEAX-CHRISTOPHE :    JOURXEY'S  EXD 

"Yes,"  she  would  say;  "that  would  be  all  very  well  if  1 
were  one  of  those  famous  actresses,  with  no  soul  above  shop- 
keeping,  who  run  the  theater  just  as  they  would  run  any  other 
business.  They  are  quite  happy  when  they  have  '  realized  '  a 
good  position,  a  commonplace,  wealthy  marriage,  and — the  tic- 
plus  ultra — been  decorated.  1  wanted  more  than  that.  Unless 
one  is  a  fool,  success  is  even  more  empty  than  failure.  You 
must  know  that !  " 

"I  know,"  said  Christophe.  "Ah!  Dear  Cod,  that  is  not 
what  I  imagined  fame  to  be  when  I  was  a  child.  How  I  longed 
for  it,  and  what  a  shining  thing  it  seemed  to  be!  It  was  almost 
a  religion  to  me  then.  .  .  .  Xo  matter !  There  is  one  divine 
virtue  in  success:  the  good.it  gives  one  the  power  to  do." 

"What  good?  One  has  conquered.  But  what's  the  good  of 
it?  Xothing  is  altered.  Theaters,  concerts,  everything  is  just 
the  same.  A  new  fashion  succeeds  the  old:  that  is  all.  They 
do  not  understand  one,  or  only  superficially:  and  they  begin 
to  think  of  something  else  at  once.  .  .  .  Do  you  yourself 
understand  other  artists?  In  any  case,  they  don't  understand 
you.  The  people  you  love  best  are  so  far  away  from  you !  Look 
at  your  Tolstoy.  ..." 

Christophe  had  written  to  him:  he  had  been  filled  with 
enthusiasm  for  him,  and  had  wept  over  his  books:  he  wanted 
to  set  one  of  the  peasant  tales  to  music,  and  had  asked  for  his 
authority,  and  had  sent  him  his  lieder.  Tolstoy  did  not  reply, 
any  more  than  Goethe  replied  to  Schubert  or  Berliox  when  they 
sent  him  their  masterpieces.  He  had  had  Christophe's  music 
played  to  him,  and  it  had  irritated  him:  he  could  make  nothing 
of  it.  He  regarded  Beethoven  as  a  decadent,  and  Shakespeare 
as  a  charlatan.  On  the  other  hand,  he  was  infatuated  with 
various  little  pretty-pretty  masters,  and  the  harpsichord  music 
which  used  to  charm  the  Roi-Perriiqw :  and  he  regarded  La 
Confession  d'nnc  Fein  me  dc  CJinn/lre  as  a  Christian  hook,  .  .  . 

"Great  men  have  no  need  of  us,"  said  Christophe.  "We 
must  think  of  the  others." 

"Who?  The  dull  public,  the  shadows  who  hide  life  from 
us?  Act.  write  for  such  people?  Give  your  life  for  them? 
That  would  be  bitter  indeed!'* 

"  Bah ! "   said    Christophe.     "  I    see   them   as   they   are   just 


LOVE  AND  FRIENDSHIP  95 

as  you  do :  but  I  don't  let  it  make  me  despondent.  They  are 
not  as  bad  as  you  say." 

"  Dear  old  German  optimist !  " 

"  They  are  men,  like  myself.  Why  should  they  not  under- 
stand me?  .  .  . — And  suppose  they  don't  understand  me, 
why  should  I  despair?  Among  all  the  thousands  of  people  there 
will  surely  be  one  or  two  who  will  be  with  me:  that  is  enough 
for  me,  and  gives  me  window  enough  to  breathe  the  outer 
air.  .  .  .  Think  of  all  the  simple  playgoers,  the  young  people, 
the  old  honest  souls,  who  are  lifted  out  of  their  tedious  everyday 
life  by  your  appearance,  your  voice,  your  revelation  of  tragic 
beauty.  Think  of  what  you  were  yourself  when  you  were  a 
child !  Isn't  it  a  fine  thing  to  give  to  others — perhaps  even 
only  to  one  other — the  happiness  that  others  gave  you,  and  to 
do  to  them  the  good  that  others  did  to  you  ?  " 

"Do  you  really  believe  that  there  is  one  such  in  the  world? 
I  have  come  to  doubt  it.  ...  Besides,  what  sort  of  love  do 
we  get  from  the  best  of  those  who  love  us?  How  do  they  see 
us?  They  see  so  badly!  They  admire  you  while  they  degrade 
you:  they  get  just  as  much  pleasure  out  of  watching  any  old 
stager  act:  they  drag  you  down  to  the  level  of  the  idiots  you 
despise.  In  their  eyes  all  successful  people  are  exactly  the 
same." 

"And  yet,  when  all  is  told,  it  is  the  greatest  of  all  who  go 
clown  to  posterity  with  the  greatest." 

"  It  is  only  the  backward  movement  of  time.  Mountains 
grow  taller  the  farther  you  go  away  from  them.  You  see  their 
height  better  :  but  you  are  farther  away  from  them.  .  .  .  And 
besides,  who  is  to  tell  us  who  arc  the  greatest?  What  do  you 
know  of  the  men  who  have  disappeared?" 

"  Nonsense !  "  said  Christophe.  "  Even  if  nobody  were  to  feel 
what  I  think  and  what  I  am,  [  think  my  thoughts  and  I  am 
what  I  am  just  the  same.  1  have  my  music,  I  love  it.  I  believe 
in  it:  it  is  the  truest  thing  in  my  life." 

"You  are  free  in  your  art. — you  can  do  what  you  like.  But 
what  can  1  do?  I  am  forced  to  act  in  the  plays  they  give 
me,  and  go  on  acting  until  1  am  sick  of  it.  We  are  not  yet, 
in  France,  such  beasts  of  burden  as  those  American  actors  who 
play  nip  or  Eolcrt  Macaire  ten  thousand  times,  and  for  twenty 


90  JEAN-CHKISTOrilF, :    ,'IOT'UNKY'S   END 

five  years  of  their  lives  go  on  grinding  out  and  grinding  out  an 
idiotic  part.  Hut  we  are  on  the  road  to  it.  Our  theaters  are 
so  poverty-stricken!  The  public  will  only  stand  genius  in  in- 
finitesimal doses,  sprinkled  with  mannerisms  and  fashionable 
literature.  ...  A  'fashionable  genius'!  Doesn't  that  make 
you  laugh?  .  .  .  What  waste  of  power!  Look  at  what  they 
have  made  of  a  Mounet.  What  has  he  had  to  play  Ihe  whole 
of  his  life?  Two  or  three  parts  that  are  worth  the  struggle 
for  life:  the  Oedipus  and  I'olijciLclc.  The  rest  has  been  rot! 
Isn't  that  enough  to  disgust  one?  And  just  think  of  all  the 
great  and  glorious  things  he  might  have  had  to  do!  .  .  . 
Things  are  no  better  outside  France?  What  have  they  made 
of  a  Duse?  What  lias  her  life  been  given  up  to?  Think  of 
the  futile  parts  she  has  played?" 

"Your  real  task."  said  Ohristophe,  "is  to  force  great  works 
of  art  on  the  world." 

"  We  should  exhaust  ourselves  in  a  vain  endeavor.  It  isn't 
worth  it.  As  soon  as  a  great  work"  of  art  is  brought  into  the 
theater  it  loses  its  great  poetic  quality.  It  becomes  a  hollow 
sham.  The  breath  of  the  public,  sullies  it.  The  public  consists 
of  people  living  in  stifling  towns  and  they  have  lost  all  knowledge1 
of  the  open  air.  and  Xature,  and  healthy  poetry:  they  must  have 
their  poetry  theatrical,  glittering,  painted,  reek-ing. — Ah!  And 
besides  .  .  .  besides,  even  suppose,  one  did  succeed  .  .  .  no, 
that  would  not  fill  one's  life,  it  would  not  -fill  my  life.  .  .  ." 

"  You  are  still  thinking  of  him." 

"Who?" 

"  You  know.     That  man." 

"  Yes." 

"Even  if  you  could  have  him  and  he  loved  you,  confess  that 
you  would  not  be  happy  even  then:  you  would  still  iind  some 
means  of  tormenting  yourself." 

"True \h!  What  is  the  matter  with  me?  .  .  . 

I  think  I  have  had  too  hard  a  light.  1  have  fretted  too  much: 
J  can't  ever  be  calm  again:  there  is  always  an  uneasiness  in  me. 
a  <ort  of  fever.  .  .  ." 

"  it  must  have  been  in  you  even  before  your  struggles." 

"Possible.  Yes.  It  was  in  me  when  !  was  a  little  girl,  as 
far  back  as  L  can  remember.  -It  was  devouring  me  then," 


LOVE  AX1)  FRIENDSHIP  9? 

"  What  do  you  want  ?  " 

"  How  do  I  know  ?     More  than  I  can  have." 

"  I  know  that."  said  Christophe.  "  I  was  like  that  when  I 
was  a  boy." 

"  Yes,  but  you  have  become  a  man.  I  shall  never  be  grown-up 
as  long  as  1  live.  1  am  an  incomplete  creature." 

"  Xo  one  is  complete.  Happiness  lies  in  knowing  one's  limi- 
tations and  loving  them." 

"  I  can't  do  that.  I've  lost  it.  Life  has  cheated  me.  tricked 
me,  crippled  me.  And  yet  I  fancy  that  I  could  never  have 
been  a  normal  and  healthy  and  beautiful  woman  without  being 
like  the  rest  of  the  gang." 

"  There's  no  reason  why  you  shouldn't  be  all  these  things.  F 
can  see  you  being  like  that!  " 

"  Tell  me  how  you  can  see  me." 

He  described  her.  in  conditions  under  which  she  might  have 
developed  naturally  and  harmoniously,  and  been  happy,  loved, 
and  loving.  And  it  did  her  good  to  hear  it.  But  when  he 
had  done,  she  said  : 

"  Xo.     It  is  impossible  now." 

"  Well,"  be  said.  "  in  that  case  you  must  say  to  yourself,  like 
dear  old  Handel  when  he  went  blind: 


}Y1inf  c-rcr  is,  is  riglif.'" 

He  went  to  the  piano  and  sang  it  for  her.  She  kissed  him 
and  called  him  her  dear,  crazy  optimist,  lie  did  her  jrood. 
But  she  did  him  harm:  or  at  least,  she  was  afraid  of  him.  She 
bail  violent  fits  of  despair,  and  could  not  conceal  them  fro:u 
him:  her  love  made  her  weak.  At  night  she  would  trv  to 
choke  down  her  agony,  he  would  guess,  and  beg  the  beloved 
creature  who  was  so  near  and  yet  so  far.  to  share  with  him  the 
burden  which  lay  so  heavy  on  her:  then  she  eould  not  hold 
out  any  longer,  and  she  would  turn  weeping  to  his  arms: 
and  he  would  spend  hours  in  comforting  her.  kindlv.  with- 
out a  spark  of  anger:  but  in  the  long-run  her  perpetual 


98  JEAN-CHRISTOPHE:    JOURNEY'S  END 

restlessness  was  bound  to  tell  on  him.  Franeoise  trembled  lest 
the  fever  that  was  in  her  should  infect  him.  She  loved  him  too 
much  to  be  able  to  bear  the  idea  that  he  should  suffer  because 
of  her.  She  was  offered  an  engagement  in  America.,  and  she 
accepted  it,  so  as  to  tear  herself  away  from  him.  She  left  him 
a  little  humiliated.  She  was  as  humiliated  as  he.  in  the  knowl- 
edge that  they  could  not  make  each  other  happy ! 

"My  poor  dear,"  she  said  to  him,  smiling  sadly  and  tenderly. 
"Aren't  we  stupid?  We  shall  never  have  such  a  friendship 
again,  never  such  a  glorious  opportunity.  But  it  can't  be  helped, 
it  can't  be  helped.  We  are  too  stupid!" 

They  looked  at  each  other  mournfully  and  shamefacedly. 
They  laughed  to  keep  themselves  from  weeping,  kissed,  and 
parted  with  tears  in  their  eyes.  Never  had  they  loved  so  well 
as  when  they  parted. 

And  after  shr  was  gone  he  returned  to  art,  his  old  com- 
panion. .  .  .  Oh,  the  peace  of  the  starry  sky! 

It  was  not  long  before  Christophe  received  a  letter  from 
Jacqueline.  It  was  only  the  third  time  she  had  written  to 
him,  and  her  tone  was  very  different  from  that  to  which  she 
had  accustomed  him.  She  told  him  how  sorry  she  was  not 
to  have  seen  him  for  so  long,  and  very  nicely  invited  him  to 
come  and  see  her.  unless  he  wished  to  hurt  two  friends  who 
loved  him.  Christophe  was  delighted,  but  not  greatly  surprised. 
He  had  been  inclined  to  think  that  Jacqueline's  unjust  disposi- 
tion towards  him  would  not  last.  He  was  fond  of  quoting  a 
jest  of  his  old  grandfather's: 

"  Sooner  or  later  women  have  their  good  moments :  one  only 
needs  the  patience  to  wait  for  them." 

He  went  to  see  Olivier,  and  was  welcomed  with  delight. 
Jacqueline  was  most  attentive  to  him:  she  avoided  the  ironical 
manner  Avhich  was  natural  to  her.  took  care  not  to  say  anything 
that  might  hurt  Christophe,  showed  great  interest  in  what  he 
was  doing,  and  talked  intelligently  about  serious  subjects.  Chris- 
tophe  thought  her  transformed.  "But  she  was  only  so  to  please 
him.  Jacqueline  had  heard  of  Christophe's  affair  with  the 
popular  actress,  the  tale  of  which  had  gone  the  rounds  of 


LOVE  AND  FRIENDSHIP  99 

Parisian  gossip :  and  Christophe  had  appeared  to  her  in  an 
altogether  new  light :  she  was  filled  with  curiosity  about  him. 
When  she  met  him  again  she  found  him  much  more  sympathetic. 
Even  his  faults  seemed  to  her  to  be  not  without  attraction. 
She  realized  that  Christophe  had  genius,  and  that  it  would  be 
worth  while  to  make  him  love  her. 

The  position  between  the  young  couple  was  no  better,  but 
rather  worse.  Jacqueline  was  bored,  bored,  bored  :  she  was  bored 
to  death.  .  .  .  How  utterly  lonely  a  woman  is!  Except  chil- 
dren, nothing  can  hold  her:  and  children  are  not  enough  to 
hold  her  forever:  for  when  she  is  really  a  woman,  and  not 
merely  a  female,  when  she  has  a  rich  soul  and  an  abounding 
vitality,  she  is  made  for  so  many  things  which  she  cannot 
accomplish  alone  and  with  none  to  help  her!  ...  A  man 
is  much  less  lonely,  even  when  he  is  most  alone:  he  can  people 
the  desert  with  his  own  thoughts:  and  when  he  is  lonely  in 
married  life  he  can  more  easily  put  up  with  it.  for  he  notices 
it  less,  and  can  always  live  in  the  soliloquy  of  his  own  thoughts. 
And  it  never  occurs  to  him  that  the  sound  of  his  voice  going 
on  imperturbably  babbling  in  the  desert,  makes  the  silence  more 
terrible  and  the  desert  more  frightful  for  the  woman  by  his 
side,  for  whom  all  words  are  dead  that  are  not  kindled  by  love. 
He  does  not  see  it:  he  has  not,  like  the  woman,  staked  his  whole 
life  on  love:  his  life  has  other  occupations.  .  .  .  What  man 
is  there  can  fill  the  life  of  a  woman  and  satisfy  her  immense 
desire,  the  millions  of  ardent  and  generous  forces  that,  through 
the  forty  thousand  years  of  the  life  of  humanity,  have  burned 
to  no  purpose,  as  a  holocaust  offered  up  to  two  idols:  passing 
love  and  motherhood,  that  sublime  fraud,  which  is  refused  to 
thousands  of  women  and  never  iills  more  than  a  few  years  in 
the  lives  of  the  rest? 

Jacqueline  was  in  despair.  She  had  moments  of  terror  that 
cut  through  her  like  swords.  She  thought: 

"'Why  am  1  alive?  Why  was  I  ever  born?"'  And  her  heart 
would  ache  and  throb  in  agony. 

"  My  Uod,  I  am  goi.ig  to  die!      Mv  (!od.  T  am  going  to  die!  " 

That  idea  haunted  her,  obsessed  her  through  the  night.  She 
used  to  dream  that  she  was  saying: 

"Jt  is  1889." 


100         JEAN-CHRISTOPHE:    JOURNEY'S  END 

"No,"  the  answer  would  come.  "It  is  1909."  And  the 
thought  that  she  was  twenty  years  older  than  she  imagined 
would  make  her  wretched. 

"  It  will  all  he  over,  and  I  have  never  lived  !  What  have  I 
done  with  these  twenty  years?  What  have  I  made  of  iny 
life  ?  " 

She  would  dream  that  she  was  four  little  girls,  all  four  lying 
in  the  same  room  in  different  beds.  They  were  all  of  the  same 
figure  and  the  same  face:  but  one  was  eight,  one  was  fifteen,  one 
was  twenty,  and  the  fourth  was  thirty.  There  was  an  epidemic. 
Three  of  them  had  died.  The  fourth  looked  at  herself  in  the 
mirror,  and  she  was  filled  with  terror:  she  saw  herself  with 
the  skin  drawn  tight  over  her  nose,  and  her  features  pinched 
and  withered  .  .  .  she  was  going  to  die  too — and  then  it 
would  be  all  over.  .  .  . 

".    .    .    What  have  I  done  with  my  life?    .    .    ." 

She  would  wake  up  in  tears;  and  the  nightmare  would  not 
vanish  with  the  day:  the  nightmare  was  real.  What  had  she 
done  with  her  life?  Who  had  robbed  her  of  it?  .  .  .  She 
would  begin  to  hate  Olivier,  the  innocent  accomplice — (inno- 
cent! What  did  it  matter  if  the  harm  done  was  the  same!) — - 
of  the  blind  law  which  was  crushing  her.  She  would  be  sorry 
for  it  at  once,  for  she  was  kind  of  heart  :  but  she  was  suffering 
too  much:  and  >he  could  not  help  wreaking  her  vengeance1  on 
the  man  who  was  bound  to  her  and  was  stifling  her  life,  by 
making  him  suffer  more  than  he  was  indeed  suffering.  Then 
she  would  be  more  sorry  than  ever:  she  would  loathe  herself 
and  feel  that  if  she  did  not  find  some  way  of  escape  she  would 
do  things  even  more  evil.  She  groped  blindly  about  to  find 
some  way  of  escape:  she  clutched  at  everything  like  a  drowning 
woman:  she  tried  to  take  an  interest  in  something,  work,  or 
another  liuiifin  being,  that  might  be  in  some  sort  her  own.  her 
work,  a  creature  belonging  to  herself.  She  tried  to  take  up 
some  intellectual  work,  and  learned  foreign  languages:  she 
began  an  article,  a  story:  she  beiran  to  paint,  to  compose.  .  .  . 
In  vain:  six1  a'rew  tired  of  evervthing,  and  lost  heart  the  very 
first  dav.  Thev  were  too  difficult.  And  then.  "  books,  works 
of  art!  What  are  they?  1  don't  know  whether  I.  love  them, 
I  don't  even  know  whether  thev  exist.  ."• — Sometimes  she 


LOVE  AND  FRIENDSHIP  101 

would  talk  excitedly  and  laugh  with  Olivier,  and  seem  to  be 
keenly  interested  in  the  things  they  talked  about,  or  in  what 
he  was  doing :  she  would  try  to  bemuse  and  benumb  herself.  .  .  . 
In  vain :  suddenly  her  excitement  would  collapse,  her  heart  would 
go  icy  cold,  she  would  hide  away,  with  never  a  tear,  hardly  a 
breath,  utterly  prostrate. — She  had  in  some  measure  succeeded 
in  destroying  Olivier.  He  was  growing  skeptical  and  worldly. 
She  did  not  mind:  she  found  him  as  weak  as  herself.  Almost 
every  evening  they  used  to  go  out :  and  she  would  go  in  an 
agony  of  suffering  and  boredom  from  one  fine  house  to  another, 
and  no  one  would  ever  guess  the  feeling  that  lay  behind  the 
irony  of  her  unchanging  smile.  She  was  seeking  for  some  one 
to  love  her  and  keep  her  back  from  the  edge  of  the  abyss.  .  .  . 
In  vain,  in  vain,  in  vain.  There  was  nothing  but  silence  in 
answer  to  her  cry  of  despair. 

She  did  not  love  Chi-istophe :  she  could  not  bear  his  rough 
manner,  his  painful  frankness,  and,  above  all.  his  indifference. 
She  did  not  love  him:  but  she  had  a  feeling  that  he  at  least 
was  strong, — a  rock  towering  above  death.  And  she  tried  to 
clutch  hold  of  the  rock,  to  cling  to  the  swimmer  whose  head 
rose  above  the  waves,  to  cling  to  him  or  to  drown  with  him.  .  .  . 

Besides,  it  was  not  enough  for  her  to  have  cut  her  husband  off 
from  his  friends :  now  she  was  driven  on  to  take  them  from  him. 
Even  the  best  of  women  sometimes  have  an  instinct  which  impels 
them  to  try  and  see  how  far  their  power  goes,  and  to  go  beyond 
it.  In  that  abuse  of  their  power  their  weakness  proves  its 
strength.  And  when  the  woman  is  selfish  and  vain  she  finds  a 
malign  pleasure  in  robbing  her  husband  of  the  friendship  of 
his  friends.  It  is  easily  done :  she  has  but  to  use  her  eyes  a 
little.  There  is  hardly  a  single  man.  honorable  or  otherwise, 
who  is  not  weak  enough  to  nibble  at  the  bait.  Though  the  friend 
be  never  so  true  and  loyal,  he  may  avoid  the  act.  but  he  will 
almost  always  betray  his  friend  in  thought.  And  if  the  other 
man  sees  it.  there  is  an  end  of  their  friendship:  they  no  longer 
see  each  other  with  the  same  eyes.- — The  woman  who  plays  such 
a  dangerous  game  generally  stops  at  that  and  asks  no  more: 
she  lias  them  both,  disunited,  at  her  mercy. 

Christophe  observed  Jacqueline's  new  graces  and  charming 
treatment  of  himself,  but  he  was  not  surprised.  When  he  had 


10^         JEAN-CHlUSTOriiE:    JOril.\EY\S   KM) 

;ui  affection  for  any  one  lie  had  a  naive  way  o!'  taking  ii  as  a 
matter  of  course;  that  ill*1  affection  should  bo  returned  \vithoiii 
any  ulterior  thought.  .He  responded  gladly  to  Jacqueline's  ad- 
vances: lie  thought  her  charming,  and  amused  himself  thoroughly 
with  her:  and  he  thought  so  well  of  her  that  he  was  not  far 
from  thinking  Olivier  rather  a  bungler  not  to  be  able  to  bo 
happy  with  her  and  to  make  her  happy. 

JIo  went  with  them  for  a  few  days'  tour  in  a  motor-car:  and 
he  was  their  guest  at  the  Langeais'  country  house  in  Burgundy 
— an  old  family  mansion  which  was  kept  because  of  its  associa- 
tions, though  they  hardly  ever  went  there.  It  was  in  a  lovely 
situation,  in  the  midst  of  vineyards  and  woods:  it  was  very 
shablyy  inside,  and  the  windows  were  loose  in  their  frames:  there 
was  a  moldy  smell  in  it,  a  smell  of  ripe  fruit,  of  cold  shadow, 
and  resinous  trees  warmed  bv  the  sun.  Living  constantly  in 
Jacqueline's  company  for  days  together,  a  sweet  insidious  feeling- 
crept  into  Christophc's  veins,  without  in  the  least  disturbing  his 
peace  of  mind  :  he  took  an  innocent,  though  by  no  means  im- 
material, delight  in  seeing  her,  hearing  her,  feeling  the  contact 
of  her  beautiful  body,  and  sipping  the  breath  of  her  mouth, 
Olivier  was  a  little  anxious  and  uneasy,  but  said  nothing,  lie 
suspected  nothing:  but  he  was  oppressed  by  a  vague  uneasiness 
which  he  would  have  been  ashamed  to  admit  to  himself:  by  way 
of  punishing  himself  for  it  he  frequently  left  them  alone  to- 
••'ether.  Jacqueline  saw  what  he  was  thinking,  and  was  touched 
by  it:  she  longed  to  say  to  him: 

"  Come,  don't  be  anxious,  my  dear.     1  still  love  you  the  best." 

But  she  did  not  say  it:  and  they  all  three  went  on  drifting: 
Christophe  entirelv  unconscious,  Jacqueline  not  knowing  what 
she  reallv  wanted,  and  leaving  it  to  chance  to  tell,  her,  and 
Olivier  alone  seeing  and  feeling  what  was  in  the  wind,  but  in 
the  delicacy  of  vanitv  and  love;,  refusing  to  think  of  it.  When 
the  will  is  silent,  instinct  speaks:  in  the  absence  of  the  crivil,  the 
body  goes  its  own  way. 

One  evening,  after  dinner,  the  night  seemed  to  them  so  lovely 
— a  moonless,  starry  night, — that  they  proposed  to  go  for  a  walk 
in  the  garden.  Olivier  and  C.'hristophe  left  the  house.  Jacque- 
line went  up  to  her  room  to  fetch  a  shawl.  She  did  not  come 
down,  Christophe  went  to  look  for  her,  fuming  at  the  eternal 


LOVE  AXD  FRIENDSHIP  103 

dilatoriness  of  woman. —  (For  some  time  without  knowing  it 
lu.'  had  slipped  into  playing  the  part  of  the  husband.) — He  heard 
her  coming.  The  shutters  of  her  room  were  closed  and  he  could 
not  see. 

"  Come  along,  you  dilly-dallying  madam,"  cried  Christophc 
gaily.  "  You'll  wear  your  mirror  out  if  you  look  at  yourself 
so  much." 

She  did  not  reply.  She  had  stoppsd  still.  Christophe  felt 
that  she  was  in  the  room:  but  she  did  not  stir. 

"  Where  are  you?"  he  said. 

She  did  not  reply.  Christophe  said  nothing  cither,  and  began 
groping  in  the  dark,  and  suddenly  his  heart  grew  big  and  began 
to  thump,  and  he  stood  still.  Near  him  he  could  hear  Jacqueline 
breathing  lightly.  He  moved  again  and  stopped  once  more. 
She  was  near  him  :  he  knew  it.  but  he  could  not  move.  There 
was  silence  for  a  second  or  two.  Suddenly  he  felt  her  hands 
on  his,  her  lips  on  his.  He  held  her  close.  Thev  stood  still 
and  spoke  no  word. — Their  lips  parted;  they  wrenched  away 
from  each  other.  Jacqueline  left  the  room.  Christophc  fol- 
lowed her,  trembling.  His  legs  shook  beneath  him.  He  stopped 
for  a  moment  to  lean  against  the  wall  until  the  tumult  in  his 
blood  died  down.  At  last  he  joined  them  again.  Jacqueline 
was  calmly  talking  to  Olivier.  They  walked  on  a  few  yards  in 
front.  Christophe  followed  them  in  a  state  of  collapse.  Olivier 
stopped  to  wait  for  him.  Christophe  stopped  too.  Olivier, 
knowing  his  friend's  temper  and  the  capricious  silence  in  which 
he  would  sometimes  bar  himself,  did  not  persist,  and  went  on 
walking  with  Jacqueline.  And  Christophe  followed  them  me- 
chanically, lagging  ten  yeards  behind  them  like  a  dog.  When 
they  stopped,  he  stopped.  When  they  walked  on,  he  walked  on. 
And  so  they  went  round  the  garden  and  bad 
Christophe  went  up  to  his  room  and  shut  himse 
not  light  the  lamp.  He  did  not  go  to  bed.  He  eoi 
About  the  middle  of  the  night  he  fell  asleep,  siti 
head  reslnlg  in  his  arms  on  the  table.  lie  woke 
later.  .He  lit  a  candle,  feverishly  Hung  together  his  papers  and 
belongings,  packed  his  bag,  and  then  Hung  himself  on  the  bed 
and  slept  until  dawn.  Then  lie  went  down  with  his  luggage 
and  left  the  house.  Thev  waited  for  him  all  morning,  and  spent 


104         JEAX-CHRISTOPHE:    JOT'KXEY'S  EXD 

the  day  looking  for  him.  Jacqueline  hid  her  furious  anger 
beneath  a  mask  of  indifference,  and  sarcastically  pretended  to  go 
over  her  plate.  It  was  not  until  the  following  evening  that 
Olivier  received  a  letter  from  Christophe : 

"My  dear  Old  Fellow, 

"Don't  1)C  any i'u  witli  me  for  having  gone  away  'like  a  mad- 
man. I  am  mad,  you  know.  But  what  can  I  do?  I  am  irliat 
1  am.  Thanks  for  your  dear  hospitality.  I  enjoyed  it  much. 
But,  you  know,  I  am  not  fit  to  lire  with  other  people.  I'm  not 
so  sure  either  that  I  am  fit  to  lire.  I  am  only  fit  to  stay  hi 
my  corner  and  love  people — at  a  distance:  it  is  wiser  so.  \Ylien 
I  sec  them  at  too  close  quarters,  1  become  misanthropic.  And 
I  don't  want  to  le  that.  I  want  to  love  men  and  women,  I 
want  to  love  yon  all.  Oh!  How  I  long  to  help  you  all!  If 
I  could  only  help  you  to  be — to  l>e  happy!  JIow  gladly  would 
I  give  all  the  happiness  I  may  have  in  exchange!  .  .  .  But 
that  is  forbidden.  One  can  only  show  others  Ihe  way.  One 
cannot  go  their  way  in  their  stead.  Each  of  us  must  save  him- 
self. Save  yourself!  Save  yourselves!  I  love  you. 

"  CiiiusTorni:. 

"My  respects  to  Madame  Jeannin/' 

"  Madame  Jeannin"  read  the  letter  with  a  smile  of  contempt 
and  her  lips  tight! v  pressed  together,  and  said  dryly: 

"  Well.      Follow  his  advice.     Save  yourself." 

But  when  Olivier  held  out  his  hand  for  the  letter,  Jacqueline 
crumpled  it  up  and  flung  it  down,  and  two  great  tears  welled 
up  into  her  eyes.  Olivier  took  her  hands. 

"What's  the  matter?"  he  asked,  with  some  emotion. 

"  Let  me  he!"  she  cried  angrily. 

She  went  out.     As  she  reached  the  door  she  cried : 

"  Egoists !  " 

Christophe  had  contrived  to  make  enemies  of  his  patrons  of 
the  (! rand  Journal,  as  was  only  likely.  Christophe  had  been 
endowed  by  Heaven  with  the  virtue  extolled  by  Goethe:  non- 
gratitude. 


LOVE  AXD  FETEXDSHTP  105 

"The  horror  of  showing  gratitude,'"  wrote  Goethe  ironically, 
"is  rare,  and  only  appears  in  remarkable  men  who  have  risen 
from  the  poorest  class,  and  at  every  turn  have  been  forced  to 
accept  assistance,  -which  is  almost  invariably  poisoned  by  the 
churlishness  of  the  benefactor.  ..." 

Christophe  was  never  disposed  to  think  himself  obliged  to 
abase  himself  in  return  for  service  rendered,  nor — what  amounted 
to  the  same  thing — to  surrender  his  liberty,  lie  did  not  lend 
his  own  benefactions  at  so  much  per  cent. :  he  gave  them.  His 
benefactors,  however,  were  of  a  very  different  way  of  thinking. 
Their  lofty  moral  feeling  of  the  duties  of  their  debtors  was 
shocked  by  Christophe's  refusal  to  write  the  music  for  a  stupid 
hymn  for  an  advertising  festivity  organized  by  the  paper.  They 
made  him  feel  the  impropriety  of  his  conduct.  Christophe  sent 
them  packing.  And  finally  he  exasperated  them  by  the  flat 
denial  which  he  gave  shortly  afterwards  to  certain  statements 
attributed  to  him  by  the  paper. 

Then  they  began  a  campaign  against  him.  They  used  every 
possible  weapon.  They  dragged  out  once  more  the  old  petti- 
fogging engine  of  war  which  has  always  served  the  impotent 
against  creative  men.  and,  though  it  has  never  killed  anybody, 
yet  it  never  fails  to  have  an  effect  upon  the  simple-minded  and 
the  fools:  they  accused  him  of  plagiarism.  They  went  and 
picked  out  artfully  selected  and  distorted  passages  from  his 
compositions  and  from  those  of  various  obscure  musicians,  and 
they  proved  that  he  had  stolen  his  inspiration  from  others.  He 
was  accused  of  having  tried  to  stifle  various  young  artists.  It 
would  have  been  well  enough  if  he  had  only  had  to  deal  with 
those  whose  bur'ness  it  is  to  bark,  with  those  critics,  those  man- 
nikins,  who  climb  on  the  shoulders  of  a  great  man  and  cry: 

"  1  am  greater  than  you  !  " 

But  no:  men  of  talent  must  be  wrangling  among  themselves: 
each  man  does  his  best  to  make  himself  intolerable  to  his  col- 
leagues: and  yet.  as  Christophe  said,  the  world  was  large  enough 
for  all  of  them  to  be  able  to  work  in  peace:  and  each  of  them 
in  liis  own  talent  had  quite  enough  to  struggle  against. 

Tn  Germany  he  found  artists  so  jealous  of  him  that  they 
were  ready  to  furnish  his  enemies  with  weapons  against  him. 
and  even,  if  need  be,  to  invent  them.  He  found  the  same  thing 


106         JEAN-CHRISTOPHE :    JOUKXKVS  END 

in  France.  The  nationalists  of  the  musical  pros* — several  of 
whom  were  foreigners. — flung  his  nationality  in  his  teeth  as 
an  insult.  Christophc's  success  had  grown  widely:  and  as  he 
had  a  certain  vogue,  they  pretended  that  his  exaggeration  must 
irritate  even  those  who  had  no  delinit"  views — much  more  those 
who  had.  Among  the  concert-going  public,  and  among  people 
in  society  and  the  writers  on  the  young  reviews.  (  nristopho  la- 
this time  had  enthusiastic  partisans,  who  went  into  ecstasies 
over  everything  he  did,  and  were  wont  to  declare  that  music 
did  not  exist  before  his  advent.  Some  of  them  explained  his 
music  and  found  philosophic  meanings  in  it  which  simply  as- 
tounded him.  Others  would  see  in  it  a  musical  revolution,  an 
assault  on  the  traditions  which  Ohristophe  respected  more  than 
anybody.  It  was  useless  for  him  to  protest.  They  would  have1 
proved  to  him  that  he  did  not  know  what  he  had  written.  Thev 
admired  themselves  by  admiring  him.  And  so  the  campaign 
against  Christophe  met  with  great  sympathy  among  his  col- 
leagues, who  were  exasperated  by  the  "log-rolling"  to  which 
he  was  no  party.  They  did  not  need  to  rely  on  such  reasons 
for  not  liking  his  music:  most  of  them  felt  with  regard  to  it 
the  natural  irritation  of  the  man  who  has  no  ideas  and  no 
difficulty  in  expressing  them  according  to  parrot-like  formula1, 
with  the  man  who  is  full  of  ideas  and  employs  them  clumsilv  in 
accordance  with  the  apparent  disorder  of  his  creative  facultv. 
How  often  he  had  had  to  face  the  reproach  of  not  being  aMe  t<> 
write  hurled  at  him  by  scribes,  for  whom  style  consisted  iu 
recipes  concocted  by  groups  or  schools,  kitchen  molds  into  which 
thought  was  cast!  Christophers  best  friends,  those  who  did  not 
try  to  understand  him.  and  were  alone  in  understanding  him. 
because  they  loved  him,  simply,  for  the  pleasure  he  gave  them, 
were  obscure  auditors  who  had  no  voice  in  the  matter.  The 
only  man  who  could  have  replied  vigorously  in  ('hristopho's 
name — Olivier — was  at  that  time  mit  of  friends  with  him.  and 
had  apparently  forgotten  him.  Thus  Christophe  was  delivered 
into  the  hands  of  his  adversaries  and  admirers,  who  vied  with 
each  other  in  doing  him  harm.  He  was  too  disgusted  to  reply. 
When  he  read  the  pronunciamentos  directed  against  him  iu 
the  pucres  of  an  important  newspaper  hv  one  of  those  presumptu- 
ous critics  whc  usurn  the  sovereignty  of  art  with  all  tin-  in 


LOVE  AND  FRIENDSHIP  107 

science  of  ignorance  and  impunity,  he  would  shrug  his  shoulders 
and  say: 

"  Judge  me.     I  judge  you.     Let  us  meet  in  a  hundred  years !  " 

But  meanwhile  the  outcry  against  him  took  its  course:  and 
the  public,  as  usual,  gulped  down  the  most  fatuous  and  shameful 
accusations. 

As  though  his  position  was  not  already  difficult  enough, 
Christophe  chose  that  moment  to  quarrel  with  his  publisher. 
He  had  no  reason  at  all  to  complain  of  Hecht.  who  published 
each  new  work  as  it  was  written,  and  was  honest  in  business. 
It  is  true  that  his  honesty  did  not  pi-event  his  making  contracts 
disadvantageous  to  Christophe:  but  he  kept  his  contracts.  He 
kept  them  only  too  well.  One  day  Christophe  was  amazed  to 
see  a  .septette  of  his  arranged  as  a  quartette,  and  a  suite  of 
piano  pieces  clumsily  transcribed  as  a  duet,  without  his  having 
been  consulted.  He  rushed  to  Hecht's  office  and  thrust  the 
offending  music  under  his  nose,  and  said : 

"  Do  you  know  these  ?  " 

"  Of  course,"  said  Hecht. 

"  And  you  dared  .  .  .  you  dared  tamper  with  my  work 
without  asking  my  permission!  ..." 

"  What  permission  ?  "  said  Hecht  calmly.  "  Your  composi- 
tions are  mine." 

"  Mine,  too,  I  suppose?" 

"  No,"  said  Hecht  quietly. 

Christophe  started. 

"My  own  work  does  not  belong  to  me?" 

"  They  are  not  yours  any  longer.     You  sold  them  to  me." 

"You're  making  fun  of  me!  1  soid  you  the  paper.  Make 
money  out  of  that  if  vou  like.  But  what  is  written  on  it  is  my 
life-blood  ;  it  is  mine." 

"  You  sold  me  everything.  In  exchange  for  these  particular 
pieces.  I  gave  you  a  sum  of  three  hundred  francs  in  advance 
of  a  royalty  of  thirty  centimes  on  everv  copv  sold  of  the  original 
edition.  Upon  that  consideration,  without  any  restriction  or 
reserve,  you  have  assigned  to  me  all  vour  rights  in  your  work.'"' 

"Even  the  right  to  destroy  it?" 

Hecht  shrugged  his  shoulders,  rang  the  bell,  and  said  to  a 
clerk. 


108         JEAN-CHRISTOPHE :    JOURNEY'S  EXD 

"  Bring  mo  M.  Krafft's  account." 

He  gravely  read  Christophe  the  terms  of  the  contract,  which 
he  had  signed  without  reading — from  which  it  appeared,  in 
accordance  with  the  ordinary  run  of  contracts  signed  by  music 
publishers  in  those  very  distant  times — "that  M.  Hecht  was 
the  assignee  of  all  the  rights,  powers,  and  property  of  the  author. 
and  had  the  exclusive  right  to  edit,  publish,  engrave,  print, 
translate,  hire,  sell  to  his  own  profit,  in  any  form  he  pleased, 
to  have  the  said  work  performed  at  concerts,  cafe-concerts,  balls, 
theaters,  etc.,  and  to  publish  any  arrangement  of  the  said  work 
for  any  instrument  and  even  with  words,  and  also  to  change 
the  title  .  .  .  etc..  etc." 

"You  see,"  he  said,  "I  am  really  very  moderate." 

"  Evidently,"  said  Christophe.  "  F  ought  to  thank  you.  You 
might  have  turned  my  septette  into  a  cafe-concert  song." 

He  stopped  in  horror  and  held  his  head  in  his  hands. 

"  I  have  sold  my  soul,"  he  said  over  and  over  again. 

"  You  may  be  sure,"  said  Hecht  sarcastically,  "  that  I  shall 
not  abuse  it." 

"  And  to  think,"  said  Christophe,  "  that  your  Kepublic  author- 
izes such  practices !  You  say  that  man  is  free.  And  you  put 
ideas  up  to  public  auction." 

"  You  have  had  your  money,"  said  Hecht. 

"  Thirty  pieces  of  silver.  Y"es,"  said  Christophe.  "  Take 
them  back." 

He  fumbled  in  his  pockets,  meaning  to  give  the  three  hundred 
francs  back  to  Hecht.  But  he  had  nothing  like  that  sum. 
Hecht  smiled  a  little  disdainfully.  His  smile  infuriated  Chris- 
tophe. 

"I  want  my  work  back,"  he  said.  "T  will  buy  them  back 
from  you." 

"You  have  no  right  to  do  so."  said  Hecht.  "But  as  T  have 
no  desire  to  keep  a  man  against  his  will.  I  am  quite  ready  to 
give  them  back  to  you. — if  you  are  in  a  position  to  pay  the 
indemnity  stated  in  the  contract.'' 

"1  will  do  it."  said  Christophe,  "even  if  T  have  to  sell 
myself." 

He  accepted  without  discussion  the  conditions  which  ITecht 
submitted  to  him  a  fortnight  later  It  was  an  amazing  act 


LOVE  AND  FRIENDSHIP  109 

jf  folly,  and  he  bought  back  his  published  compositions,  at  a 
price  five  times  greater  than  the  sum  they  had  brought  him 
in,  though  it  was  by  no  means  exorbitant :  for  it  was  scrupu- 
lously calculated  on  the  basis  of  the  actual  profits  which  had 
accrued  to  Hecht.  Christophe  could  not  pay,  and  Hecht  had 
counted  on  it.  He  had  no  intention  of  squeezing  Christophe, 
of  whom  he  thought  more  highly,  both  as  a  musician  and  as 
a  man,  than  of  any  other  young  musician :  but  he  wanted  to 
teach  him  a  lesson :  for  he  could  not  permit  his  clients  to 
revolt  against  what  was  after  all  within  his  rights.  He  had 
not  made  the  laws :  they  were  those  of  the  time,  and  they 
seemed  to  him  equitable.  Besides,  he  was  quite  sincerely  con- 
vinced that  they  were  to  the  benefit  of  the  author  as  much  as 
to  the  benefit  of  the  publisher,  who  knows  better  than  the  author 
how  to  circulate  his  work,  and  is  not.  like  the  author,  hindered 
by  scruples  of  a  sentimental,  respectable  order,  which  are  con- 
trary to  his  real  interests.  He  had  made  up  his  mind  to  help 
Christophe  to  succeed,  but  in  his  own  way,  and  on  condition 
that  Christophe  was  delivered  into  his  hands,  tied  hand  and 
foot.  He  wanted  to  make  him  feel  that  he  could  not  so  easily 
dispense  with  his  services.  They  made  a  conditional  bargain: 
if,  at  the  end  of  six  months,  Christophe  could  not  manage  to 
pay,  his  work  should  become  Hecht's  absolute  property.  It  was 
perfectly  obvious  that  Christophe  would  not  be  able  to  collect 
a  quarter  of  the  sum  requisite. 

However,  he  stuck  to  it.  said  good-by  to  the  rooms  which 
were  so  full  of  memories  for  him,  and  took  a  less  expensive 
flat. — selling  a  number  of  things,  none  of  which,  to  his  great 
surprise,  were  of  any  value, — getting  into  debt,  and  appealing 
to  Mooch's  good  nature,  who,  unfortunately,  was  at  that  time 
very  badly  off  and  ill.  being  confined  to  the  house  with  rheuma- 
tism,— trying  to  find  another  publisher,  and  everywhere  finding 
conditions  as  grasping  as  Hecht's,  and  in  some  eases  a  point- 
blank  refusal. 

It  was  just  at  the  time  when  the  attack  on  him  in  the  musical 
press  was  at  its  height.  One  of  the  leading  Parisian  papers 
was  especially  implacable:  he  was  like  a  red  rag  to  a  bull  to 
one  of  the  staff  who  did  not  sign  his  name;  not  a  week  passed 
but  there  appeared  in  the  column  headed  Eclios  a  spiteful  para' 


110         JEAJS-CHH1STOPHE:    JOURNEY'S  END 

graph  ridiculing  him.  The  musical  critic  completed  the  work 
of  liis  anonymous  colleague:  the  very  smallest  pretext  served 
him  as  an  opportunity  of  expressing  his  animosity.  But  that 
was  only  the  preliminary  skirmishing:  he  promised  to  return 
to  the  subject  and  deal  with  it  at  leisure,  and  to  proceed  in  due 
course  to  execution.  They  were  in  no  hurry,  knowing  that  a 
definite  accusation  has  nothing  like  the  same  effect  on  the 
public  as  a  succession  of  insinuations  repeated  persistently.  They 
played  with  Christophe  like  a  cat  with  a  mouse.  The  articles 
were  all  sent  to  Christophe,  and  he  despised  them,  though  they 
made  him  suffer  for  all  that.  However,  he  said  nothing:  and, 
instead  of  replying — (could  he  have  done  so,  even  if  he  had 
wanted  to?) — lie  persisted  in  the  futile  and  unequal  light  with 
his  publisher,  provoked  by  his  own  vanity.  He  wasted  his  time, 
his  strength,  his  money,  and  his  only  weapons,  since  in  the 
lightness  of  his  heart  he  was  rash  enough  to  deprive  himself 
of  the  publicity  which  his  music  gained  through  Hecht. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  complete  change.  The  article  amiounced 
in  the  paper  never  appeared.  The  insinuations  against  him 
were  dropped.  The  campaign  stopped  short.  More  than  that: 
a  few  weeks  later,  the  critic  of  the  paper  published  incidentally 
a  few  eulogistic  remarks  which  seemed  to  indicate  that  peace 
was  made.  A  great  publisher  at  Leipzig  wrote  to  Christophe 
offering  to  publish  his  work,  and  the  contract  was  signed  on 
terms  very  advantageous  to  him.  A  flattering  letter,  bearing 
the  seal  of  the  Austrian  Embassy,  informed  Christophe  that  it 
was  desired  to  place  certain  of  his  compositions  on  the  programs 
of  the  galas  given  at  the  Embassy.  Philomela,  whom  Christophe 
was  pushing  forward,  was  asked  to  sing  at  one  of  the  galas: 
and,  immediately  afterwards,  she  was  in  great  demand  in  the 
best  houses  of  the  (Jerman  and  Italian  colonies  in  Paris.  Chris- 
tophe himself,  who  could  not  get  out  of  going  to  one  of  thr- 
concerts.  was  very  well  received  by  the  Ambassador.  However, 
a  very  short  conversation  showed  him  that  his  host,  who  knew 
very  little  about  music,  was  absolutely  ignorant  of  his  work. 
How,  then,  did  this  sudden  interest  come  about?  An  invisible 
hand  seemed  to  be  protecting  him.  removing  obstacles,  and  mak- 
ing the  way  smooth  for  him.  Christophe  made  inquiries.  The 


LOVE  AND  IvUlENDSHIP  111 

Ambassador  alluded  to  friends  of  Christoplie — Count  and 
Countess  Bereny,  who  were  very  fond  of  him.  Christoplie  did 
not  even  know  their  name:  and  on  the  night  of  his  visit  to 
the  Embassy  he  had  no  opportunity  of  being  introduced  to 
them.  He  did  not  make  any  effort  to  meet  them.  lie  was 
passing  through  a  period  of  disgust  with  men,  in  which  he  set 
as  little  store  by  his  friends  as  by  his  enemies:  friends  and 
'enemies  were  equally  uncertain:  they  changed  with  the  wind: 
he  would  have  to  learn  how  to  do  without  them,  and  say.  like 
the  old  follow  of  the  seventeenth  century: 

"  God  (/are  me  friend*:  lie  took  them  from  inc.  Tlieij  hare 
1>"f1  inc.  f  ii'ill  leave,  tliein  and  sail  no  more,  about  It." 

Since  the  day  when  he  left  Olivier's  house.  Olivier  had  given 
no  sign  of  life:  all  seemed  over  between  them.  Christoplie  had 
no  mind  to  form  new  friendships.  He  imagined  Count  and 
Countess  Bereny  to  be  like  the  rest  of  the  snobs  who  called 
themselves  his  friends:  and  he  made  no  attempt  to  meet  them. 
He  was  more  inclined  to  avoid  them.  He  longed  to  be  able 
to  escape  from  Paris.  He  felt  an  urgent  desire  to  take  refuge 
for  a  few  weeks  in  soothing  solitude.  If  only  he  could  have  a 
few  days,  only  a  few  days,  to  refresh  himself  in  his  native 
country!  Little  bv  little  that  idea  became  a  morbid  obsession. 
He  wanted  once  more  to  see  his  dear  river,  his  own  native  sky, 
the  land  of  his  dead  kinsfolk.  He  felt  that  he  must  see  them. 
Ho  could  not  without  endangering  his  freedom:  he  was  still 
subject  to  the  warrant  of  arrest  issued  against  him  at  the  time 
of  his  flight  from  Germany.  But  iie  felt  that  he  was  prepared 
to  go  to  any  lengths  if  he  could  return,  though  it  were  only 
fo"  one  day. 

As  good  luck  would  have  it.  he  spoke  of  his  longing  to  one 
of  his  new  patrons.  A  voung  attache  of  the  German  Kmbassy. 
whom  he  met  at  an  At  Home  where  he  was  playing,  happened 
to  say  to  him  that  his  countrv  was  proud  of  so  line  a  musician 
as  himself,  to  which  Ohristophe  replied  hitterlv: 

"Our  country  is  so  proud  of  me  thai  she  leis  me  die  on  her 
doorstep  rather  than  open  to  me." 

The  young  diplomatist  asked  him  to  explain  the  situation, 
and.  a  few  days  later,  he  came  to  see  Christoplie,  and  said:- 

"People  in  high  places  are  interested  in  you.     A  very  great 


112         JEAN-CHRISTOPHE :    JOURNEY'S  END 

personage  who  alone  has  the  power  to  suspend  the  consequence 
of  the  sentence  which  is  the  cause  of  your  wretchedness  has 
been  informed  of  your  position :  and  lie  deigns  to  he  touched 
by  it.  I  don't  know  how  it  is  that  your  music  can  have  given 
him  any  pleasure:  for — (between  ourselves) — his  taste  is  not 
very  good :  but  he  is  intelligent,  and  he  has  a  generous  heart. 
Though  he  cannot,  for  the  moment,  remove  the  sentence  passed 
upon  you,  the  police  are  willing  to  shut  their  eyes,  if  you  care 
to  spend  forty-eight  hours  in  your  native  town  to  see  your 
family  once  more.  Here  is  a  passport.  You  must  have  it  en- 
dorsed when  you  arrive  and  when  you  leave.  Be  wary,  and  do 
not  attract  attention  to  yourself." 

Once  more  Christophe  saw  his  native  land.  He  spent  the  two 
days  which  had  been  granted  him  in  communion  with  the  earth 
and  those  who  were  beneath  it.  He  visited  his  mother's  grave. 
The  grass  was  growing  over  it :  but  flowers  had  lately  been  laid 
on  it.  His  father  and  grandfather  slept  side  by  side.  He  sat 
at  their  feet.  Their  grave  lay  beneath  the  wall  of  the  cemetery. 
It  was  shaded  by  a  chestnut-tree  growing  in  the  sunken  road 
on  the  other  side  of  the  low  wall,  over  which  he  could  sec  the 
golden  crops,  softly  waving  in  the  warm  wind:  the  sun  was 
shining  in  his  majesty  over  the  drowsy  earth  :  he  could  hear 
the  cry  of  the  quails  in  the  corn,  and  the  soft  murmuring  of 
the  cypress-trees  above  the  graves.  Christophe  was  alone  with 
his  dreams.  His  heart  was  at  peace.  He  sat  there  with  lik 
hands  clasping  his  knees,  and  his  back  against  the  wall,  gazing 
up  at  the  sky.  He  closed  his  eyes  for  a  moment.  How  simple 
everything  was!  He  felt  at  home  here  with  his  own  people. 
He  stayed  there  near  them,  as  it  Avere  hand  in  hand.  Tlie 
hours  slipped  by.  Towards  evening  he  heard  footsteps  scrunch- 
ing on  the  gravel  paths.  The  custodian  passed  by  and  looked 
at  Christophe  sitting  there.  Christophc  asked  him  who  had  laid 
the  flowers  on  the  grave.  The  man  answered  that  the  farmer's 
wife  from  Buir  came  once  or  twice  a  year. 

"Lorehcn?"  said   Christophe. 

They  began  to  talk. 

"You  are  her  son?"  said  the  man. 

"  She  had  three/'  said  Christophe. 


LOVE  AND  FRIENDSHIP  113 

"  I  moan  the  one  at  Hamburg.  The  other  two  turned  out 
badly." 

Christophe  sat  still  with  his  head  thrown  back  a  little,  and 
said  nothing.  The  sun  was  setting. 

"  I'm  going  to  lock  up,"  said  the  custodian. 

Christophe  got  up  and  walked  slowly  round  the  cemetery 
with  him.  The  custodian  did  the  honors  of  the  place.  Chris- 
tophe stopped  every  now  and  then  to  read  the  names  carved 
on  the  gravestones.  How  many  of  those  he  knew  were  of  that 
company  !  Old  Euler, — his  son-in-law. — and  farther  off,  the 
comrades  of  his  childhood,  little  girls  with  whom  he  had  played, 
— and  there,  a  name  which  stirred  his  heart:  Ada  .  .  .  Peace 
be  with  all  of  them.  .  .  . 

The  fiery  rays  of  the  setting  sun  put  a  girdle  round  the  calm 
horizon.  Christophe  left  the  cemetery.  He  went  for  a  long 
walk  through  the  fields.  The  stars  were  peeping.  .  .  . 

Next  day  he  came  again,  and  once  more  spent  the  afternoon 
at  his  vigil.  But  the  fair  silent  calm  of  the  day  before  was 
broken  and  thrilling  with  life.  His  heart  sang  a  careless,  happy 
hymn.  He  sat  on  the  curl)  of  the  grave,  and  set  down  the 
song  he  heard  in  pencil  in  a  notebook  resting  on  his  knees.  So 
the  day  passed.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  was  working  in  his 
old  little  room,  and  that  his  mother  was  there  on  the  other 
side  of  the  partition.  When  he  had  finished  and  was  ready  to 
go — he  had  moved  a  little  away  from  the  grave, — he  changed  his 
mind  and  returned,  and  buried  the  notebook  in  the  grass  under 
the  ivy.  A  few  drops  of  rain  were  beginning  to  fall.  Christophe 
thought : 

"  It  will  soon  be  blotted  out.  So  much  the  better !  .  .  . 
For  you  alone.  For  nobody  else." 

And  he  went  to  see  the  river  once  more,  and  the  familiar 
streets  where  so  many  things  were  changed.  T>y  the  gates  of 
the  town  along  the  promenade  of  the  old  1'ortilicalions  a  little 
wood  of  acacia-trees  which  he  had  seen  planted  had  overrun 
the  place,  and  they  were  stifling  the  old  trees.  As  he  passed 
along  the  wall  surrounding  the  Yon  Kerichs'  garden,  he  recog- 
nized the  post  on  which  he  used  to  climb  when  he  was  a  little 
boy,  to  look  over  into  the  grounds:  and  he  was  surprised  to  see 
how  small  the  tree,  the  wall,  and  the  garden  had  become. 


JEAN-CHRISTOPHE:    -JOURXEY'S  EXD 

Tic  stopped  for  a  moment  before  the  front  gateway.  T!G 
was  going  on  when  a  carriage  passed  him.  Mechanically  he 
raised  his  eyes :  and  they  met  those  of  a  young  lady,  fresh,  plump, 
happy-looking,  who  stared  at  him  with  a  puzzled  expression. 
She  gave  an  exclamation  of  surprise.  She  ordered  the  carriage 
to  stop,  and  said: 

"  Herr  Krafft !  " 

He  stopped. 

She  said  laughingly : 

"Minna    .    .    ." 

He  ran  to  her  almost  as  nervous  as  he  had  been  on  the  day 
when  he  first  met  her.*  She  was  with  a  tall,  stout,  bald  gentle- 
man, with  mnstacliios  brushed  up  belligerently,  whom  she  intro- 
duced as  "  Herr  Reichsgcrichtsrat  von  Brombach  " — her  husband. 
She  wanted  Christophe  to  go  home  with  her.  He  tried  to 
excuse  himself.  But  Minna  exclaimed : 

"  No,  no.     You  must  come :  come  and  dine  with  us." 

She  spoke  very  loud  and  very  quickly,  and,  without  waiting 
to  be  asked,  began  to  tell  him  her  whole  life.  Christophe  was 
stupefied  by  her  volubility  and  the  noise  she  made,  and  only 
heard  half  what  she  said,  and  stood  looking  at  her.  So  that 
was  his  little  Minna.  She  looked  blooming,  healthy,  well-fed :  she 
had  a  pretty  skin  and  pink  complexion,  but  her  features  were 
rather  coarse,  and  her  nose  in  particular  was  thick  and  heavy. 
Her  gestures,  manners,  pretty  little  ways,  were  just  the  same; 
but  her  size  was  greatly  altered. 

However,  she  never  stopped  talking:  she  told  Christophe  all 
the  stories  of  her  past;  her  whole  private  history,  and  how  she 
had  come  to  love  her  husband  and  her  husband  her.  Christophe 
was  embarrassed.  She  was  an  uncritical  optimist,  who  found 
everything  belonging  to  herself  perfect  and  superior  to  other 
people's  possessions — (at  least,  when  she  was  with  other  people) 
— her  town,  her  bouse,  her  family,  her  husband,  her-  cooking,  her 
four  children,  and  herself.  She  said  of  her  husband  in  his 
presence  that  he  was  "  the  most  splendid  mail  ^be  had  even 
seen."  and  that  there  was  in  him  "  a  superhuman  fo''ee,''  "  The 
most  splendid  man"  pinched  Minna's  cheeks  laughingly,  and 
assured  Christophe  that  she  "was  a  very  remarkable  wornua" 
*See  " Jean-Christophe:  Morning." 


LOVE  AND  FRIENDSHIP  115 

It  seemed  that  II err  Reichsgericktsrat  was  informed  of  Chris- 
tophe's  position,  and  did  not  exactly  know  whether  lie  ought  to 
treat  him  with  or  without  respect,  having  regard  on  the  one 
hand  to  the  warrant  out  against  him,  and  on  the  other  to  the 
august  protection  which  shielded  him:  he  solved  the  difficulty 
by  affecting  a  compromise  between  the  two  manners.  As  for 
Minna,  she  went  on  talking.  When  she  had  talked  her  fill 
about  herself  to  Christophe,  she  began  to  talk  about  him:  she 
battered  him  with  questions  as  intimate  as  her  answers  had 
been  to  the  supposititious  questions  which  he  had  never  asked. 
She  was  delighted  to  see  Christophe  again:  she  knew  nothing 
about  his  music:  but  she  knew  that  he  was  famous:  it  flattered 
her  to  think  that  she  had  loved  him. —  (and  that  she  had  re- 
jected him). — She  reminded  him  of  it  jokingly  without  much 
delicacy.  She  asked  him  for  his  autograph  for  her  album.  She 
pestered  him  with  questions  about  Paris.  She  showed  a  mixture 
of  curiosity  and  contempt  for  that  city.  She  pretended  that  she 
knew  it,  having  been  to  the  Folies-Bergere.  the  Opera,  ^lont- 
martre,  and  Saint-Cloud.  Ac-cording  to  her,  the  women  of 
Paris  were  all  rorolleH.  bad  mothers,  who  had  as  few  children 
as  possible,  and  did  not  look  after  them,  and  left  them  at  home 
while  they  went  to  the  theater  or  the  haunts  of  pleasant  vice. 
She  did  not  suffer  contradiction.  In  the  course  of  (he  evening 
she  asked  Christophe  to  play  the  piano.  She  thought  it  charm- 
ing. But  at  bottom  she1  admired  her  husband's  playing  just  as 
much,  for  she  thought;  him  as  superior  all  round  as  she  was 
herself. 

Christophe  had  the  pleasure  of  meeting  "Minna's  mother  once 
more.  Frau  von  Kerich.  He  still  had  a  secret  tenderness  for 
her  because  she  had  been  kind  to  him.  She  had  not  lost  any 
of  her  old  kindness,  and  she  was  more1  natural  than  Minna: 
but  she  still  treated  Christophe  with  that  ironical  affection  which 
used  to  irritate  him  in  the  old  davs.  She1  had  stayed  very  much 
where  he  had  left  her:  she  liked  fhe  same  things:  and  it  did 
nor  seem  possible  for  her  to  admit  that  any  one  could  do  better 
or  differently:  she  set  the  Jean-Christophe  of  the  old  days  against 
the  new  Jean-Christophe,  and  preferred  the  former. 

Of  these  about  her  no  one  had  changed  in  mind  save  Chris- 
tophe. The  rigidity  of  the  little  town,  and  its  narrowness  of 


116         JEAN-CHR1STOPHE:    JOURNEY'S  END 

outlook,  were  painful  to  him.  His  hosts  spent  part  of  the  even- 
ing in  talking  scandal  ahout  people  he  did  not  know.  They 
picked  out  the  ridiculous  points  of  their  neighbors,  and  they 
decreed  everything  ridiculous  which  was  different  from  them- 
selves or  their  own  way  of  doing  things.  Their  malicious  curi- 
osity, which  was  perpetually  occupied  with  trifles,  at  last  made 
Christophe  feel  quite  sick.  He  tried  to  talk  about  his  life 
abroad.  But  at  once  he  became  conscious  of  the  impossibility 
of  making  them  understand  French  civilization  which  had  made 
him  suffer,  and  now  became  dear  to  him  when  he  stood  for  it 
in  his  own  countiy — the  free  Latin  spirit,  whose  first  law  is 
understanding :  to  understand  as  much  as  possible  of  life  and 
mind,  at  the  risk  of  cheapening  moral  codes.  In  his  hosts, 
especially  in  Minna,  he  found  once  more  the  arrogant  spirit 
with  which  he  had  come  into  such  violent  contact  in  the  old 
days,  though  he  had  almost  forgotten  it  since, — the  arrogance 
of  weakness  as  much  as  of  virtue, — honesty  without  charity, 
pluming  itself  on  its  virtue,  and  despising  the  weaknesses  which 
it  could  not  understand,  a  worship  of  the  conventional,  and  a 
shocked  disdain  of  "  irregular "  higher  things.  Minna  was 
calmly  and  sententiously  confident  that  she  was  always  right. 
There  were  no  degrees  in  her  judgment  of  others.  For  the  rest, 
she  never  made  any  attempt  to  understand  them,  and  was  only 
occupied  with  herself.  Her  egoism  was  thinly  coated  with  a 
blurred  metaphysical  tinge.  She  was  always  talking  of  her 
"  ego  "  and  the  development  of  her  "  ego."  She  may  have  been 
a  good  woman,  one  capable  of  loving.  But  she  loved  herself  too 
much.  And,  above  ail,  her  respect  for  herself  was  too  great. 
She  seemed  to  be  perpetually  saying  a  Pater  nosier  and  an  Are  to 
her  "  ego."  One  felt  that  she  would  have  absolutely  and  forever 
ceased  to  love  the  man  she  might  have  loved  the  best,  if  for  a 
single  instant  he  had  failed — (even  though  he  were  to  regret 
it  a  thousand  times  when  it  was  done) — to  show  a  due  and 
proper  respect  for  the  dignity  of  her  "  ego."  .  .  .  Hang  your 
"ego"!  Think  a  little  of  the  second  person  singular!  .  .  . 
However.  Christophe  did  not  regard  her  severely.  He  who 
was  ordinarily  so  irritable  listened  to  her  chatter  with  the 
patience  of  an  archangel.  He  would  not  judge  her.  He  sur- 
rounded her,  as  with  a  halo,  with  the  religious  memory  of  his 


LOVE  AND  FRIENDSHIP  117 

childish  love,  and  he  kept  on  trying  to  find  in  her  the  image 
of  his  little  Minna.  It  was  not  impossihle  to  find  her  in  eertain 
of  her  gestures:  the  quality  of  her  voice  had  eertain  notes  which 
awoke  echoes  that  moved  him.  He  was  absorbed  in  them,  and 
said  nothing,  and  did  not  listen  to  what  she  was  saying,  though 
he  seemed  to  listen  and  always  treated  her  with  tender  gentle 
respect.  But  lie  found  it  hard  to  concentrate  his  thoughts:  she 
made  too  much  noise,  and  prevented  his  hearing  Minna.  At 
last  he  got  up,  and  thought  a  little  wearily : 

"Poor  little  Minna!  They  would  like  me  to  think  that  you 
are  there,  in  that  comely,  stout  woman,  shouting  at  the  top  of 
her  voice,  and  boring  me  to  death.  But  I  know  that  it  is  not 
so.  Come  away,  Minna.  What  have  we  to  do  with  these 
people  ?  " 

He  went  away,  giving  them  to  understand  that  he  would  re- 
turn on  the  morrow.  If  he  had  said  that  he  was  going  away 
that  very  night,  they  would  not  have  let  him  go  until  it  was 
time  to  catch  the  train.  He  had  only  gone  a  few  yards  in  the 
darkness  when  he  recovered  the  feeling  of  well-being  which  he 
had  had  before  he  met  the  carriage.  The  memory  of  his  tire- 
some evening  was  wiped  out  as  though  a  wet  sponge  had  been 
over  it:  nothing  was  left  of  it:  it  was  all  drowned  in  the  voice 
of  the  Rhine.  He  walked  along  its  banks  by  the  house  where 
he  was  born.  He  had  no  difficulty  in  recognizing  it.  The 
shutters  were  closed:  all  were  asleep  in  it.  Christophe  stopped 
in  the  middle  of  the  road:  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  if  he 
knocked  at  the  door,  familiar  phantoms  would  open  to  him. 
He  went  into  the  field  round  the  house,  near  the  river,  and  came 
to  the  place  where  he  used  to  go  and  talk  to  (iottfried  in  the 
evening.  He  sat  down.  And  the  old  days  came  to  life  again. 
And  the  dear  little  girl  who  had  sipped  with  him  the  dream 
of  first  love  was  conjured  up.  Together  they  lived  through  their 
childish  tenderness  again,  with  its  sweet  tears  and  infinite  hopes. 
And  he  thought  with  a  simple  smile: 

"  Life  has  taught  me  nothing.  All  my  knowledge  is  vain.  .  .  . 
All  my  knowledge  is  vain.  ...  I  have  still  the  same  old 
illusions." 

How  good  it  is  to  love  and  to  believe  unfailingly!  Every- 
thing that  is  touched  by  love  is  saved  from  death. 


118         JEAX-CHRISTOPHE:    JOIR.YKVS  KXD 

''  Minna,  you  are  witli  me, — with  me,  not  with  Hie  oilier,--* 
Minna,  you  will  never  grow  old !  .  .  ." 

Tlie  veiled  moon  darted  from  her  clouds,  and  made  the  silver 
scales  on  the  rivers  back  gleam  in  her  light.  Christophe  had 
a  vjigiic  feeling  that  the  river  never  used  to 'pass  near  the  knoll 
where  he  was  silling.  .lie  went  near  it.  Yes.  Beyond  the 
pear-tree  there  used  to  he  a  tongue  of  sand,  a  little  grassy  slope, 
where  he  had  often  played.  The  river  had  swept  them  away: 
the  river  was  encroaching,  lapping  at  the  roots  of  the  pear-tree. 
Christophe  felt  a  pang  at  his  heart:  he  went  back  towards  the 
station.  In  that  direction  a  new  colony — mean  houses,  sheds 
half-built,  tall  factory  chimneys — was  in  course  of  construction. 
Christophe  thought  of  the  acacia-wood  he  had  seen  in  the  after- 
noon, and  he  thought : 

"There,  too.  the  river  is  encroaching.    .    .    ." 

The  old  town,  lying  asleep  in  the  darkness,  with  all  that  it 
contained  of  the  living  and  the  dead,  became  even  more  deal- 
to  him:  for  he  felt  that  a  menace  hung  over  it.  .  .  . 

TToxils  liahet  rniiros.    .    .    . 

Quick,  let  us  save  our  women  and  children!  "Death  is  lying 
!n  wait  for  all  that  we  love.  Let  us  hasten  to  carve  the  passing 
face  upon  eternal  bronx".  Let  us  snatch  the  treasure  of  our 
motherland  before  th"  flames  devour  the  palace  of  Priam. 

Christophe  scrambled  into  the  train  as  it  was  going,  like  a 
man  fleeing  before  a  flood.  I'ut,.  like  those  men  who  saved  the 
gods  of  their  city  from  the  wreck.  Christophe  bore  away  within 
his  soul  the  ^park  of  life  which  had  flown  upwards  from  his 
native  land,  and  the  sacred  spirit  of  the  past. 

Jacqueline  and  Olivier  had  come  together  again  for  a  time. 
Jacqueline  had  lost  her  father,  and  his  death  had  moved  her 
deeply.  In  the  presence  of  real  misfortune  she  had  felt  the 
wretched  f'ollv  of  her  other  sorrows:  and  the  tenderness  which 
Olivier  showed  towards  her  had  revived  IKT  affection  for  him. 
She  was  taken  bade  several  years  to  the  sad  days  which  had 
followed  on  th"  death  of  her  Aunt  "Marthe- — days  which  had 
been  followed  by  ihe  blessed  days  of  love.  She  told  herself 
that  she  was  ungrateful  to  life,  and  that  she  ought  to  he  thankful 
that  the  little  it  had  tnven  her  was  not  taken  from  her.  She 


LOVE  AXI)  FRIENDSHIP  119 

hugged  that  little  to  herself  now  thai  iN  worth  had  been  re- 
vealed to  her.  A  short  absence  from  1'aris.  ordered  !>v  her 
doctor  to  distract  her  in  her  grief,  travel  wiili  Olivier,  a  sort 
of  pilgrimage  to  the  places  where  thev  had  ioved  each  other 
during  the  iirst  year  of  her  marriage,  softened  her  and  filled 
her  with  tenderness,  in  the  sadness  of  seeing  once  more  at 
the  turn  of  the  road  the  dear  face  of  the  love  which  they  thought 
was  gone  forever,  of  seeing  it  pass  and  knowing  that  it  would 
vanish  once  more, — for  how  long?  perhaps  forever? — they 
clutched  at  it  passionately  and  desperately.  .  .  . 

"  Stay,  stay  with  us  !  '' 

But  they  knew  that  they  must  lose  it.    ... 

When  Jacqueline  returned  to  Paris  she  felt  a  little  new  life, 
kindled  hy  love,  thrilling  in  her  veins.  Hut  love  had  gone 
already.  The  hurden  which  lay  so  heavy  upon  her  did  not 
bring  her  into  sympathy  with  Olivier  again.  She  did  not  feel 
the  joy  she  expected.  She  probed  herself  nneasilv.  Often  when 
she  had  been  so  tormented  before  she  had  thought  that  the 
coming  of  a  child  might  be  her  salvation.  The  child  had  come, 
but  it  brought  no  salvation.  She  felt  the  human  plant  rooted 
in  her  flesh  growing,  and  sucking  up  her  blood  and  her  life. 
She  would  stay  for  days  together  lost  in  thought,  listening  with 
vacant  eyes,  all  her  being  exhausted  by  the  unknown  creature 
that  had  taken  possession  of  her.  She  was  conscious  of  a  vague 
buzzing,  sweet,  lulling,  agonixing.  She  would  start  suddenly 
from  her  torpor — dripping  with,  s \veat.  shivering,  with,  a  spasm 
of  revolt.  She  fought  against  the  meshes  in  which  Nature 
had  entrapped  her.  She  wished  to  live,  to  live  freely,  and  it 
seemed  to  her  that  Xature  had  tricked  her.  Then  she  was 
ashamed  of  such  thought;-',  and  seemed  monstrous  in  her  own 
eyes,  and  asked  herself  if  she  were  more  wicked  than,  or  made 
differently  from,  other  women.  And  little  bv  little  she  would 
grow  calm  again,  browsing  like  a  tree  over  the  sap.  and  the 
dream  of  the  living  fruit  ripening  in  her  womb.  What  was  it? 
What  was  it  going  lo  be?  .  .  . 

When  she  heard  its  first  cry  to  the  light,  when  she  saw  its 
pitiable  touching  little  bodv.  her  heart  melted.  In  one  da/./Iing 
moment  she  knew  the  glorious  joy  of  motherhood,  the  mightiest 
in  all  the  world :  in  her  suffering  to  have  created  of  her  own 


120         JEAN-CHRISTOPHE:    JOURNEY'S  END 

flesh  a  living  being,  a  man.  And  the  great  wave  of  love  which 
moves  the  universe,  caught  her  whole  body,  dashed  her  down, 
rushed  over  her,  and  lifted  her  up  to  the  heavens.  ...  0 
God,  the  woman  who  creates  is  Thy  equal:  and  Thou  knowest  no 
joy  like  unto  hers:  for  Thou  hast  not  suffered.  .  .  . 

Then  the  wave  rolled  back,  and  her  soul  dropped  back  into 
the  depths. 

Olivier,  trembling  with  emotion,  stooped  over  the  child:  and. 
smiling  at  Jacqueline,  he  tried  to  understand  what  bond  of 
mysterious  life  there  was  between  themselves  and  the  wretched 
little  creature  that  was  as  yet  hardly  human.  Tenderly,  with 
a  little  feeling  of  disgust,  he  just  touched  its  little  yellow 
wrinkled  face  with  his  lips.  Jacqueline  watched  him:  jealously 
she  pushed  him  away:  she  took  the  child  and  hugged  it  to 
her  breast,  and  covered  it  witli  kisses.  The  child  cried  and 
she  gave  it  back,  and.  with  her  face  turned  to  the  wall,  she  wept. 
Olivier  came  to  her  and  kissed  her,  and  drank  her  tears:  she 
kissed  him  too,  and  forced  herself  to  smile:  then  she  asked  to 
be  left  alone  to  rest  with  the  child  by  her  side.  .  .  .  Alas! 
what  is  to  be  done  when  love  is  dead?  The  man  who  gives 
more  than  half  of  himself  up  to  intelligence  never  loses  a  strong 
feeling  without  preserving  a  trace,  an  idea,  of  it  in  his  brain. 
He  cannot  love  any  more,  but  he  cannot  forget  that  he  has 
loved.  But  the  woman  who  has  loved  wholly  and  without 
reason,  and  without  reason  ceases  wholly  to  love,  what  can  she 
do?  Will?  Take  refuge  in  illusions?  And  what  if  she  be  too 
weak  to  will,  too  true  to  take  refuge  in  illusions?  .  .  . 

Jacqueline,  lying  on  her  side  with  her  head  propped  up  by 
her  hand,  looked  down  at  the  child  with  tender  pity.  What 
was  he?  Whatever  he  vras.  he  was  not  entirely  hers.  He  wras 
also  something  of  "  the  other.'1  And  she  no  longer  loved  "  the 
other."  Poor  child!  Dear  child!  She  was  exasperated  with 
the  little  creature  who  was  there  to  bind  her  to  the  dead  past: 
and  she  bent  over  him  and  kissed  and  kissed  him.  .  .  . 

It  is  the  great  misfortune  of  the  women  of  to-day  that  they 
are  too  free  without  being  free  enough.  If  they  were  more  free, 
they  would  seek  to  form  tics,  and  would  find  charm  and  security 
in  them.  ]f  they  were  less  free,  they  would  resign  themselves 


LOVE  AND  FRIENDSHIP  121 

to  ties  which  they  would  not  know  how  to  break  :  and  they  would 
suffer  less.  But  the  worst  state  of  all  is  to  have  ties  which 
do  not  bind,  and  duties  from  which  it  is  possible  to  break 
free. 

If  Jacqueline  had  believed  that  her  little  house  was  to  be 
her  lot  for  the  whole  of  her  life,  she  would  not  have  found  it 
so  inconvenient  and  cramped,  and  she  would  have  devised  ways 
of  making  it  comfortable :  she  would  have  ended  as  she  began, 
by  loving  it.  But  she  knew  that  it  was  possible  to  leave  it, 
and  it  stifled  her.  It  was  possible  for  her  to  revolt,  and  at  last 
she  came  to  think  it  her  duty  to  do  so. 

The  present-day  moralists  are  strange  creatures.  All  their 
qualities  have  atrophied  to  the  profit  of  their  faculties  of  ob- 
servation. They  have  given  up  trying  to  see  life,  hardly 
attempt  to  understand  it.  and  never  by  any  chance  WILL  it. 
When  they  have  observed  and  noted  down  the  facts  of  human 
nature,  they  seem  to  think  their  task  is  at  an  end,  and 
say: 

"  That  is  a  fact." 

They  make  no  attempt  to  change  it.  In  their  eves,  appar- 
ently, the  mere  fact  of  existence  is  a  moral  virtue.  Every  sort 
of  weakness  seems  to  have  been  inserted  with  a  sort  of  Divine 
right.  The  world  is  growing  democratic,  formerly  only  the 
King  was  irresponsible.  Nowadays  all  men,  preferably  the 
basest,  have  that  privilege.  Admirable  counselors!  With  in- 
finite pains  and  scrupulous  care  they  set  themselves  to  prove  to 
the  weak  exactly  how  weak  they  are.  and  that  it  has  been  decreed 
that  they  should  be  so  and  not  otherwise  from  all  eternity. 
What  can  the  weak  do  but  fold  their  arms?  We  may  think 
ourselves  luckv  if  thev  do  not  admire  themselves!  By  dint  of 
hearing  it  said  over  and  over  again  that  she  is  a  sick  child,  a 
woman  soon  takes  a  pride  in  being  so.  It  is  encouraging  coward- 
ice, and  making  it  spread.  If  a  man  were  to  amuse  himself 
by  telling  children  complacently  that  there  is  an  age  in  adoles- 
cence when  the  soul,  not  vet  having  found  its  balance,  is  capable 
of  crimes,  and  suicide,  and  the  worst  sort  of  physical  and  moral 
depravity,  and  were  to  excuse  these  tilings — at  once  these  offenses 
would  spring  into  being.  And  even  with  men  it  is  quite  enough 
to  sro  on  telling  them  that  thev  are  not  free  to  make  them 


122         JEAN-CHlilSTOPHE:    JOUENEY'S  END 

cease  to  be  so  and  descend  to  the  level  of  the  beasts.  Tell  a 
woman  that  she  is  a  responsible  being,  and  mistress  oi'  her  body 
and  her  will,  and  she  will  be  so.  But  yon  moralists  are  cowards, 
and  take  good  care  not  to  tell  her  so:  for  yon  have  an  interest 
in  keeping  such  knowledge  from  her  !  .  .  . 

The  unhappy  surroundings  in  which  Jacqueline  found  herself 
led  her  astray.  Since  she  had  broken  with  Olivier  she  had 
returned  to  that  section  of  society  which  she  despised  when  she 
was  a  girl.  About  her  and  her  friends,  among  married  women, 
there  gathered  a  little  group  of  wealthy  young  men  and  women, 
smart,  idle,  intelligent,  and  licentious.  They  enjoyed  absolute 
liberty  of  thought  and  speech,  tempered  only  by  the  seasoning 
of  wit.  They  might  well  have  taken  for  their  motto  the  device 
of  the  Rabelaisian  abbey : 

"Do  u-hat  tli on  wilt." 

But  they  bragged  a  little:  for  they  did  not  will  anything 
much  :  they  were  like  the  enervated  people  of  Thelema.  They 
would  complacently  profess  the  freedom  of  their  instincts:  but 
their  instincts  were  faded  and  faint:  and  their  profligacy  was 
chiefly  cerebral.  Thev  delighted  in  feeling  themselves  sink 
into  the  great  piscina  of  civilization,  that  warm  mud-bath  in 
which  human  energy,  the  primeval  and  vital  forces,  primitive 
animalism,  and  its  blossom  of  faith,  will,  duties,  and  passions, 
are  liquefied.  Jacqueline's  pretty  body  was  steeped  in  that  bath 
of  gelatinous  thought.  Olivier  could  do  nothing  to  keep  her 
from  it.  Besides,  he  too  wag  touched  by  the  disease  of  the  time: 
he  thought  he  had  no  right  to  tamper  with  the  liberty  of  another 
human  being:  he  would  not  ask  anything  of  the  woman  he  loved 
that  he  could  not  gain  through  love.  And  Jacqueline  did  not 
in  the  least  resent  his  non-interference,  because  she  regarded 
her  liberty  as  her  right. 

The  worst  of  it  was  that  she  went  into  that  amphibious  section 
of  socielv  with  a  wholeness  of  heart  which  made  anything  equiv- 
ocal repulsive  to  her:  when  she  believed  she  gave  herself:  in 
the  generous  ardor  of  her  soul,  even  in  her  egoism,  she  always 
burned  her  boats;  and.  as  a  result  of  living  with  Olivier,  she 
had  preserved  a  moral  inability  to  compromise,  which  she  was 
apt  to  apply  even  in  immorality. 

Her  new  friends  were  too  cautious  to  let  others  see  them  as 


LOVE  AND  FRIENDSHIP  123 

they  were.  In  theory  they  paraded  absolute  liberty  with  regard 
to  the  prejudices  of  morality  and  society,  though  in  practice 
they  so  contrived  their  affairs  as  not  to  fall  out  with  any  one 
whose  acquaintance  might  be  useful  to  them:  they  used  morality 
and  society,  while  they  betrayed  them  like  unfaithful  .servants, 
robbing  their  masters.  They  even  robbed  each  other  for  want 
of  anything  better  to  do,  and  as  a  matter  of  habit.  There  was 
more  than  one  of  the  men  who  knew  that  his  wife  had  iovers. 
The  wives  were  not  ignorant  of  the  fact  that  their  husbands 
had  mistresses.  They  both  put  up  with  it.  Scandal  only  begins 
when  one  makes  a  noise  about  these  things.  These  charming 
marriages  rested  on  a  tacit  understanding  between  partners— be- 
tween accomplices.  But  Jacqueline  was  more  frank,  and  played 
to  win  or  lose.  The  first  thing  was  to  be  sincere.  Again,  to 
be  sincere.  Again  and  always,  to  be  sincere.  Sincerity  was 
also  one  of  the  virtues  extolled  by  the  ideas  of  that  time.  But 
herein  it  is  proved  once  again  that  everything  is  sound  for  the 
sound  in  heart,  while  everything  is  corrupt  for  the  corrupt. 
How  hideous  it  is  sometimes  to  be  sincere!  It  is  a  sin  for 
mediocre  people  to  trv  to  look  into  the  depths  of  themselves. 
They  see  their  mediocrity:  and  their  vanity  always  linds  some- 
thing to  feed  on. 

Jacqueline  spent  her  time  in  looking  at  herself  in  her  mirror: 
she  saw  things  in  it  which  it  were  belter  she  had  never  seen: 
for  when  she  saw  them  she  could  not  take  her  eyes  oil'  them  : 
and  instead  of  struggling  against  them  she  watched  them  grow: 
they  became  enormous  and  in  the  end  captured  her  eyes  and 
her  mind. 

The  child  was  not  enough  to  fill  her  life.  She  had  not  been 
able  to  nurse  it:  the  baby  pined  with  her.  Sbe  had  to  procure 
a  wet  nurse.  It  was  a  great  grief  to  her  at  first.  .  .  .  Soon 
it  became  a  solace.  The  child  became  splendidly  healthv:  he 
grew  lustily,  and  became  a  fine  little  fellow,  gave  no  trouble, 
spent  his  time  in  sleeping,  and  hardly  cried  at  all  at  night. 
The  nurse — a  strapping  Xivernaise  who  had  fostered  uianv  chil- 
dren, and  always  had  a  jealous  and  embarrassing  animal  allei- 
tion  for  each  of  them  in  turn — was  like  the  real  mother.  When- 
ever Jacqueline  expressed  an  opinion,  the  woman  went  her  own 
way:  and  if  Jacqueline  tried  to  argue,  in  the  end  she  always 


124         JEAX-CHIUSTOPHE:    JOURNEY'S  END 

found  that  she  knew  nothing  at  all  about  it.  She  had  never 
really  recovered  from  the  birth  of  the  child:  a  slight  attack  of 
phlebitis  had  dragged  her  down,  and  as  she  had  to  lie  still  for 
several  weeks  she  worried  and  worried :  she  was  feverish,  and 
her  mind  went  on  and  on  indefinitely  beating  out  the  same 
monotonous  deluded  complaint : 

"  I  have  not  lived,  I  have  not  lived :  and  now  my  life  is 
finished.  ..." 

For  her  imagination  was  fired:  she  thought  herself  crippled 
for  life:  and  there  rose  in  her  a  dumb,  harsh,  and  bitter  rancor, 
which  she  did  not  confess  to  herself,  against  the  innocent  cause 
of  her  illness,  the  child.  The  feeling  is  not  so  rare  as  is  gen- 
erally believed:  but  a  veil  is  drawn  over  it:  and  even  those 
who  feel  it  are  ashamed  to  submit  to  it  in  their  inmost  hearts. 
Jacqueline  condemned  herself:  there  was  a  sharp  conflict  between 
her  egoism  and  her  mothers  love.  When  she  saw  the  child 
sleeping  so  happily,  she  was  filled  with  tenderness:  but  a  moment 
later  she  would  think  bitterly: 

"  He  has  killed  me." 

And  she  could  not  suppress  a  feeling  of  irritation  and  revolt 
against  the  untroubled  sleep  of  the  creature  whose  happiness 
she  had  bought  at  the  price  of  her  suffering.  Even  after  she 
had  recovered,  when  the  child  was  bigger,  the  feeling  of  hostility 
persisted  dimly  and  obscurely.  As  she  was  ashamed  of  it,  she 
transferred  it  to  Olivier.  She  went  on  fancying  herself  ill:  and 
her  perpetual  care  of  her  health,  her  anxieties,  which  were  bol- 
stered up  by  the  doctors,  who  encouraged  the  idleness  which  was 
the  prime  cause  of  it  all. —  (separation  from  the  child,  forced 
inactivity,  absolute  isolation,  weeks  of  emptiness  spent  in  lying 
in  bed  and  being  stuffed  with  food,  like  a  beast  being  fatted  for 
slaughter), — had  ended  by  concentrating  all  her  thoughts  upon, 
herself.  The  modern  way  of  curing  neurasthenia  is  very  strange, 
being  neither  more  nor  less  than  the  substitution  of  hypertrophy 
of  the  ego  for  a  disease  ot  the  ego!  Why  not  bleed  their  egoism, 
or  restore  the  circulation  of  the  blood  from  head  to  heart,  if 
they  do  not  have  too  much,  by  some  violent,  moral  reagent! 

Jacqueline  came  out  of  it  physically  stronger,  plumper,  and 
rejuvenated. — but  morally  she  was  more  ill  than  ever.  Her 
months  of  isolation  had  broken  the  last  ties  of  thought  which 


LOVE  AXD  FRIENDSHIP  135 

bound  her  to  Olivier.  While  she  lived  with  him  she  was  still 
tinder  the  ascendancy  of  his  idealism,  for,  in  spite  of  all  his 
failings,  he  remained  constant  to  his  faith :  she  struggled  in 
vain  against  the  bondage  in  which  she  was  held  by  a  mind  more 
steadfast  than  her  own.  against  the  look  which  pierced  to  her 
very  soul,  and  forced  her  sometimes  to  condemn  herself,  how- 
ever loath  she  might  be  to  do  so.  But  as  soon  as  chance  had 
separated  her  from  her  husband — as  soon  as  she  ceased  to  feel 
the  weight  of  his  all-seeing  love — as  soon  as  she  was  free — the 
trusting  friendship  that  used  to  exist  between  them  wa-  sup- 
planted by  a  feeling  of  anger  at  having  broken  free,  a  sort  of 
hatred  born  of  the  idea  that  she.  had  for  so  long  lived  beneath 
the  yoke  of  an  affection  which  she  no  longer  felt. — Who  can  tell 
the  hidden,  implacable,  bitter  feelings  that  seethe  and  ferment 
in  the  heart  of  a  creature  he  loves,  by  whom  he  believes  that 
he  is  loved  ?  Between  one  day  and  the  next,  all  is  changed. 
She  loved  the  day  before,  she  seemed  to  love,  she  thought  she 
loved.  She  loves  no  longer.  The  man  she  loved  is  struck  out 
from  her  thoughts.  She  sees  suddenly  that  he  is  nothing  to 
her :  and  he  does  not  understand :  he  has  seen  nothing  of  the 
long  travail  through  which  she  has  passed :  he  has  had  no 
suspicion  of  the  secret  hostility  towards  himself  that  has  been 
gathering  in  her:  he  does  not  wish  to  know  the  reasons  for  her 
vengeful  hatred.  Reasons  often  remote,  complex,  and  obscure, — 
some  hidden  deep  in  the  mysteries  of  their  inmost  life. — others 
arising  from  injured  vanity,  secrets  of  the  heart  surprised  and 
judged, — others  .  .  .  What  does  she  know  of  them  herself? 
It  is  some  hidden  offense  committed  against  her  unwittingly, 
an  offense  which  she  will  never  forgive.  It  is  impossible  to 
find  out,  and  she  herself  is  not  very  sure  what  it  is:  but  the 
oftense  is  marked  deep  in  her  flesh:  her  ilesh  will  never  for- 
get it. 

To  fight  against  such  an  appalling  stream  of  disaffection  called 
for  a  very  different  type  of  man  from  Olivier — one  nearer  nature, 
a  simpler  man  and  a  more  supple  one  not  hampered  with  senti- 
mental scruples,  a  man  of  strong  instincts,  capable,  if  need  lie.  of 
actions  which  his  reason  would  disavow.  He  lost  the  fight 
before  ever  it  began,  for  he  had  lost  heart:  his  perception  was 
too  clear,  and  he  had  long  since  recognized  in  Jacqueline  a 


l?f>         JEAN-CHRISTOPHE:    JOURNEY'S  EXT") 

form  of  heredity  which  was  stronger  than  her  will,  her  mother's 
soul  reappearing  in  her:  he  saw  her  falling  like  a  stone  down 
to  the  depths  of  the  stock  from  which  she  sprang:  and  his  weak 
and  clumsy  efforts  to  stay  her  only  accelerated  her  downfall 
ITe  forced  himself  to  he  calm.  She.  from  an  unconsciously 
selfish  motive,  tried  to  break  down  his  defenses  and  make  him 
say  violent,  brutal,  boorish  things  to  her  so  as  to  have  a  reason 
for  despising  him.  If  he  gave  way  to  anger,  she  despised  him 
If  at  once  he  were  ashamed  and  became  apologetic,  she  despised 
him  even  more.  And  if  he  did  not,  would  not,  give  way  to 
anger — then  she  hated  him.  And  worst  of  all  was  the  silence 
which  for  days  together  would  rise  like  a  wall  between  them 
A  suffocating,  crushing,  maddening  silence  which  brings  even 
the  gen! lest  creatures  to  fury  and  exasperation,  and  makes  them 
have  moments  when  they  feel  a  savage  desire  to  hurt,  to  cry 
out,  or  make  the  other  cry  out.  The  black  silence  in  which  love 
reaches  its  final  stage  of  disintegration,  and  the  man  and  the 
woman,  like  the  worlds,  each  following  its  own  orbit,  pass  on- 
ward into  the  night.  .  .  .  They  had  reached  a  point  at  which 
everything  they  did,  even  an  attempt  to  come  together  again, 
drove  them  farther  and  farther  apart.  Their  life  became  in- 
tolerable. Events  were  precipitated  by  an  accident. 

During  the  past  year  Oeeile  Fleury  had  often  been  to  the 
Jeannins'.  Olivior  had  met  her  at  Christophe's :  then  Jacque- 
line had  invited  her  to  the  house;  and  Cecile  went  on  seeing 
them  even  after  (Tiristophe  had  broken  with  them.  Jacqueline 
had  been  kind  to  her:  although  sho  was  hardly  at  all  musical 
and  thought  Cecile  a  little  common,  she  felt  the  charm  of  her 
singing  and  her  soothing  influence.  Olivier  liked  playing  with 
her,  and  gradually  she  became  a  friend  of  the  family.  She 
inspired  confidence:  when  she  came  into  the  Jcannins"  drawing- 
room  with  her  honest  eyes  and  her  air  of  health  and  high  spirits, 
and  her  rather  loud  laugh  which  it  was  good  to  hear,  it  was 
like  a  ray  of  sunlight  piercing  the  mist.  She  brought  a  feeling 
:>f  inexpressible  relief  and  solace  to  Olivier  and  Jacqueline. 
When  she  was  leaving  they  longed  to  say  to  her: 

"  Xo.     Stay,  stay  a  little  while  longer,  for  1  am  cold!" 
During  Jacqueline's  absence  Olivier  saw  Cecile  more  often: 
and  he  could  not  help  letting  her  see  something  of  his  troubles 


LOVE  AND  FRIENDSHIP  1?7 

He  did  it  quite  unthinkingly,  with  the  heedlessness  of  a  weak 
and  tender  creature  who  is  stifling  and  has  need  of  some  one 
to  confide  in,  with  an  absolute  surrender.  Ceeile  was  tour-lied 
by  it:  she  soothed  him  with  motherly  words  of  comfort.  She 
pitied  both  of  them,  and  urged  Olivier  not  to  lose  heart.  But 
whether  it  was  that  she  was  more  embarrassed  than  he  by  his 
confidences,  or  that  there  was  some  other  reason,  she  found  ex- 
cuses for  going  less  often  to  the  house.  No  doubt  it  seemed 
to  her  that  she  was  not  acting  loyally  towards  Jacqueline,  for 
she  had  no  right  to  know  hei  secrets.  At  least,  that  was  how 
Olivier  interpreted  her  estrangement :  and  he  agreed  with  her. 
for  he  was  sorry  that  he  had  spoken.  But  the  estrangement 
made  him  feel  what  Ceeile  had  become  to  him.  He  had  grown 
used  to  sharing  his  ideas  with  her,  and  she  was  the  only  creature 
who  could  deliver  him  from  the  pain  he  was  suffering.  He 
was  too  much  skilled  in  reading  his  own  feelings  to  have  any 
doubt  as  to  the  name  of  what  he  felt  for  her.  He  would  never 
have  said  anything  to  Ceeile.  But  he  could  not  resist  the  im- 
perative desire  to  write  down  what  he  felt.  For  some  little 
time  past  he  had  returned  to  the  dangerous  habit  of  communing 
with  his  thoughts  on  paper.  He  had  cured  himself  of  it  during 
the  years  of  love:  but  now  that  he  found  himself  alone  once 
more,  his  inherited  mania  took  possession  of  him:  it  was  a  relief 
from  his  sufferings,  and  it  was  the  artist's  need  of  self-analysis. 
So  he  described  himself,  and  set  his  troubles  down  in  writing, 
as  though  he  were  telling  them  to  Ceeile — more  freely  indeed; 
since  she  was  never  to  read  it.  And  as  luck  would  have  it  the 
manuscript  came  into  Jacqueline's  hands.  It  happened  one  day 
when  she  was  feeling  nearer  Olivier  than  she  had  been  for 
years.  As  she  was  clearing  out  her  cupboard  she  read  once 
more  the  old  love-letters  he  had  sent  her :  she  had  been  moved 
to  tears  by  them.  Sitting  in  the  shadow  of  the  cupboard,  un- 
able to  go  on  with  her  tidying,  she  lived  through  the  past  once 
more:  and  then  was  filled  with  sorrow  and  remorse  to  think 
that  she  had  destroyed  it.  She  thought  of  the  grief  it  must 
be  to  Olivier;  she  had  never  been  able  to  face  the  idea  of  it 
calmly:  she  could  forget  it:  but  she  could  not  bear  to  think  that 
he  had  suffered  through  her.  Her  heart  ached.  She  longed  to 
throw  herself  into  his  arms  and  say: 


128         JEAN-CHKISTOPHE :    JOURNEY'S  EXD 

"Oh!  Olivier,  Olivier,  what  have  we  done?  We  are  mad, 
we  are  mad !  Don't  let  us  ever  again  hurt  each  other !  " 

If  only  he  had  come  in  at  that  moment ! 

And  it  was  exactly  at  that  moment  that  she  found  his  letters 
to  Cecile.  ...  It  was  the  end. — Did  she  think  that  Olivier 
had  really  deceived  her?  Perhaps.  But  what  does  it  signify? 
To  her  the  betrayal  was  not  so  much  in  the  act  as  in  the  thought 
and  intention.  She  would  have  found  it  easier  to  forgive  the 
man  she  loved  for  taking  a  mistress  than  for  secretly  giving  his 
heart  to  another  woman.  And  she  was  right. 

"A  pretty  stale  of  things!"  some  will  say  .  .  .  — (They 
are  poor  creatures  who  only  suffer  from  the  betrayal  of  love 
when  it  is  consummated  !  .  .  .  When  the  heart  remains  faith- 
ful, the  sordid  offenses  of  the  body  are  of  small  account.  When 
the  heart  turns  traitor,  all  the  rest  is  nothing.)  .  .  . 

Jacqueline  did  not  for  a  moment  think  of  regaining  Olivier's 
love.  It  was  too  late !  She  no  longer  cared  for  him  enough. 
Or  perhaps  she  cared  for  him  too  much.  All  her  trust  in  him 
crumbled  away,  all  that  was  left  in  her  secret  heart  of  her 
faith  and  hope  in  him.  She  did  not  tell  herself  that  she  had 
scorned  him.  and  had  discouraged  him,  and  driven  him  to  his 
new  love,  or  that  his  love  was  innocent:  and  that  after  all  we 
are  not  masters  of  ourselves  sufficiently  to  choose  whether  we 
will  love  or  not.  It  never  occurred  to  her  to  compare  his  senti- 
mental impulse  with  her  flirtation  with  Christophe :  she  did  not 
love  Christophe,  and  so  he  did  not  count!  In  her  passionate 
exaggeration  she  thought  that  Olivier  was  lying  to  her.  and  that 
she  was  nothing  to  him.  Her  last  stay  had  failed  her  at  the 
moment  when  she  reached  out  her  hand  to  grasp  it.  ...  It 
was  the  end. 

Olivier  never  knew  what  she  had  suffered  that  day.  But 
when  he  next  saw  her  he  too  felt  that  it  was  the  end. 

From  that  moment  on  they  never  spoke  to  each  other  except 
in  the  presence  of  strangers.  They  watched  each  other  like 
trapped  beasts  fearfully  on  their  guard.  Jeremias  (iotthelf 
somewhere  describes,  with  pitiless  simplicity.,  the  grim  situation 
of  a  husband  and  a  wife  who  no  longer  love  each  other  and 
watch  each  other,  each  carefully  marking  the  other's  health,  look- 
ing for  symptoms  of  illness,  neither  actually  thinking  of  hasten- 


LOVE  AND  FRIENDSHIP  129 

ing  or  even  wishing  the  death  of  the  other,  but  drifting  along 
in  the  hope  of  some  sudden  accident :  and  each  of  them  living 
in  the  flattering  thought  of  being  the  healthier  of  the  two. 
There  were  moments  when  both  Jacqueline  and  Olivier  almost 
fancied  that  such  thoughts  were  in  the  other's  mind.  And  they 
were  in  the  mind  of  neither :  but  it  was  bad  enough  that  they 
should  attribute  them  to  each  other,  as  Jacqueline  did  at  night 
when  she  would  lie  feverishly  awake  and  tell  herself  that  her 
husband  was  the  stronger,  and  that  he  was  wearing  her  down 
gradually,  and  would  soon  triumph  over  her.  .  .  .  The  mon- 
strous delirium  of  a  crazy  heart  and  brain! — And  to  think  that 
in  their  heart  of  hearts,  with  all  that  was  best  in  them,  they 
loved  each  other !  .  .  . 

Olivier  bent  beneath  the  weight  of  it,  and  made  no  attempt 
to  fight  against  it;  he  held  aloof  and  dropped  the  rudder  of 
Jacqueline's  soul.  Left  to  herself  with  no  pilot  to  steer  her, 
her  freedom  turned  her  dizzy:  she  needed  a  master  against 
whom  to  revolt :  if  she  had  no  master  she  had  to  make  one. 
Then  she  was  the  prey  of  a  fixed  idea.  Till  then,  in  spite  of 
her  suffering,  she  had  never  dreamed  of  leaving  Olivier.  From 
that  time  on  she  thought  herself  absolved  from  every  tie.  She 
wished  to  love,  before  it  was  too  late: — (for,  young  as  she  was, 
she  thought  herself  an  old  woman). — She  loved,  she  indulged 
in  those  imaginary  devouring  passions,  which  fasten  on  the  first 
object  they  meet,  a  face  seen  in  a  crowd,  a  reputation,  sometimes 
merely  a  name,  and.  having  laid  hold  of  it  cannot  let  go.  telling 
the  heart  that  it  cannot  live  without  the  object  of  its  choice, 
laying  it  waste,  and  completely  emptying  it  of  all  the  memories 
of  the  past  that  tilled  it;  other  affections,  moral  ideas,  memories, 
pride  of  self,  and  respect  for  others.  And  when  the  fixed  idea 
dies  in  its  time  for  want  of  anything  to  feed  it.  after  it  has 
consumed  everything,  who  can  tell  what  the  new  nature  may 
be  that  will  spring  from  the  ruins,  a  nature  often  without  kind- 
ness, without  pity,  without  youth,  without  illusions,  thinking  of 
nothing  but  devouring  life  as  grass  smothers  and  devours  the 
ruins  of  monuments  ! 

In  this  case,  as  usual,  the  fixed  idea  fastened  on  a  creature 
of  the  type  that  most  easily  tricks  the  heart.  Poor  Jacqueline 
fell  in  love  with  a  philanderer,  a  Parisian  writer,  who  was 


130         JEAN-CH1USTOP1LE :    JOUHXEY'S  END 

neither  young  nor  handsome,  a  man  \vho  was  heavy,  red-faced; 
dissipated,  with  bad  teeth,  absolutely  and  terribly  heartless,  whose 
chief  merit  was  that  he  was  a  man  of  the  world  and  had  made  a 
great  many  women  unhappy.  She  had  not  even  the  excuse  that 
she  did  not  know  how  seliish  he  was:  for  he  paraded  it  in  his  art. 
He  knew  perfectly  what  be  was  doing:  egoism  enshrined  in  art 
is  like  a  mirror  to  larks,  like  a  candle  to  moths..  ^lore  than  one 
woman  in  Jacqueline's  circle  had  been  caught:  quite  recently 
one  of  her  friends,  a  young,  newly-married  woman,  whom  be 
had  had  no  great  diilieuity  in  seducing,  had  been  deserted  by 
him.  Their  hearts  wore  not  broken  by  it.  though  they  found 
it  hard  to  conceal  their  discomfiture  from  the  delight  of  the 
gossips.  Even  those  who  were  most  cruelly  hurt  wore  much 
too  ca.ie.ful  of  their  interests  and  their  social  interests  not  to 
keep  their  perturbation  within  the  bounds  of  common  sense. 
They  made  no  scandal.  Whether  they  deceived  their  husbands 
or  their  lovers,  or  whether  they  were  themselves  deceived  and 
suffered,  it  was  all  done  in  silence.  They  were  the  heroines  of 
scandalous  rumors. 

But  Jacqueline  was  mad:  she  was  capable  not  only  of  doing 
what  she  said,  but  also  of  saying  what  she  did.  She  brought 
into  her  folly  an  absolute  lack  of  selfish  motive,  and  an  utter 
disinterestedness.  She1  bad  the  dangerous  merit  of  always  being- 
frank  with  herself  and  of  never  shirking  the  consequences  of 
her  own  actions.  She  was  a  better  creature  than  the  people  she 
lived  with  :  and  for  that  reason  she  did  worse.  When  she  loved, 
when  she  conceived  the  idea  of  adultery,  she  Hung  herself  into 
it  headlong  with  desperate  frankness, 

Madame  Arnaud  was  alone  in  her  room,  knitting  with  the 
feverish  tranquillity  with  which  Penelope  must  have  woven  her 
famous  web.  Like  Penelope,  she  was  waiting  for  her  husband's 
return.  ]\I.  Arnaud  used  to  spend  whole  days  away  from  home. 
He  had  classes  in  the  morning  ami  evening.  As  a  rule  he  came 
back  to  lunch,  Allhom'h  he  was  a  slow  walker  and  his  school 
was  at  the  other  end  of  Paris.  In  forced  himself  to  take  the  long 
walk  home,  not  so  much  from  affection,  as  from  habit,  and  for 
the  sake  of  economy.  But  sometimes  he  was  detained  by  lectures, 
or  he  uonld  take  advantage  of  being  in  the  neighborhood  of  a 


LOVE  AND  FRIENDSHIP  i:U 

library  to  go  and  work  there.  Lucile  Annual  would  be  left 
alone  in  the  empty  flat.  Except  for  the  charwoman  who  came 
from  eight  to  ten  to  do  the  cleaning,  and  the  tradesmen  who 
came  to  fetch  and  bring  orders,  no  one  ever  rang  the  bell.  She 
knew  nobody  in  the  house  now.  Christophe  had  removed,  and 
there  were  newcomers  in  the  lilac  garden.  Celine  Chabrau 

r 

had  married  Andre  Elsberger.  Elie  Elsberger  had  gone  away 
with  his  family  to  Spain,  where  he  had  been  appointed  manager 
of  a  mine.  Old  Weil  had  lost  his  wife  an."  hardly  ever  lived 
in  his  flat  in  Paris.  Only  Christophe  and  his  friend  Cecile  had 
kept  up  their  relations  with  Lucile  Arnaud :  but  they  lived  far 
away,  and  they  were  busy  and  hard  at  work  all  day  long,  so 
that  they  often  did  not  come  to  see  her  for  weeks  together. 
She  had  nothing  outside  herself. 

She  was  not  bored.  She  needed  very  little  to  keep  her  interest 
in  things  alive:  the  very  smallest  daily  task  was  enough,  or  a 
tiny  plant,  whose  delicate  foliage  she  would  clean  with  motherly 
care  every  morning.  She  had  her  quiet  gray  cat.  who  had  lost 
something  of  his  manners,  as  is  apt  to  happen  with  domestic 
animals  who  are  loved  by  their  masters:  he  used  to  spend  the 
day.  like  herself,  sitting  by  the  fire,  or  on  the  table  near  the 
lamp  watching  her  fingers  as  she  sewed,  and  sometimes  gazing 
at  her  with  his  strange  eyes,  which  watched  her  for  a  moment 
and  then  closed  again.  Even  the  furniture  was  company  to  her. 
Every  piece  was  like  a  familiar  face.  She  took  a  childlike 
pleasure  in  looking  after  them,  in  gently  wiping  oil'  the  dust 
which  settled  on  their  sides,  and  in  carefully  replacing  them  in 
their  usual  corners.  She  would  hold  silent  conversations  with 
them.  She  would  smile  at  the  fine  Louis  XVI.  round-topped 
bureau,  which  was  the  only  piece  of  old  furniture  she  had. 
Every  day  she  would  feel  the  same  joy  in  seeing  it.  She  was 
always  absorbed  in  going  over  her  linen,  and  she  would  spend 
hours  standing  on  a  chair,  with  her  hands  and  arms  deep  in  the 
great  country  cupboard,  looking  and  arranging,  while  the 
cat.  whose  curiosity  was  roused,  would  spend  hours  watching 
her. 

But  her  real  happiness  came  when,  after  her  work  was  done 
and  she  had  lunched  alone.  God  knows  how — (she  never  had 
much  of  an  appetite) — and  had  gone  the  necessary  errands,  and 


1:^          JUAN  -('IIIMSTOI'IIM:    .IOC  1,'X  KY'S    KM) 

her  day  vviis  ;il,  :in  end,  she  would  conic  in  jihonl,  four  and  sit 
by  l,hc  window  or  the  lire  with  her  work  ;md  her  eiit.  Sometimes 
she  would  liiid  some  excuse  for  not  going  out,  ill,  Jill;  she  wa.s 
glad  when  she  could  slay  indoors,  especially  in  the  winter  when 
il  was  snowing.  She  had  a  horror  of  the  cold,  and  the  wind, 
and  (.he  mud,  and  I. he  rain,  for  she  was  something  of  a  cat 
herself,  very  clean,  fastidious,  and  soft,.  She  would  rather  not 
e;it  than  go  and  procure  her  lunch  when  the  tradespeople  forgot 
lo  bring  il,.  In  lh;<f.  case  she  would  mum  h  a  piece  of  chocolate 
or  some  fruit,  from  the  sideboard.  She  was  very  careful  not  to 
let,  Arnand  know.  These  were  her  escapades.  Then  during  the 
diiys  when  the  light  was  dim,  and  also  sometimes  on  lovely  sunny 
days, —  (outside  the  hlue  sky  would  shine,  and  the  noise  of  the 
street,  would  hii//,  round  (he  dark  silent  rooms;  like  a  sort  of 
mirage  enshrouding  the  soul),  she  would  sit  in  her  favorite 
corner,  with  her  feel  on  her  hassock,  her  knitting  in  her  hands, 
;in d  go  oil'  into  day-dreams  while  her  lingers  plied  the  needles. 
She  would  have  one  of  her  favorite  hooks  hv  her  side:  its  a  rule 
one  of  those  humble,  red-backed  volumes,  a  translation  of  an 
English  novel.  She  would  read  very  little,  hardly  more  than  a 
chapter  a  day;  and  the  hook  would  lie  on  her  knees  open  at 
the  same  page  for  a  long  time  together,  or  sometimes  she  would 
not  even  open  il  :  she  knew  it  already,  and  the  story  of  it  would 
be  in  her  dreams.  So  the  long  novels  of  Dickens  and  Thackeray 
would  he  drawn  out  over  weeks,  and  in  her  dreams  they  would 
become  years.  They  wrapped  her  about  with  their  tenderness. 
The  people  of  (he  present  day,  who  read  quickly  and  carelessly, 
do  not  know  the  m.irvelous  vigor  irradiated  by  those  fine  books 
which  must  be  taken  in  slowly.  Madame  Arnaud  had  no  doubt 
that  the  lives  of  the  characters  in  the  novels  were  not  as  real 
as  her  own.  There  were  some  for  whom  she  would  have  laid 
down  her  life:  the  lender  jealous  creature,  l.adv  Castlewood,  the 
woman  who  loved  in  silence  with  her  motherly  virginal  heart, 
was  a  sister  lo  her-  little  hombey  was  her  own  dear  little  boy  : 
she  was  |)ora,  the  child-wife,  who  was  dying:  she  would  hold 
out  her  arms  to  all  those  childlike  souls  which  pass  through 
the  world  with  the  honest  eves  of  purity:  and  around  her  there 
would  pass  ;i  procession  ol  friendly  beggars  and  harmless  eccen- 
iru-s,  all  in  pursuit  of  llieir  louchingly  preposterous  cranks  and 


LOVE  AND  FRIENDSHIP  133 

whims, — and  at  their  head  the  fond  genius  of  dear  Dickens, 
laughing  and  crying  together  at  his  own  dreams.  At  such  times, 
when  she  looked  out  of  the  window,  she  would  recognize  among 
the  passers-by  the  beloved  or  dreaded  figure  of  this  or  that 
personage  in  that  imaginary  world.  She  would  fancy  similar 
lives,  the  same  lives,  being  lived  behind  the  walls  of  the  houses. 
Her  dislike  for  going  out  came  from  her  dread  of  that  world 
with  its  moving  mysteries.  She  saw  around  her  hidden  dramas 
and  comedies  being  played.  It  was  not  always  an  illusion.  In 
her  isolation  she  had  come  by  the  gift  of  mystical  intuition 
which  in  the  eyes  of  the  passers-by  can  perceive  the  secrets  of 
their  lives  of  yesterday  and  to-morrow,  which  are  often  unknown 
to  themselves.  She  mixed  up  what  she  actually  saw  with  what 
she  remembered  of  the  novels  and  distorted  it.  She  felt  that 
she  must  drown  in  that  immense  universe.  And  she  would  have 
to  go  home  to  regain  her  footing. 

But  what  need  had  she  to  read  or  to  look  at  others?  She  had 
but  to  gaze  in  upon  herself.  Her  pale,  dim  existence — seeming  so 
when  seen  from  without — was  gloriously  lit  up  within.  There 
was  abundance  and  fullness  of  life  in  it.  There  were  memories, 
and  treasures,  the  existence  of  which  lay  unsuspected.  .  .  . 
Had  they  ever  had  any  reality? — No  doubt  they  were  real,  since 
they  were  real  to  her.  .  .  .  Oh  !  the  wonder  of  such  lowly 
lives  transfigured  by  the  magic  wand  of  dreams! 

Madame  Arnaud  would  go  back  through  the  years  to  her 
childhood:  each  of  the  little  frail  flowers  of  her  vanished  hopes 
sprang  silently  into  life  again.  .  .  .  Her  first  childish  love 
for  a  girl,  whose  charm  had  fascinated  her  at  first  sight:  she 
loved  her  with  the  love  which  is  only  possible  to  those  who  are 
infinitely  pure:  she  used  to  think  she  would  die  at  the  touch 
of  her:  she  used  to  long  to  kiss  her  feet,  to  be  her  little  girl, 
to  marry  her:  the  girl  had  married,  had  not  been  happy,  had 
had  a  child  which  died,  and  then  she  too  had  died.  .  .  . 
Another  love,  when  she  was  about  twelve  years  old.  for  a  little 
girl  of  her  own  age,  who  tyrannized  over  her:  a  fair-haired  mad- 
cap, gay  and  imperious,  who  used  to  amuse  herself  bv  making 
her  cry,  and  then  would  devour  her  with  kisses:  she  laid  a 
thousand  romantic  plans  for  their  future  together:  then,  sud- 
denl}',  the  girl  became  a  Carmelite  nun,  without  anybody  know- 


134         JEAN-CHKISTOPHE :    JOUKNEY'S  END 

ing  why:  she  was  said  to  be  happy.  .  .  .  Then  there  had 
been  a  great  passion  for  a  man  much  older  than  herself.  No 
one  had  ever  known  anything  about  it,  not  even  the  object  of 
it.  She  had  given  to  it  a  great  and  ardent  devotion  and  untold 
wealth  of  tenderness.  .  .  .  Then  another  passion :  this  time 
she  was  loved.  But  from  a  strange  timidity,  and  mistrust  of 
herself,  she  had  not  dared  to  believe  that  she  was  loved,  or  to  let 
the  man  see  that  she  loved  him.  And  happiness  passed  without 
her  grasping  it.  ...  Then  .  .  .  But  what  is  the  use  of 
telling  others  what  only  has  a  meaning  for  oneself?  So  many 
trivial  facts  .which  had  assumed  a  profound  significance :  a  little 
attention  at  the  hands  of  a  friend:  a  kind  word  from  Olivier, 
spoken  without  his  attaching  any  importance  to  it :  Christophe's 
kindly  visits,  and  the  enchanted  world  evoked  by  his  music :  a 
glance  from  a  stranger :  yes,  and  even  in  that  excellent  woman, 
so  virtuous  and  pure,  certain  involuntary  infidelities  in  thought, 
which  made  her  uneasy  and  feel  ashamed,  while  she  would  feebly 
thrust  them  aside,  though  all  the  same — being  so  innocent — they 
brought  a  little  sunshine  into  her  heart.  .  .  .  She  loved  her 
husband  truly,  although  he  was  not  altogether  the  husband  of 
her  dreams.  But  he  was  kind,  and  one  day  when  he  said  to 
her :  "  My  darling  wife,  you  do  not  know  all  you  are  to  me ; 
you  are  my  whole  life,"  her  heart  melted :  and  that  day  she  felt 
that  she  was  one  with  him,  wholly  and  forever,  without  any 
possibility  of  going  back  on  it.  Each  year  brought  them  closer 
to  each  other,  and  tightened  the  bond  between  them.  They 
had  shared  lovely  dreams:  of  work,  traveling,  children.  What 
had  become  of  them  ?  .  .  .  Alas !  .  .  .  Madame  Arnaud 
was  still  dreaming  them.  There  was  a  little  boy  of  whom  she 
had  so  often  and  so  profoundly  dreamed,  that  she  knew  him 
almost  as  well  as  though  he  really  existed.  She  had  slowly 
begotten  him  through  the  years,  always  adorning  him  with  all 
the  most  beautiful  things  she  saw,  and  the  things  she  loved  most 
dearly.  .  .  .  Silence !  .  .  . 

That  was  all.  It  meant  worlds  to  her.  There  are  so  many 
tragedies  unknown,  even  the  most  intimate,  in  the  depths  of 
the  most  tranquil  and  seemingly  most  ordinary  lives !  And  the 
greatest  tragedy  of  all  perhaps  is: — that  nothing  happens  in 
such  lives  of  hope  crying  for  what  is  their  right,  their  just  due 


LOVE  AND  FEIEXDSHIP  135 

promised,  and  refused,  by  Nature — wasting  away  in  passionate 
anguish — showing  nothing  of  it  all  to  the  outside  world ! 

Madame  Arnaud,  happily  for  herself,  was  not  only  occupied 
with  herself.  Her  own  life  filled  only  a  part  of  her  dreams. 
She  lived  also  in  the  lives  of  those  she  knew,  or  had  known, 
and  put  herself  in  their  place :  she  thought  much  of  Christophe 
and  his  friend  Cecile.  She  was  thinking  of  them  now.  The 
two  women  had  grown  fond  of  one  another.  The  strange  thing 
was  that  of  the  two  it  was  the  sturdy  Cecile  who  felt  most  need 
to  lean  on  the  frail  Madame  Arnaud.  In  reality  the  healthy, 
high-spirited  young  woman  was  not  so  strong  as  she  seemed  to 
be.  She  was  passing  through  a  crisis.  Even  the  most  tranquil 
hearts  are  not  immune  from  being  taken  by  surprise.  Unknown 
to  herself,  a  feeling  of  tenderness  had  crept  into  her  heart :  she 
refused  to  admit  it  at  first :  but  it  had  grown  so  that  she 
was  forced  to  see  it : — she  loved  Olivier.  His  sweet  and 
affectionate  disposition,  the  rather  feminine  charm  of  his  per- 
sonality, his  weakness  and  inability  to  defend  himself,  had 
attracted  her  at  once: — (a  motherly  nature  is  attracted  by  the 
nature  which  has  need  of  her). — What  she  had  learned  subse- 
quently of  his  marital  troubles  had  inspired  her  with  a  dangerous 
pity  for  Olivier.  No  doubt  these  reasons  would  not  have  been 
enough.  Who  can  say  why  one  human  being  falls  in  love  with  [ 
another?  Neither  counts  for  anything  in  the  matter,  but  often! 
it  merely  happens  that  a  heart  which  is  for  the  moment  off  its 
guard  is  taken  by  surprise,  and  is  delivered  up  to  the  first  af- 
fection  it  may  meet  on  the  road. — As  soon  as  she  had  no 
room  left  for  doubt  as  to  her  state  of  mind,  Cecile  bravely 
struggled  to  pluck  out  the  barb  of  a  love  which  she  thought 
wicked  and  absurd:  she  suffered  for  a  long  time  and  did  not  re- 
cover. No  one  would  have  suspected  what  was  happening  to 
her:  she  strove  valiantly  to  appear  happy.  Only  Madame  Ar- 
naud knew  what  it  must  have  cost  her.  Not  that  Cecile  had 
told  her  her  secret.  But  she  would  sometimes;  come  and  lay 
her  head  on  Madame  Arnaud's  bosom.  She  would  weep  a  little, 
without  a  word,  kiss  her,  and  then  go  away  laughing.  She 
adored  this  friend  of  hers,  in  whom,  though  she  seemed  so 
fragile,  she  felt  a  moral  energy  and  faith  superior  to  her  own. 
She  did  not  confide  in  her.  But  Madame  Arnaud  could  jniess 


136         JEAX-CHRISTOPHE:    JOURNEY'S  END 

volumes  on  a  hint.  The  world  seemed  to  her  to  be  a  sad  mis- 
understanding. It  is  impossible  to  dissolve  it.  One  can  only 
love,  have  pity,  and  dream. 

And  when' tho  swarm  of  her  dreams  buzzed  too  loudly,  when 
her  thoughts  stopped,  she  would  go  to  her  piano  and  let  her 
hands  fall  lightly  on  the  keys,  at  random,  and  play  softly  to 
wreathe  the  mirage  of  life  about  with  the  subdued  light  of 
music.  .  .  . 

But  the  good  little  creature  Avould  not  forget  to  perform  her 
everyday  duties :  and  when  Arnaud  came  home  he  would  find 
the  lamp  lit,  the  supper  ready,  and  his  wife's  pale,  smiling  face 
waiting  for  him.  And  he  would  have  no  idea  of  the  unrverse  in 
which  she  had  been  living. 

The  great  difficulty  was  to  keep  the  two  lives  going  side 
by  side  without  their  clashing :  her  everyday  life  and  that  other, 
the  great  life  of  the  mind,  with  its  far-flung  horizons.  It  was 
not  always  easy.  Fortunately  Arnaud  also  lived  to  some  extent 
in  an  imaginary  life,  in  books,  and  works  of  art,  tbe  eternal  fire 
of  which  fed  the  flickering  flames  of  his  soul.  But  during  the 
last  few  years  he  had  become  more  and  more  preoccupied  with 
the  petty  annoyances  of  his  profession,  injustice  and  favoritism. 
and  friction  with  his  colleagues  or  his  pupils:  he  was  embit- 
tered: he  began  to  talk  politics,  and  to  inveigh  against  the  Gov- 
ernment and  tbe  Jews:  and  he  made  Dreyfus  responsible  for  bis 
disappointments  at  tbe  university.  His  mood  of  soreness  in- 
fected Madame  Arnaud  a  little.  She  was  at  an  age  when  her 
vital  force  AMIS  upset  and  uneasy,  groping  for  balance.  There 
were  great  gaps  in  her  thoughts.  For  a  time  they  both  lost 
touch  with  life,  and  their  reason  for  existence:  for  they  had 
nothing  to  which  to  bind  their  spider's  web,  which  was  left  hang- 
ing in  the  void.  Though  the  support  of  .reality  be  never  so 
weak,  yet  for  dreams  there  must  be  one.  They  had  no  sort  of 
support.  Thev  could  not  contrive  any  means  of  propping  each 
other  up.  Instead  of  helping  her.  he  clung  to  her.  And  she 
knew  perfectly  well  that  she  was  not  strong  enough  to  bold  him 
up,  for  she  could  not  even  support  herself.  Only  a  miracle  could 
save  her.  She  prayed  for  it  to  come.  It  came  from  the  depths 
of  her  soul.  In  her  solitary  pious  heart  Madame  Arnaud  felt 


LOVE  AXD  FRIENDSHIP  137 

the  irony  of  the  sublime  and  absurd  hunger  for  creation  in  spite 
of  everything,  the  need  of  weaving  her  web  in  spite  of  every- 
thing, through  space,  for  the  joy  of  weaving,  leaving  it  to  the 
wind,  the  breath  of  God.  to  carry  her  whithersoever  it  was  or- 
dained that  she  should  go.  And  the  breath  of  God  gave  her  a 
new  hold  on  life,  and  found  her  an  invisible  support.  Then 
the  husband  and  wife  both  set  patiently  to  work  once  more  to 
weave  the  magnificent  and  vain  web  of  their  dreams,  a  web 
fashioned  of  their  purest  suffering  and  their  blood, 

Madame  Arnaud  was  alone  in  her  room.  ...  It  was 
near  evening. 

The  door-bell  rang.  Madame  Arnaud.  roused  from  her  reverie 
before  the  usual  time.,  started  and  trembled.  She  carefully  ar- 
ranged her  work  and  went  to  open  the  dor.  Christophe  came 
in.  He  was  in  a  great  state  of  emotion.  She  took  his  hands 
affectionately. 

"What  is  it,  my  dear?'"'  she  asked. 

"  Ah  !  "  he  said.    "  Olivier  has  come  back.'' 

"  Come  back  ?  " 

"He  came  this  morning  and  said:  'Christophe,  help  me!' 
I  embraced  him.  He  wept.  He  told  me :  I  have  nothing  but  you 
now.  She  has  gone." 

Madame  Arnaud  gasped,  and  clasped  her  hands  and  said : 

"  Poor  things  !  " 

"  She  has  gone,"  said  Christophe.     "  Gone  with  her  lover." 

"And  her  child?"  asked  Madame  Arnaud. 

"  .Husband,  child — she  lias  left  everything." 

"Poor  thing!"  said  Madame  Arnaud  again. 

"  He  loved  her,"  said  Christophe.  "  He  loved  her,  and  her 
alone.  He  will  never  recover  from  the  blow.  He  keeps  on  say- 
ing:  'Christophe,  she  has  betrayed  me.  .  .  .  My  dearest 
friend  has  betrayed  me.'  It  is  no  good  my  saying  to  him.  '  Since 
she  has  betrayed  you,  she  cannot  have  been  your  friend.  She 
is  your  enemy.  Forget  her  or  kill  her!  >: 

"Oh!  Christophe,  what  are  you  saving!     \{  \$  too  horrible!" 

•'Yes,  I  know.  You  all  think  it  barbaric  and  prehistoric  to 
kill!  It  is  jolly  to  hear  these  Parisians  protesting  against  the 
brutal  instincts  which  urge  the  male  to  kill  the  female  if  she 


138         JEAN-CHRISTOPHE :    JOURNEY'S  END 

deceives  him,  and  preaching  indulgence  and  reason !  They're 
splendid  apostles !  It  is  a  fine  thing  to  see  the  pack  of  mongrel 
dogs  waxing  wrath  against  the  return  to  animalism.  After  out- 
raging life,  after  having  robbed  it  of  its  worth,  they  surround 
it  with  religious  worship.  .  .  .  What!  That  heartless,  dis- 
honorable, meaningless  life,  the  mere  physical  act  of  breathing, 
the  beating  of  the  blood  in  a  scrap  of  flesh,  these  are  the  things 
which  they  hold  worthy  of  respect !  They  are  never  done  with 
their  niceness  about  the  flesh :  it  is  a  crime  to  touch  it.  You 
may  kill  the  soul  if  you  like,  but  the  body  is  sacred.  .  .  .  " 

"  The  murderers  of  the  soul  are  the  worst  of  all :  but  one 
crime  is  no  excuse  for  another.  You  know  that." 

"  I  know  it.  Y"es.  You  are  right.  I  did  not  think  what  I 
was  saying.  .  .  .  Who  knows?  I  should  do  it,  perhaps." 

"  No.     You  are  unfair  to  yourself.     You  are  so  kind." 

"  If  I  am  roused  to  passion,  I  am  as  cruel  as  the  rest.  Y"ou 
see  how  I  had  lost  control  of  myself !  .  .  .  But  when  you  see 
a  friend  brought  to  tears,  how  can  you  not  hate  the  person  who 
has  caused  them?  And  how  can  one  be  too  hard  on  a  woman 
who  leaves  her  child  to  run  after  her  lover?" 

"  Don't  talk  like  that,  Christophe.     You  don't  know." 

"  What !     You  defend  her  ?  " 

"  I  pity  her,  too." 

"  I  pity  those  who  suffer.     Not  those  who  cause  suffering." 

"  Well !  Do  you  think  she  hasn't  suffered  too  ?  Do  you  think 
she  has  left  her  child  and  wrecked  her  life  out  of  lightness  of 
heart?  For  her  life  is  wrecked  too.  I  hardly  know  her,  Chris- 
tophe. I  have  only  seen  her  a  few  times,  and  that  only  in  pass- 
ing: she  never  said  a  friendly  word  to  me,  she  was  not  in  sym- 
pathy with  me.  And  yet  I  know  her  better  than  you.  I  am 
sure  she  is  not  a  bad  woman.  Poor  child !  I  can  guess  what 
she  has  had  to  go  through.  ..." 

"  You.  .  .  .  You  whose  life  is  so  worthy  and  so  right  and 
sensible !  .  .  .  " 

"  Yes,  Christophe,  I.  You  do  not  know.  Yrou  are  kind,  but 
you  are  a  man  and,  like  all  men.  you  are  hard,  in  spite  of 
your  kindness — a  man  hard  and  set  against  everything  which 
is  not  in  and  of  yourself.  You  have  no  real  knowledge  of  the 
women  who  live  with  you.  You  love  them,  after  your  fashion; 


LOVE  AND  FRIENDSHIP  139 

but  you  never  take  the  trouble  to  understand  them.  You  are  so 
easily  satisfied  with  yourselves!  You  are  quite  sure  that  you 
know  us.  ...  Alas !  If  you  knew  how  we  suffer  sometimes 
when  we  see,  not  that  you  do  not  love  us,  but  how  you  love  us, 
and  that  that  is  all  we  are  to  those  we  love  the  best !  There  are 
moments,  Christophe,  when  we  clench  our  fists  so  that  the  nails 
dig  into  our  hands  to  keep  ourselves  from  crying  to  you :  '  Oh ! 
Do  not  love  us,  do  not  love  us !  Anything  rather  than  love 
us  like  that ! ' .  .  .  Do  you  know  the  saying  of  a  poet :  '  Even 
in  her  home,  among  her  children,  surrounded  with  sham 
honors,  a  woman  endures  a  scorn  a  thousand  times  harder  to 
bear  than  the  most  utter  misery '  ?  Think  of  that,  Christophe. 
They  are  terrible  words." 

"  What  you  say  has  upset  me.  I  don't  rightly  understand. 
But  I  am  beginning  to  see.  .  .  .  Then,  you  yourself.  ..." 

"  I  have  been  through  all  these  torments." 

"  Is  it  possible  ?  .  .  .  But,  even  so,  you  will  never  make 
me  believe  that  you  would  have  done  the  same  as  that  woman." 

"  I  have  no  child,  Christophe.  I  do  not  know  what  I  should 
have  done  in  her  place." 

"  No.  That  is  impossible.  I  believe  in  you.  I  respect  you 
too  much.  I  swear  that  you  could  not." 

"  Swear  nothing !  I  have  been  very  near  doing  what  she 
has  done.  ...  It  hurts  me  to  destroy  the  good  idea  you  had 
of  me.  But  you  must  learn  to  know  us  a  little  if  you  do  not 
want  to  be  unjust.  Yes,  I  have  been  within  an  ace  of  just  such 
an  act  of  folly.  And  you  yourself  had  something  to  do  with 
my  not  going  on  with  it.  It  was  two  years  ago.  I  was  go- 
ing through  a  period  of  terrible  depression,  that  seemed  to  be 
eating  my  life  away.  I  kept  on  telling  myself  that  I  was  no 
use  in  the  world,  that  nobody  needed  me,  that  even  my  hus- 
band could  do  without  me.  that  I  had  lived  for  nothing.  .  .  . 
I  was  on  the  very  point  of  running  away,  to  do  Heaven  knows 
what!  I  went  up  to  your  room.  .  .  .  Do  you  remember?  .  .  . 
You  did  not  understand  why  I  came.  I  came  to  say  good-bye 
to  you.  .  .  .  And  then,  I  don't  know  what  happened,  I 
can't  remember  exactly  .  .  .  but  I  know  that  something  you 
said  .  .  .  (though  you  had  no  idea  of  it  ...)...  was 
like  a  flash  of  light  to  me.  .  .  .  Perhaps  it  was  not  what  you 


140         JEAX-CHRISTOPHE:    JOURNEY'S  EXD 

said.  .  .  .  Perhaps  it  was  only  a  matter  of  opportunity;  at 
that  moment  the  least  thing  was  enough  to  make  or  mar 
me.  .  .  .  When  1  left  you  1  went  hack  to  my  own  room, 
locked  myself  in,  and  wept  the  whole  day  through.  ...  I 
was  better  after  that:  the  crisis  had  passed." 

"And  now,"  asked  Christophe,  "you  are  sorry?" 

"Xow?"  she  said.  "Ah!  If  1  had  been  so  mad  as  to  do 
it  I  should  have  been  at  the  bottom  of  the  Heine  long  ago.  I 
could  not  have  borne  the  shame  of  it,  and  the  injury  I  should 
have  done  to  my  poor  husband." 

"  Then  you  are  happy  ?  " 

"  Yes.  As  happy  as  one  can  be  in  this  life.  It  is  so  rare 
for  two  people  to  understand  each  other,  and  respect  each 
other,  and  know  that  they  are  sure  of  each  other,  not  merely 
with  a  simple  lover's  belief,  which  is  often  an  illusion,  but  as 
the  result  of  years  passed  together,  gray,  dull,  commonplace 
years  even — especially  with  the  memory  of  the  dangers  through 
which  they  have  passed  together.  And  as  they  grow  older  their 
trust  grows  greater  and  finer." 

She  stopped  and  blushed  suddenly. 

"Oh,  Heavens!  How  could  T  tell  you  that?  .  .  .  What 
have  I  done?  .  .  .  Forget  it,  Christophe,  I  beg  of  you.  Xo 
one  must  know." 

"  You  need  not  be  afraid/'  said  Christophe,  pressing  her 
hand  warmly.  "  It  shall  be  sacred  to  me." 

Madame  Arnaud  was  unhappy  at  what  she  had  said,  and 
turned  away  for  a  moment. 

Then  she  went  on : 

"  1  ought  not  to  have  told  you.  .  .  .  But,  you  see,  1 
wanted  to  show  you  that  even  in  the  closest  and  best  marriages, 
even  for  the  women  .  .  .  whom  you  respect,  Christophe  .  .  . 
there  are  times,  not  only  of  aberration,  as  vou  say,  but  of  real, 
intolerable  suil'ering,  which  may  drive  them  to  madness,  and 
wreck  at  least  one  life,  if  not  two.  You  must  not  be  too  hard. 
Men  and  women  make  each  other  sutler  terribly  even  when 
they  love  each  other  dearly." 

"'Must  they.  then,   live  alone  and   apart?" 

"That  is  even  worse  for  us.  The  life  of  a  woman  who  has 
to  live  alone,  and  fight  like  men  (and  often  against  men),  is 


LOVE  AND  FRIENDSHIP  141 

a  terrible  thing  in  a  society  which  is  not  ready  for  the  idea  of 
it,  and  is,  in  a  great  measure,  hostile  to  it.  ...  " 

She  stopped  again,  leaning  forward  a  little,  with  her  eyes 
fixed  on  the  fire  in  the  grate;  then  she  went  on  softly,  in  a 
rather  hushed  tone,  hesitating  every  now  and  then,  stopping, 
and  then  going  on  : 

"  And  yet  it  is  not  our  fault  when  a  woman  lives  like  that, 
she  does  not  do  so  from  caprice,  but  because  she  is  forced 
to  do  so;  she  has  to  earn  her  living  and  learn  how  to  do  with- 
out a  man.  since  men  will  have  nothing  to  do  with  her  if  she 
is  poor.  She  is  condemned  to  solitude  without  having  any  of 
its  advantages,  for  in  France  she  cannot,  like  a  man,  enjoy  her 
independence,  even  in  the  most  innocent  way,  without  provok- 
ing scandal :  everything  is  forbidden  her.  1  have  a  friend  who 
is  a  school-mistress  in  the  provinces.  If  she  were  shut  up  in 
an  airless  prison  she  could  not  be  more  lonely  and  more  stifled. 
The  middle-classes  close  their  doors  to  women  who  struggle  to 
earn  their  living  by  their  work;  they  are  suspected  and  con- 
temned; their  smallest  actions  are  spied  upon  and  turned  to 
evil.  The  masters  at  the  boys'  school  shun  them,  either  be- 
cause they  are  afraid  of  the  tittle-tattle  of  the  town,  or  from 
a  secret  hostility,  or  from  shyness,  and  because  they  are  in  the 
habit  of  frequenting  cafes  and  consorting  with  low  women,  or 
because  they  are  too  tired  after  the  day's  work  and  have  a 
dislike,  as  a  result  of  their  work,  for  intellectual  women.  And 
the  women  themselves  cannot  bear  each  other,  especially  if  they 
are  compelled  to  live  together  in  the  school.  The  head-mistress 
is  often  a  woman  absolutely  incapable  of  understanding  young 
creatures  with  a  need  of  affection,  who  lose  heart  during  the 
first,  few  years  of  such  a  barren  trade  and  such  inhuman  soli- 
tude; she  leaves  them  with  their  set-ret  agonv  and  makes  no  at- 
tempt to  help  them:  she  is  inclined  to  think  that  they  are  only 
vain  and  haughty.  There  is  no  one  to  take  an  interest  in  them. 
Having  neither  fortune  nor  influence,  they  cannot  marry.  Their 
hours  of  work  are  so  many  as  to  leave  them  no  time  in  which  to 
create  an  intellectual  life  which  might  hind  them  together  and 
give  them  some  comfort.  When  such  an  existence  is  not  sup- 
ported by  an  exceptional  religious  or  moral  feeling. —  (1  might 
even  say  abnormal  and  morbid ;  for  such  absolute  self-sacrifice  is 


142         JEAN-CHRISTOPHE :    JOURNEY'S  END 

not  natural), — it  is  a  living  death.  .  .  . — In  default  of  intel- 
lectual work,  what  resources  does  charity  offer  to  women? 
What  great  disappointments  it  holds  out  for  those  women  who 
are  too  sincere  to  be  satisfied  with  official  or  polite  charity, 
philanthropic  twaddle,  the  odious  mixture  of  frivolity,  benefi- 
cence, and  bureaucracy,  the  trick  of  dabbling  in  poverty  in  the 
intervals  of  flirtation!  And  if  one  of  them  in  disgust  has  the 
incredible  audacity  to  venture  out  alone  among  the  poor  or  the 
wretched,  whose  life  she  only  knows  by  hearsay,  think  of  what 
she  will  see!  Sights  almost  beyond  bearing!  It  is  a  very  hell. 
What  can  she  do  to  help  them  ?  She  is  lost,  drowned  in  such 
a  sea  of  misfortune.  However,  she  struggles  on,  she  tries  hard 
to  save  a  few  of  the  poor  wretches,  she  wears  herself  out  for 
them,  and  drowns  with  them.  She  is  lucky  if  she  succeeds  in 
saving  one  or  two  of  them!  But  who  is  there  to  rescue  her? 
Who  ever"  dreams  of  going  to  her  aid?  For  she,  too,  suffers, 
both  with  her  own  and  the  suffering  of  others :  the  more  faith 
she  gives,  the  less  she  has  for  herself;  all  these  poor  wretches 
cling  desperately  to  her,  and  she  has  nothing  with  wbich  to 
stay  herself.  No  one  holds  out  a  hand  to  her.  And  some- 
times she  is  stoned.  .  .  .  You  knew,  Christophe,  the  splendid 
woman  who  gave  herself  to  the  humblest  and  most  meritorious 
charitable  work;  she  took  pity  on  the  street  prostitutes  who 
had  just  been  brought  to  child-bed,  the  wretched  women  with 
whom  the  Public  Aid  would  have  nothing  to  do.  or  \vho  were 
afraid  of  the  Public  Aid  ;  she  tried  to  cure  them  physically 
and  morally,  to  look  after  them  and  their  children,  to  wake 
in  them  the  mother-feeling,  to  give  them  new  homes  and  a  life 
of  honest  work.  She  taxed  her  strength  to  the  utmost  in  her 
grim  labors,  so  full  of  disappointment  and  bitterness — (so 
few  are  saved,  so  few  wish  to  be  saved  !  And  think  of  all 
the  babies  who  die!  Poor  innocent  little  babies,  condemned 
in  the  very  hour  of  their  birth!  .  .  .). — That  woman 
who  had  taken  upon  herself  the  .  sorrows  of  others,  the 
blameless  creature  who  of  her  own  free  will  expiated  the  crimes 
of  human  selfishness — how  do  you  think  she  was  judged,  Chris- 
tophe? The  evil-minded  public  accused  her  of  making  money 
out  of  her  work,  and  even  of  making  money  out  of  the  poor 
women  she  protected.  She  had  to  leave  the  neighborhood,  and 


LOVE  AXD  FRIENDSHIP  143 

go  away,  utterly  downhearted.  .  .  .—You  cannot  conceive  the 
cruelty  of  the  struggles  which  independent  women  have  to 
maintain  against  the  society  of  to-day,  a  conservative,  heartless 
society,  which  is  dying  and  expends  what  little  energy  it  has 
left  in  preventing  others  from  living." 

"  My  dear  creature,  it  is  not  only  the  lot  of  women.  We  all 
know  these  struggles.  And  I  know  the  refuge." 

"What  is  it?" 

"  Art." 

"  All  very  well  for  you.  but  not  for  us.  And  even  among 
men,  how  many  are  there  who  can  take  advantage  of 
it?" 

"  Look  at  your  friend  Cecile.     She  is  happy." 

"How  do  you  know?  Ah!  You  have  jumped  to  conclu- 
sions !  Because  she  puts  a  brave  face  on  it,  because  she  does 
not  stop  to  think  of  things  that  make  her  sad,  because  she  con- 
ceals them  from  others,  you  say  that  she  is  happy !  Yes. 
She  is  happy  to  be  well  and  strong,  and  to  be  able  to  fight. 
But  you  know  nothing  of  her  struggles.  Do  you  think  she  was 
made  for  that  deceptive  life  of  art?  Art!  Just  think  of  the 
poor  women  who  long  for  the  glory  of  being  able  to  write  or 
play  or  sing  as  the  very  summit  of  happiness!  Their  lives 
must  be  bare  indeed,  and  they  must  be  so  hard  pressed  that  they 
can  find  no  affection  to  which  to  turn !  Art !  What  have  we 
to  do  with  art,  if  we  have  all  the  rest  with  it?  There  is 
only  one  thing  in  the  world  which  can  make  a  woman  forget 
everything  else,  everything  else:  and  that  is  the  child." 

"  And  when  she  has  a  child,  you  see,  even  that  is  not 
enough." 

"Yes.  Xot  always.  .  .  .  Women  are  not  very  happy.  It 
is  difficult  to  be  a  woman.  Much  more  difficult  than  to  be  a 
n\an.  You  men  never  realize  that  enough.  You  can  be  ab- 
sorbed in  an  intellectual  passion  or  some  outside  activity.  You 
mutilate  yourselves,  but  you  are  the  happier  for  it.  A  healthy 
woman  cannot  do  that  without  suffering  for  it.  Jt  is  inhuman 
to  stifie  a  part  of  yourself.  When  we  women  are  happy  in  one 
way,  we  regret  that  we  are  not  happy  in  another.  We  have 
several  souls.  You  men  have  but  one.  a  more  vigorous  soul, 
which  is  often  brutal  and  even  monstrous.  1  admire  vou. 


144         JEAX-CHRISTOPHE:    JOURNEY'S  EXD 

But  do  not  be  too  selfish.  You  are  very  selfish  without  know- 
ing it.  You  hurt  us  often,  without  knowing  it." 

"  What  are  we  to  do  ?     It  is  not  our  fault." 

"  Xo,  it  is  not  your  fault,  my  dear  Christophe.  It  is  not 
your  fault,  nor  is  it  ours.  The  truth  is,  you  know,  that  life 
is  not  a  simple  thing.  They  say  that  there  we  only  need  to 
live  naturally.  But  which  of  us  is  natural  ? " 

"True.  Xothing  is  natural  in  our  way  of  living.  Celibacy 
is  not  natural.  Xor  is  marriage.  And  free  love  delivers  the 
weak  up  to  the  rapaciousness  of  the  strong.  Even  our  so- 
ciety is  not  a  natural  thing:  we  have  manufactured  it.  It  is 
said  that  man  is  a  sociable  animal.  What  nonsense!  He  was 
forced  to  be  so  to  live.  He  has  made  himself  sociable  for  the 
purposes  of  utility,  and  self-defence,  and  pleasure,  and  the  rise 
to  greatness.  His  necessity  has  led  him  to  subscribe  to  cer- 
tain compacts.  Xature  kicks  against  the  constraint  and 
avenges  herself.  Xature  was  not  made  for  us.  We  try  to  quell 
her.  Jt  is  a  struggle,  and  it  is  not  surprising  that  we  are 
often  beaten.  How  are  we  to  win  through  it?  By  being 
strong." 

"By  being  kind." 

"  Heavens !  To  be  kind,  to  pluck  off  one's  armor  of  selfish- 
ness, to  breathe,  to  love  life,  light,  one's  humble  work,  the  little 
corner  of  the  earth  in  which  one's  roots  are  spread.  And  if 
one  cannot  have  breadth  to  try  to  make  up  for  it  in  height  and 
depth,  like  a  tree  in  a  cramped  space  growing  upward  to  the 
sun." 

"  Yes.  And  first  of  all  to  love  one  another.  If  a  man 
would  feel  more  that  he  is  the  brother  of  a  woman,  and  not 
only  her  prey,  or  that  she  must  be  his!  If  both  would  shed 
their  vanity  and  each  think  a  little  less  of  themselves,  and 
a  little  more  of  the  other!  .  .  .  We  are  weak:  help  us.  Let 
us  not  say  to  those  who  have  fallen :  '  I  do  not  know  you.' 
But:  'Courage,  friend.  We'll  pull  through.'" 

They  sat  there  in  silence  by  the  hearth,  with  the  cat  be- 
tween them,  all  three  still,  lost  in  thought,  gazing  at  the  tire. 
Jt  was  nearly  out;  but  a  little  flame  flickered  up,  and  with  its 
wing  lightlv  touched  Madame  A  maud's  delicate  face,  which 
was  suffused  with  the  rosy  light  of  an  inward  exaltation  which 


LOVE  AND  FRIEXDSHTP  145 

was  strange  to  her.  She  was  amazed  at  herself  for  having 
been  so  open.  She  liad  never  said  so  much  before,  and  she 
would  never  say  so  much  again. 

She  laid  her  hand  on  Christophe's  and  said: 

"What  will  you  do  with  the  child?" 

She  had  been  thinking  of  that  from  the  outset.  She  talked 
and  talked  and  became  another  woman,  excited  and  exalted. 
But  she  was  thinking  of  that  and  that  only.  With  Chris- 
tophe's  first  words  she  had  woven  a  romance  in  her  heart.  She 
thought  of  the  child  left  by  its  mother,  of  the  happiness  of 
bringing  it  up.  and  weaving  about  its  little  soul  the  web  of  her 
dreams  and  her  love.  And  she  thought: 

"  Xo.  It  is  wicked  of  me:  I  ought  not  to  rejoice  in  the  mis- 
fortunes of  others." 

But  the  idea  was  too  strong  for  her.  She  went  on  talking 
and  talking,  and  her  silent  heart  was  flooded  with  hope. 

Christophe  said  : 

"  Yes.  of  course  we  have  thought  it  over.  Poor  child ! 
Both  Olivier  and  J  are  incapable. of  rearing  it.  It  needs  a 
woman's  care.  ]  thought  perhaps  one  of  our  friends  would 
like  to  help  us.  ..." 

Madame  Arnaud  could  hardly  breathe. 

Christophe  said : 

"  I  wanted  to  talk  to  you  about,  it.  And  then  Cecile  came 
in  just  as  we  were  talking  about  it.  When  she  heard  of  our 
difficulty,  when  she  saw  the  child,  she  was  so  moved,  she 
seemed  so  delighted,  she  said:  'Christophe  .  .  .'' 

Madame  Arnaud's  heart  stopped:  she  did  not  hear  what  else 
he  said:  there  was  a  mist  in  front  of  her  eyes.  She  was  fain  1o 
cry  out  : 

"  Xo,  no.     dive  him  to  me.    .    .    ." 

Christophe  went  on  speaking.  She  did  not  hear  what  he 
was  saying.  But  she  controlled  herself.  She  thought  of  what 
Cecile  had  told  her.  and  she  thought: 

"  Her  need  is  greater  than  mine.  I  have  my  dear  Arnaud  .  .  . 
and  .  .  .  and  everything  .  .  .  and  besides.  I  am  older.  .  .  ." 

And  she  smiled  and  said: 

"It   is  well." 

But  the  flame  in  the   dying  fire  had    flickered   out:  so   too 


146         JEAN-CHRISTOPHE :   JOURNEY'S  END 

had  the  rosy  light  in  her  face.     And  her  dear  tired  face  wore 
only  its  usual  expression  of  kindness  and  resignation. 

"  My  wife  has  betrayed  me." 

Olivier  was  crushed  by  the  weight  of  that  idea.  In  vain 
did  Christophe  try  affectionately  to  shake  him  out  of  his 
torpor. 

"What  would  you?"  he  said.  "The  treachery  of  a  friend 
is  an  everyday  evil  like  illness,  or  poverty,  or  fighting  the 
fools.  We  have  to  be  armed  against  it.  It  is  a  poor  sort  of 
man  that  cannot  bear  up  against  it." 

"That's  just  what  I  am.  I'm  not  proud  of  it  ...  a  poor 
sort  of  man :  yes :  a  man  who  needs  tenderness,  and  dies  if  it 
is  taken  from  him." 

"  Your  life  is  not  finished :  there  are  other  people  to  love." 

"  I  can't  believe  in  any  one.  There  are  none  who  can  be 
friends." 

"  Olivier !  " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  don't  doubt  you,  although  there 
are  moments  when  I  doubt  everybody — myself  included.  .  .  . 
But  you  are  strong:  you  don't  need  anybody:  you  can  do 
without  me." 

"  So  can  she — even  better." 

"  You  are  cruel.  Christophe." 

"  My  dear  fellow.  I'm-  being  brutal  to  you  just  to  make 
you  lash  out.  Good  Lord!  It  is  perfectly  shameful  of  you 
to  sacrifice  those  who  love  you,  and  your  life,  to  a  woman  who 
doesn't  care  for  you.'' 

"What  do  I  care  for  those  who  love  me?     I  love  her." 

"  Work.     Your  old  interests  .  .  ." 

"...  Don't  interest  me  any  longer.  I'm  sick  of  it  all. 
I  seem  to  have  passed  out  of  life  altogether.  Everything 
seems  so  far  away.  ...  I  see,  but  I  don't  understand.  .  .  . 
And  to  think  that  there  are  men  who  never  grow  tired  of 
winding  up  their  clockwork  every  day.  and  doing  their  dull 
work,  and  their  newspaper  discussions,  and  their  wretched 
pursuit  of  pleasure,  men  who  can  be  violently  for  or  against 
a  Government,  or  a  book,  or  an  actress.  .  .  .  Oh !  I  feel  so 
old!  I  feel  nothing,  neither  hatred,  nor  rancor  against  any- 


LOVE  AND  FRIENDSHIP  147 

body.  I'm  bored  with  every  tiling.  I  feel  that  there  is  noth- 
ing in  the  world.  .  .  .  Write?  Why  write?  Who  under- 
stands you  ?  1  used  to  write  only  for  one  person :  everything 
that  I  did  was  for  her.  .  .  .  There  is  nothing  left:  I'm  worn 
out,  Christophe,  fagged  out.  I  want  to  sleep." 

"  Sleep,  then,  old  fellow.     I'll  sit  by  you/' 

But  sleep  was  the  last  thing  that  Olivier  could  have.  Ah! 
if  only  a  sufferer  could  sleep  for  months  until  his  sorrow  is 
no  more  and  has  no  part  in  his  new  self;  if  only  he  could 
sleep  until  he  became  a  new  man!  But  that  gift  can  never 
be  his :  and  he  would  not  wish  to  have  it.  The  worst  suffer- 
ing of  all  were  to  be  deprived  of  suffering.  Olivier  was  like 
a  man  in  a  fever,  feeding  on  his  fever:  a  real  fever  which 
came  in  regular  waves,  being  at  its  height  in  the  evening  when 
the  light  began  to  fade.  And  the  rest  of  the  day  it  left  him 
shattered,  intoxicated  by  love,  devoured  by  memory,  turning 
the  same  thought  over  and  over  like  an  idiot  chewing  the  same 
mouthful  again  and  again  without  being  able  to  swallow  it, 
with  all  the  forces  of  his  brain  paralyzed,  grinding  slowly  on 
with  the  one  fixed  idea. 

He  could  not,  like  Christophe,  resort  to  cursing  his  injuries 
and  honestly  blackguarding  the  woman  who  had  dealt  them. 
He  was  more  clear-sighted  and  just,  and  he  knew  that  he  had 
his  share  of  the  responsibility,  and  that  he  was  not  the  only 
one  to  suffer:  Jacqueline  also  was  a  victim: — she  was  his  vic- 
tim. She  had  trusted  herself  to  him:  how  had  he  dealt  with 
his  trust?  If  he  was  not  strong  enough  to  make  her  happy, 
why  had  he  bound  her  to  himself?  She  was  within  her  rights 
in  breaking  the  ties  which  chafed  her. 

"It  is  not  her  fault,"  he  thought.  "  It  is  mine.  I  have 
not  loved  her  well.  And  yet  I  loved  her  truly.  But  I  did 
not  know  how  to  love  since  I  did  not  know  how  to  win  her 
love." 

So  he  blamed  himself:  and  perhaps  he  was  right.  But  it 
'is  not  much  use  to  hold  an  inquest  on  the  past:  if  it  were 
all  to  do  again,  it  would  lie  just  the  same,  inquiry  or  no  in- 
quiry: and  such  probing  stands  in  the  way  of  life.  The 
strong  man  is  he  who  forgets  the  injury  that  has  been  done 
him— and  also,  alas!  that  which  he  has  done  himself,  as  soon 


148         JEAX-CHRISTOPHE :    JOUKNKY'S  EXD 

as  he  is  sure  that  ho  cannot  make  it  good.  But  no  man  is 
strong  from  reason,  hut  from  passion.  Love  and  passion  are 
like  distant  relations:  they  rarely  go  together.  Olivier  loved: 
lie  was  only  strong  against  himself.  Tn  the  passive  state  into 
which  he  had  fallen  he  was  an  easy  prey  to  every  kind  of  ill- 
ness. Influenza,  bronchitis,  pneumonia,  pounced  on  him.  lie 
was  ill  for  part  of  the  summer.  With  Madame  Arnaud's  as- 
sistance, Christophe  nursed  him  devotedly:  and  they  succeeded 
in  checking  his  illness.  But  against  his  moral  illness  they 
could  do  nothing:  and  little  by  little  they  were  overcome  by 
the  depression  and  utter  weariness  of  his  perpetual  melancholy, 
and  were  forced  to  run  away  from  it. 

Illness  plunges  a  man  into  a  strange  solitude.  Men  have 
an  instinctive  horror  of  it.  It  is  as  though  they  were  afraid 
lest  it  should  be  contagious:  and  at  the  very  least  it  is  boring, 
and  they  run  away  from  it.  How  few  people  there  are  who 
can  forgive  the  sufferings  of  others!  It  is  always  the  old 
story  of  the  friends  of  Job.  Eliphaz  the  Temanite  accuses 
Job  of  impatience.  Bildad  the  Shuhite  declares  that  Job's 
afflictions  are  the  punishment  of  his  sins.  Sophar  of  Xaamath 
charges  him  with  presumption.  "Then  iras  I- in  died  lite  icralli 
of  Elilui.  the  son  of  Baraclud  tlie  Huzifc.  of  llic  l-indred  of 
Ram:  against  Job  was  liix  irra/li  kindled,  because,  lie,  juxii/iet/i 
himself,  rather  than  6W."— Few  men  are  really  sorrowful. 
Many  are  called,  but  few  are  chosen.  Olivier  was  one  of  these. 
As  a  misanthrope  once  observed:  ''He  seemed  to  like  being 
maltreated.  There  is  nothing  to  be  gained  by  playing 
the  part  of  the  unhappy  man.  You  only  make  yourself  de- 
tested." 

Olivier  could  not  tell  even  his  most  intimate  friends  what 
he  felt.  lie  saw  that  it  bored  them.  Kven  his  friend  C'hris- 
tophe  lost  patience  with  such  tenacious  and  importunate  grief. 
He  knew  that  he  was  clumsy  and  awkward  in  remedying  it. 
If  the  truth  must  be  told.  Christophe,  whose  heart  was  gen- 
erous, (Christophe  who  had  gone  through  much  suffering  on 
his -own  account,  could  not  feel  the  suffering  of  his  friend. 
Such  is  the  infirmity  of  human  nature.  You  may  be  kind, 
full  of  pity,  understanding,  and  you  may  have  suffered  a  thou- 
sand deaths,  but  you  cannot  feel  the  pain  of  your  friend  if 


LOVE  AND  FEIF.XDSHIP  149 

he  has  but  a  toothache.  If  illness  goes  on  for  a  long  time, 
there  is  a  temptation  to  think  that  the  sufferer  is  exaggerating 
his  complaint.  How  much  more,  then,  must  tin's  be  so  when 
the  illness  is  invisible  and  seated  in  the  very  depths  of  the 
soul !  A  man  who  is  outside  it  all  cannot  help  being  irritated 
by  seeing  his  friend  moaning  and  groaning  about  a  feeling 
which  does  not  concern  him  in  the  very  least.  And  in  the 
end  he  says:  by  way  of  appeasing  his  conscience: 

((  What  can  I  do?  He  won't  listen  to  reason,  whatever  I 
say.'' 

To  reason:  true.  One  can  only  help  by  loving  the  sufferer, 
by  loving  him  unreasoningly,  without  trying  to  convince  him, 
without  trying  to  cure  him,  but  just  by  loving  and  pitying 
him.  Love  is  the  only  balm  for  the  wounds  of  love.  But\ 
love  is  not  inexhaustible  even  with  those  who  love  the  best: 
they  have  only  a  limited  store  of  it.  When  the  sick  man's 
friends  have  once  written  all  the  words  of  affection  they  can 
find,  when  they  have  done  what  thev  consider  their  duty,  they 
withdraw  prudently,  and  avoid  him  like  a  criminal.  And  as 
they  feel  a  certain  secret  shame  that  they  can  help  him  so 
little,  they  help  him  less  and  less:  they  try  to  let  him  forget 
them  and  to  forget  themselves.  And  if  the  sick  man  persists 
in  his  misfortune  and,  indiscreetly,  an  echo  of  it  penetrates  to 
their  oars,  then  they  judge  harshly  his  want  of  courage  and 
inability  to  bear  up  against  his  trials.  And  it  he  succumbs,  it 
is  very  certain  that  lurking  beneath  their  really  genuine  pity 
lies  this  disdainful  under-thought: 

"  Poor  devil !      I   had  a  better  opinion  of  him." 

Amid  such  universal  selfishness  what  a  marvelous  amount 
of  good  can  be  done  bv  a  simple  word  of  tenderness,  a  deli- 
cate attention,  a  look  of  pity  and  love!  Then  the  sick  man 
feels  the  worth  of  kindness.  And  hmv  pour  is  all  the  rest 
compared  with  that!  .  .  .  Kindness  brought  Olivier  nearer  to 
.Madame  Arnaud  than  anybody  else,  even  his  friend  Chris- 
tophe.  However,  Christophe  most  meritoriously  foived  him- 
self to  be  patient,  and  in  his  affection  for  him.  concealed  what 
he  really  thought  of  him.  lint  Olivier,  with  his  natural  keen- 
ness of  perception  sharpened  by  suffering,  saw  the  conflict  in 
his  friend,  and  what  a  burden  he  was  upon  him  with  his  un- 


150         JEAN-CHEISTOPHE :    JOURNEY'S  END 

ending  sorrow.  It  was  enough  to  make  him  turn  from  Chris- 
tophe,  and  fill  him  with  a  desire  to  cry: 

"  Go  away.     Go." 

So  unhappiness  often  divides  loving  hearts.  As  the  win- 
nower sorts  the  grain,  so  sorrow  sets  on  one  side  those  who 
have  the  will  to  live,  and  on  the  other  those  who  wish  to  die. 
It  is  the  terrible  law  of  life,  which  is  stronger  than  love !  The 
mother  who  sees  her  son  dying,  the  friend  who  sees  his  friend 
drowning, — if  they  cannot  save  them,  they  do  not  cease  their 
efforts  to  save  themselves :  they  do  not  die  with  them.  And 
yet,  they  love  them  a  thousand  times  better  than  their  lives.  .  .  . 

In  spite  of  his  great  love,  there  were  moments  when  Chris- 
tophe  had  to  leave  Olivier.  He  was  too  strong,  too  healthy,  to 
be  able  to  live  and  breathe  in  such  airless  sorrow.  He  was 
mightily  ashamed  of  himself !  He  would  feel  cold  and  dead 
at  heart  to  think  that  he  could  do  nothing  for  his  friend :  and 
as  he  needed  to  avenge  himself  on  some  one,  he  visited  his  wrath 
upon  Jacqueline.  In  spite  of  Madame  Arnaud's  words  of  un- 
derstanding and  sympathy,  he  still  judged  her  harshly,  as  a 
young,  ardent,  and  whole-hearted  man  must,  until  lie  has 
learned  enough  of  life  to  have  pity  on  its  weaknesses. 

He  would  go  and  see  Cecile  and  the  child  who  had  been 
entrusted  to  her.  That  refreshed  his  soul.  Cecile  was  trans- 
figured by  her  borrowed  motherhood :  she  seemed  to  lie  young 
again,  and  happy,  more  refined  and  tender.  Jacqueline's  de- 
parture had  not  given  her  any  unavowed  hope  of  happiness. 
She  knew  that  the  memory  of  Jacqueline  must  leave  her  far- 
ther away  from  Olivier  than  her  presence.  Besides,  the  little 
puff  of  wind  that  had  set  her  longing  had  passed  :  it  had  been 
a  moment  of  crisis,  which  the  sight  of  poor  Jacqueline's 
frenzied  mistake  had  helped  to  dissipate:  she  had  returned  to 
her  normal  tranquillity,  and  she  could  not  rightly  understand 
what  it  was  that  had  dragged  her  out  of  it.  All  that  was 
best  in  her  need  of  love  was  satisfied  by  her  love  for  the 
child.  With  the  marvelous  power  of  illusion — of  intuition — of 
women,  she  found  the  man  she  loved  in  the  little  child:  in 
that  way  she  could  have  him,  weak  and  utterly  dependent, 
utterly  her  own:  he  belonged  to  her:  and  she  could  love  him, 
love  him  passionately,  with  a  love  as  pure  as  the  heart  of  the 


LOVE  AND  FRIENDSHIP  151 

innocent  child,  and  his  clear  blue  eyes,  like  little  drops  of 
light.  .  .  .  True,  there  was  mingled  with  her  tenderness  a  re- 
gretful melancholy.  Ah!  It  could  never  be  the  same  thing 
as  a  child  of  her  own  blood !  .  .  .  But  it  was  good,  all  the  same. 

Christophe  now  regarded  Cecile  with  very  different  eyes. 
He  remembered  an  ironic  saying  of  Franchise  Oudon : 

"  How  is  it  that  you  and  Philomela,  who  would  do  so  well 
as  husband  and  wife,  are  not  in  love  with  each  other  ?  " 

But  Franchise  knew  the  reason  better  than  Christophe:  it 
is  very  rarely  that  a  man  like  Christophe  loves  those  who  can 
do  him  good :  rather  he  is  apt  to  love  those  who  can  do  him 
harm.  Opposites  meet:  his  nature  seeks  its  own  destruction, 
and  goes  to  the  burning  and  intense  life  rather  than  to  the 
cautious  life  which  is  sparing  of  itself.  And  a  man  like 
Christophe  is  quite  right,  for  his  law  is  not  to  live  as  long 
as  possible,  but  as  mightily  as  possible. 

However,  Christophe,  having  less  penetration  than  Fran- 
c,oise,  said  to  himself  that  love  is  a  blind,  inhuman  force,  throw- 
ing those  together  who  cannot  bear  with  each  other.  Love  joins 
those  together  who  are  like  each  other.  And  what  love  inspires 
is  very  small  compared  with  what  it  destroys.  If  it  be  happy 
it  dissolves  the  will.  If  unhappy  it  breaks  hearts.  What  good 
does  it  ever  do? 

And  as  he  thus  maligned  love  he  saw  its  ironic,  tender  smile 
saying  to  him : 

"  Ingrate !  " 

Christophe  had  been  unable  to  get  out  of  going  to  one  of 
the  At  Homes  given  at  the  Austrian  Embassy.  Philomela 
was  to  sing  licder  by  Schumann,  Hugo  Wolf,  and  Christophe. 
She  was  glad  of  .her  success  and  that  of  her  friend,  who  was 
now  made  much  of  by  a  certain  set.  Christophe's  name  was 
gaining  ground  from  day  to  day,  even  with  the  great  public:  it 
had  become  impossible  for  the  Levy-Coeurs  to  ignore  him  any 
longer.  His  works  were  played  at  concerts :  and  ho  had  had 
an  opera  accepted  by  the  Opera  Comique.  The  sympathies  of 
some  person  unknown  were  enlisted  on  his  behalf.  The  mys- 
terious friend,  who  had  more  than  once  helped  him,  was  still 
forwarding  his  claims.  More  than  once  Christophe  had  been 


152          JBAN-CHRISTOPHB :    JOUIWF.Y'S  EXD 

conscious  of  that  fondly  helping  hand  in  everything  he  did: 
some  one  was  watching  over  him  and  jealously  concealing  his 
or  her  identity.  Christophe  had  tried  to  discover  it:  but  it 
seemed  as  though  his  friend  were  piqued  by  bis  not  having 
attempted  sooner  to  find  out  who  he  was.  and  be  remained  un- 
approachable. Besides,  Ohristoplie  was  absorbed  bv  oilier  pre- 
occupations: he  was  thinking  of  Olivier,  he  was  thinking  of 
Krancoise :  that,  very  morning  he  had  just  read  in  the  paper 
that  she  was  lying  seriously  ill  at  San  Francisco:  be  imagined 
her  alone  in  a  strange  city,  in  a  hotel  bedroom,  refusing  to  see 
anybody,  or  to  write  to  her  friends,  clenching  her  teeth,  and 
waiting,  alone,  for  death. 

He  was  obsessed  by  these  ideas  and  avoided  the  company 
present:  and  he  withdrew  into  a  little  room  apart:  he  stood 
leaning  against  the  wall  in  a  recess  that  was  half  in  darkness, 
behind  a  curtain  of  evergreens  and  flowers,  listening  to  Philo- 
mela's lovely  voice,  with  its  elegiac  warmth,  singing  The  Li  me- 
tre a  of  Schubert:  and  the  pure  music  called  up  sad  memories. 
Facing  him  on  the  wall  Avas  a  large  mirror  which  reflected  the 
lights  and  the  life  of  the  next  room.  He  did  not  see  it:  be 
was  gazing  in  upon  himself:  and  the  mist  of  tears  swam  before 
his  eyes.  .  .  .  Suddenly,  like  Schubert's  rustling  tree,  be  began 
to  tremble  for  no  reason.  He  stood  so  for  a  few  seconds,  very 
pale,  unable  to  move.  Then  the  veil  fell  from  before  his  eyes, 
and  be  saw  in  the  mirror  in  front  of  him  his  "  friend,"  gazing  at 
him.  .  .  .  His  "friend"  ?  Who  was  she?  Tie  knew  nothing- 
save  that  she  was  his  friend  and  that  be  knew  her:  and  he 
stood  leaning  against  the  wall,  his  eyes  meeting  hers,  and  he 
trembled.  She  smiled.  lie  could  not  see  the  lines  of  her 
face  or  her  body,  nor  the  expression  in  her  eyes,  nor  whether 
she  was  tall  or  short,  nor  how  she  was  dressed.  Only  one 
thing  he  saw:  the  divine  goodness  of  her  smile  of  compas- 
sion. 

And  suddenly  her  smile  conjured  up  in  Christophe  an  old 
forgotten  memory  of  his  early  childhood.  .  .  .  He  was  six  or 
seven,  at  school,  unhappy:  he  had  just  been  humiliated  and 
bullied  by  some  older,  stronger  boys,  and  they  were  all  jeering 
at  him,  and  the  master  had  punished  him  unjustly:  be  was 
crouching  in  a  corner,  utterly  forlorn,  while  the  others  were 


LOVE  AND  FRIENDSHIP  153 

playing:  and  he  wept  softly.  There  was  a  sad-faced  little  girl 
who  was  not  playing  with  the  others, —  (he  could  see  her  now, 
though  he  had  never  thought  of  her  since  then;  she  was  short, 
and  had  a  big  head,  fair,  almost  white  hair  and  eyebrows,  very 
pale  blue  eyes,  broad  white  cheeks,  thick  lips,  a  rather  puffy 
face,  and  small  red  hands), — and  she  came  close  up  to  him,  then 
stopped,  with  her  thumb  in  her  mouth  and  stood  watching  him 
cry :  then  she  laid  her  little  hand  on  Christophe'a  head  and 
said  hurriedly  and  shyly,  with  just  the  same  smile  of  com- 
passion : 

"Don't  cry!     Don't  cry!" 

Then  Christophe  could  not  control  himself  any  longer,  and 
he  burst  into  sobs,  and  buried  his  face  in  the  little  girl's 
pinafore,  while,  in  a  quavering,  tender  voice,  she  went  on 
saying : 

"  Don't  cry.  .  .  ." 

She  died  soon  afterwards,  a  few  weeks  perhaps :  the  hand 
of  death  must  have  been  upon  her  at  the  time  of  that  little 
scene.  .  .  .  Why  should  he  think  of  her  now?  There  was  no 
connection  between  the  child  who  was  dead  and  forgotten,  the 
humble  daughter  of  the  people  in  a  distant  German  town,  and 
the  aristocratic  young  lady  who  was  gazing  at  him  now.  But 
there  is  only  one  soul  for  all :  and  although  millions  of  hu- 
man beings  seem  to  be  all  different  one  from  another,  different 
as  the  worlds  moving  in  the  heavens,  it  is  the  same  flash  of 
thought  or  love  which  lights  up  the  hearts  of  men  and  women 
though  centuries  divide  them.  Christophe  had  just  seen  once 
more  the  light  that  he  had  seen  shining  upon  the  pale  lips  of 
the  little  comforter.  .  .  . 

It  was  all  over  in  a  second.  A  throng  of  people  filled  the 
door  and  shut  out  Christophe's  view  of  the  other  room.  He 
stepped  back  quickly  into  the  shade,  out  of  sight  of  the  mirror: 
he  was  afraid  lest  his  emotion  should  be  noticed,  lint  when 
he  was  calm  again  he  wanted  to  see  her  once  more.  He  was 
afraid  she  would  be  gone.  lie  went  into  the  room  and  he 
found  her  at  once  in  the  crowd,  although  she  did  not  look  in 
the  least  like  what  he  had  seen  in  the  mirror.  Now  he  saw 
her  in  profile  sitting  in  a  group  of  finely  dressed  ladies:  her 
elbow  was  resting  on  the  arm  of  her  chair,  she  was  leaning 


154         JEAN-CHRISTOPHE:    JOURNEY'S  END 

forward  a  little,  with  her  head  in  her  hand,  and  listening  to 
what  they  were  saying  with  an  intelligent  absent  smile :  she 
had  the  expression  and  features  of  the  young  St.  John,  listen- 
ing and  looking  through  half-closed  eyes,  and  smiling  at  his 
own  thoughts,  of  The  Dispute  of  Raphael.  .  .  .  Then  she 
raised  her  eyes,  saw  him,  and  showed  no  surprise.  And  he 
saw  that  her  smile  was  for  himself.  He  was  much  moved,  and 
bowed,  and  went  up  to  her. 

"  You  don't  recognize  me  ?  "  she  said. 

He  knew  her  again  that  very  moment. 

"  Grazia  "...  he  said.* 

At  the  same  moment  the  ambassador's  wife  passed  by,  and 
smiled  with  pleasure  to  see  that  the  long-sought  meeting  had 
at  last  come  about :  and  she  introduced  Christophe  to  "  Countess 
Bereny."  But  Christophe  was  so  moved  that  he  did  not  even 
hear  her,  and  he  did  not  notice  the  new  name.  She  was  still 
his  little  Grazia  to  him. 

Grazia  was  twenty-two.  She  had  been  married  for  a  year 
to  a  young  attache  of  the  Austrian  Embassy,  a  nobleman,  a 
member  of  a  great  family,  related  to  one  of  the  Emperor's 
chief  ministers,  a  snob,  a  man  of  the  world,  smart,  prematurely 
worn  out;  with  whom  she  had  been  genuinely  in  love,  while 
she  still  loved  him,  though  she  judged  him.  Her  old  father 
was  dead.  Her  husband  had  been  appointed  to  the  Embassy 
in  Paris.  Through  Count  Bereny's  influence,  and  her  own 
charm  and  intelligence,  the  timid  little  girl,  whom  the  smallest 
thing  used  to  set  in  a  flutter,  had  become  one  of  the  best- 
known  women  in  Parisian  society,  though  she  did  nothing  to 
procure  that  distinction,  which  embarrassed  her  not  at  all. 
It  is  a  great  thing  to  be  young  and  pretty,  and  to  give 
pleasure,  and  to  know  it.  And  it  is  a  tiling  no  less  great  to 
have  a  tranquil  heart,  sound  and  serene,  which  can  find  happi- 
ness in  the  harmonious  coincidence1  of  its  desires  and  its  fate. 
The  lonely  flower  of  her  life  had  unfolded  its  petals:  but 
she  had  lost  some  of  the  calm  music  of  her  Latin  soul,  fed 
by  the  light  and  the  mighty  peace  of  Italy.  Quite  naturally 
*See  "  Jean-Christophe  in  Paris:  The  Market  Place." 


LOVE  AND  FRIENDSHIP  155 

she  had  acquired  a  certain  influence  in  Parisian  society:  it 
did  not  surprise  her,  and  she  was  discreet  and  adroit  in  using 
it  to  further  the  artistic  or  charitable  movements  which  turned 
to  her  for  aid :  she  left  the  official  patronage  of  these  move- 
ments to  others:  for  although  she  could  well  maintain  her  rank, 
she  had  preserved  a  secret  independence  from  the  days  of  her 
rather  wild  childish  days  in  the  lonely  villa  in  the  midst  of 
the  fields,  and  society  wearied  while  it  amused  her,  though 
she  always  disguised  her  boredom  by  the  amiable  smile  of  a 
courteous  and  kind  heart. 

She  had  not  forgotten  her  great  friend  Christophe.  Xo 
doubt  there  was  nothing  left  of  the  child  in  whom  an  innocent 
love  had  burned  in  silence.  This  new  Grazia  was  a  very  sen- 
sible woman,  not  at  all  given  to  romance.  She  regarded  the 
exaggerations  of  her  childish  tenderness  with  a  gentle  irony. 
And  yet  she  was  always  moved  by  the  memory  of  it.  The 
thought  of  Christophe  was  associated  with  the  purest  hours  of 
her  life.  She  could  not  hear  his  name  spoken  without  feeling 
pleasure:  and  each  of  his  successes  delighted  her  as  though 
she  had  shared  in  it  herself:  for  she  had  felt  that  they  must 
come  to  him.  As  soon  as  she  arrived  in  Paris  she  tried  to 
meet  him  again.  She  had  invited  him  to  her  house,  and  had 
appended  her  maiden  name  to  her  letter.  Christophe  had 
paid  no  attention  to  it,  and  had  flung  the  invitation  into  the 
waste-paper  basket  unanswered.  She  was  not  offended.  She 
had  gone  on  following  his  doings  and,  to  a  certain  extent,  his 
life,  without  his  knowing  it.  It  was  she  whose  helping  hand 
had  come  to  his  aid  in  the  recent  campaign  against  him  in  the 
papers.  Grazia  was  in  all  things  correct  and  had  hardly  any 
connection  with  the  world  of  the  Press:  but  when  it  came 
to  doing  a  friend  a  service,  she  was  capable  of  a  malicious 
cunning  in  wheedling  the  people  whom  she  most  disliked.  She 
invited  the  editor  of  the  paper  which  was  leading  the  snarling 
pack,  to  her  house:  and  in  less  than  no  time  she  turned  his 
head:  she  skilfully  flattered  his  vanity:  and  she  gained  such 
an  ascendancy  over  him,  while  she  overawed  him.  that  it 
needed  only  a  few  careless  words  of  contemptuous  astonish- 
ment at  the  attacks  on  Christophe  for  the  campaign  to  be 
stopped  short.  The  editor  suppressed  the  insulting  article 


156         JBAN-CHEISTOPHE :    JOURNEY'S  END 

which  was  to  appear  next  day:  and  when  the  writer  asked  why 
it  was  suppressed  he  rated  him  soundly.  He  did  more:  lie 
gave  orders  to  one  of  his  factotums  to  turn  out  an  enthusiastic 
article  about  Christophe  within  a  fortnight:  the  article  was 
turned  out  to  order;  it  was  enthusiastic  and  stupid.  Jt  was 
Grazia,  too,  who  thought  of  organizing  performances  of  her 
friend's  music  at  the  Embassy,  and,  knowing  that  he  was  in- 
terested in  Cecile,  helped  her  to  make  her  name.  And  finally, 
through  her  influence  among  the  German  diplomatists,  she  be- 
gan gently,  quietly,  and  adroitly  to  awaken  the  interest  of  the 
powers  that  be  in  Christophe,  who  was  banished  from  Ger- 
many: and  little  by  little  she  did  create  a  current  of  opinion 
directed  towards  obtaining  from  the  Emperor  a  decree  re- 
opening the  gates  of  his  country  to  a  great  artist  who  was 
an  honor  to  it.  And  though  it  was  too  soon  to  expect  such 
an  act  of  grace,  she  did  at  least  succeed  in  procuring  an  un- 
dertaking that  the  Government  would  close  its  eyes  to  his  two 
days'  visit  to  his  native  town. 

And  Christophe,  who  was  conscious  of  the  presence  of  his 
invisible  friend  hovering  about  him  without  being  able  to  find 
out  who  she  was,  at  last  recognized  her  in  the  young  St.  John 
whose  eyes  smiled  at  him  in  the  mirror. 

They  talked  of  the  past.  Christophe  hardly  knew  what  they 
said.  A  man  hears  the  woman  he  loves  just  as  little  as  he 
sees  her.  He  loves  her.  And  when  a  man  really  loves  ho 
never  even  thinks  whether  he  is  loved  or  no.  Christophe  never 
doubted  it.  She  was  there:  that  was  enough.  All  the  rest  had 
ceased  to  exist.  .  .  . 

Grazia  stopped  speaking.  A  very  tall  young  man.  quite 
handsome,  well-dressed,  clean-shaven,  partly  bald,  with  a 
bored,  contemptuous  manner,  stood  appraising  Christophe 
through  his  eye-glass,  and  then  bowed  with  haughty  politeness. 

"My  husband,''  said   she. 

The  clatter  and  chatter  of  the  room  rushed  back  to  his  ears. 
The  inward  light  died  down.  Christophe  was  frozen,  said 
nothing,  bowed,  and  withdrew  at  once. 

How  ridiculous  and  consuming  are  the  unreasonable  de- 
mands of  the  souls  of  artists  and  the  childish  laws  which  gov- 


LOVE  AND  FRIENDSHIP  157 

era  their  passionate  lives!  Hardly  had  he  once  more  found 
the  friend  whom  he  had  neglected  in  the  old  days  when  she 
loved  him,  while  he  had  not  thought  of  her  for  years,  than 
it  seemed  to  him  that  she  was  his,  his  very  own,  and  that  if 
another  man  had  taken  her  he  had  stolen  her  from  him:  and 
she  herself  had  no  right  to  give  herself  to  another.  Chris- 
tophe  did  not  know  clearly  what  was  happening  to  him.  But 
his  creative  daimon  knew  it  perfectly,  and  in  those  days  begat 
some  of  his  loveliest  songs  of  sorrowful  love. 

Some  time  passed  hefore  he  saw  her  again.  He  was  obsessed 
by  thoughts  of  Olivier's  troubles  and  his  health.  At  last  one 
day  he  came  upon  the  address  she  had  given  him  and  he  made 
up  his  mind  to  call  on  her. 

As  he  went  up  the  steps  he  heard  the  sound  of  workmen 
hammering.  The  anteroom  was  in  disorder  and  littered  with 
boxes  and  trunks.  The  footman  replied  that  the  Countess 
was  not  at  home.  But  as  Christophe  was  disappointedly  going 
away  after  leaving  his  card,  the  servant  ran  after  him  and  asked 
him  to  come  in  and  begged  his  pardon.  Christophe  was  shown 
into  a  little  room  in  which  the  carpets  had  been  rolled  up  and 
taken  away.  Grazia  came  towards  him  with  her  bright  smile 
and  her  hand  held  out  impulsively  and  gladly.  All  his  foolish 
rancor  vanished.  He  took  her  hand  with  the  same  happy  im- 
pulsiveness and  kissed  it. 

"Ah!"  she  said.  "I  am  glad  you  came!  I  was  so  afraid 
I  should  have  to  go  away  without  seeing  you  again!" 

"  Go  away?     You  are  going  away!" 

Once   more   darkness   descended    upon  him. 

"  You  see  .  .  ."  she  said,  pointing  to  the  litter  in  the  room. 
"We  are  leaving  Paris  at  the  end  of  the  week." 

"For  long?" 

She  shrugged : 

"Who  knows?" 

He  tried  to  speak.     But  his  throat  was  dry. 

"Where  are  you  going?" 

"To  the  t'nited  States.  My  husband  has  been  appointed 
first  secretary  to  the  Embassy." 

"And  so,  and  so  .  .  ."  he.  said  .  .  .  (his  lips  trembled)  .  .  . 
"it  is  all  over?" 


158         JEAX-CHRTSTOPHE:    JOURNEY'S  END 

"  My  dear  friend !  "  she  said,  touched  by  his  tone.  ..."  Xo : 
it  is  not  all  over." 

"  I  have  found  you  again  only  to  lose  you  ?  " 

There  were  tears  in  her  eyes. 

"  My  dear  friend,"  she  said  again. 

He  held  his  hand  over  his  eyes  and  turned  away  to  hide 
his  emotion. 

"  Do  not  be  so  sad,"  she  said,  laying  her  hand  on  his. 

Once  more,  just  then,  he  thought  of  the  little  girl  in  Ger- 
many. They  were  silent. 

"Why  did  you  come  so  late?"  she  asked  at  last.  "I  tried 
to  find  you.  You  never  replied." 

"  I  did  not  know.  I  did  not  know/'  he  said.  ..."  Tell  me, 
.was  it  you  who  came  to  my  aid  so  many  times  without  my 
guessing  who  it  was?  .  .  .  Do  I  owe  it  to  you  that  I  was  able 
to  go  back  to  Germany?  Were  you  my  good  angel,  watching 
over  me  ?  " 

She  said : 

"  I  was  glad  to  be  able  to  do  something  for  you.  I  owe 
you  so  much  !  " 

"What  do  you  owe?"  he  asked.  "I  have  done  nothing  for 
you." 

"  You  do  not  know,"  she  said.  "  what  you  have  been  to  me." 

She  spoke  of  the  days  when  she  was  a  little  girl  and  met 
him  at  the  house  of  her  uncle,  Stevens,  and  he  had  given  her 
through  his  music  the  revelation  of  all  that  is  beautiful  in  the 
world.  And  little  by  little,  with  growing  animation  she  told 
him  with  brief  allusions,  that  were  both  veiled  and  transparent, 
of  her  childish  feeling  for  him.  and  the  way  in  which  she  had 
shared  Cbristophe's  troubles,  and  the  concert  at  which  he  had 
been  hissed,  and  she  had  wept,  and  the  letter  she  had  written 
and  he  had  never  answered:  for  he  had  not  received  it.  And 
a?  Christophc  listened  to  her,  in  all  good  faith,  he  projected  his 
actual  emotion  and  the  tenderness  he  felt  for  the  tender  face 
so  near  his  own  into  the  past. 

They  talked  innocently,  fondly,  and  joyously.  And.  as  he 
talked,  Christophe  took  Grazia's  band.  And  suddenly  they 
both  stopped:  for  Grazia  saw  that  Christophe  loved  her.  And 
Christophe  saw  it  too.  .  .  . 


LOVE  AND  FRIENDSHIP  159 

For  some  time  Grazia  had  loved  Christophe  without  Chris- 
tophe  knowing  or  caring.  Now  Christophe  loved  Grazia:  and 
Grazia  had  nothing  for  him  but  calm  friendship :  she  loved  an- 
other man.  As  so  often  happens,  one  of  the  two  clocks  of  their 
lives  was  a  little  faster  than  the  other,  and  it  was  enough  to 
have  changed  the  course  of  both  their  lives.  .  .  . 

Grazia  withdrew  her  hand,  and  Christophe  did  not  stay  her. 
And  they  sat  there  for  a  moment,  mum,  without  a  word 

And  Grazia  said : 

"  Good-bye." 

Christophe  said  plaintively  once  more : 

"And  it  is  all  over?" 

"  No  doubt  it  is  better  that  it  should  be  so." 

"  We  shall  not  meet  again  before  you  go." 

"  No,"  she  said. 

"When  shall  we  meet  again?" 

She  made  a  sad  little  gesture  of  doubt. 

"  Then,"  said  Christophe,  "  what's  the  good,  what's  the  good 
of  our  having  met  again  ?  " 

Her  eyes  reproached  him,  and  he  said  quickly: 

"  No.     Forgive  me.     I  am  unjust." 

"  I  shall  always  think  of  you,"  said  she. 

"  Alas !  "  he  replied,  "  I  cannot  even  think  of  you.  I  know 
nothing  of  your  life." 

Very  quietly  she  described  her  ordinary  life  in  a  few  words 
and  told  him  how  her  days  were  spent.  She  spoke  of  herself 
and  of  her  husband  with  her  lovely  affectionate  smile. 

"  Ah  !  "  he  said  jealously.     "  You  love  him  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  said. 

He  got  up. 

"  Good-bye." 

She  got  up  too.  Then  only  he  saw  that  she  was  with  child. 
And  in  his  heart  there  was  an  inexpressible  feeling  of  disgust, 
and  tenderness,  and  jealousy,  and  passionate  pity.  She 
walked  with  him  to  the  door  of  the  little  room.  There  he 
turned,  bent  over  her  hands,  and  kissed  them  fervently.  She 
stood  there  with  her  eyes  half  closed  and  did  not  stir.  At  last 
he  drew  himself  up,  turned,  and  hurried  away  without  looking 
at  her. 


E  chi  allora  m'avesse  domandalo  di  cosa  alcuna, 
la  mia  risponsione  sarebbe  stata  solamente  AMORE,  con 
visa  vestito  iVnmilta.  ,  .  . 


LOVE  AND  FRIENDSHIP  161 

All  Saints'  Day.  Outside,  a  gray  light  and  a  cold  wind. 
Christophe  was  with  Cecile,  who  was  sitting  near  the  cradle, 
and  Madame  Arnaud  was  bending  over  it.  She  had  dropped 
in.  Christophe  was  dreaming.  He  was  feeling  that  he  had 
missed  happiness:  but  he  never  thought  of  complaining:  he 
knew  that  happiness  existed.  .  .  .  Oh !  sun,  I  have  no  need 
to  see  tliee  to  love  thee !  Through  the  long  winter  days,  when 
I  shiver  in  the  darkness,  my  heart  is  full  of  thee:  my  love  keeps 
me  warm  :  1  know  that  thou  art  there.  '.  .  . 

And  Cecile  was  dreaming  too.  She  was  pondering  the  child, 
and  she  had  come  to  believe  that  it  was  indeed  her  own.  Oh, 
blessed  power  of  dreams,  the  creative  imagination  of  life! 
Life.  .  .  .  What  is  life?  It  is  not  as  cold  reason  and  our  eye* 
tell  us  that  it  is.  Life  is  what  we  dream,  and  the  measure  of 
life  is  love. 

Christophe  gazed  at  Cecile,  whose  peasant  face  with  its  wide- 
set  eyes  shone  with  the  splendor  of  the  maternal  instinct, — she 
was  more:  a  mother  than  the  real  mother.  And  he  looked  at 
the  tender  weary  face  of  Madame  Arnaud.  In  it,  as  in  books 
that  moved  him.  lie  read  the  hidden  sweetness  and  suffering  of 
the  life  of  a  married  woman  which,  though  none  ever  suspects 
it,  is  sometimes  as  rich  in  sorrow  and  joy  as  the  love  of  .Juliet 
or  Ysolde :  though  it  toucb.es  a  greater  height  of  religious  feel- 
ing. .  .  . 

tiocia  rci  Innnnna1  alt/ii''  <Jiri>itr.  .  .  . 

And  he  thought  that  children  or  the  lack  of  children  has 
as  much  to  do  with  the  happiness  or  unhappiness  of  those1  who 
marry  and  those  who  do  not  marry  as  faith  and  the  lack  of 
faith.  Happiness  is  the  perfume  of  the  soul,  the  harmony  that 
dwells,  singing,  in  the  depths  of  the  heart.  And  the  most 
beautiful  of  all  the  music  of  the  soul  is  kindness. 

Olivier  came  in.  He  \vas  quite  calm  and  reposeful  in  his 
movements:  a  new  serenitv  shone  in  him.  He  smiled  at  the 
child,  shook  hands  with  Cecile  and  Madame  Arnaud.  and  be- 
gan to  talk  quietly.  He  watched  them  with  a  sort  of  surprised 
affection,  lie  was  no  longer  the  same.  In  the  isolation  in 
which  he  had  shut  himself  up  with  his  grief,  like  a  caterpillar 
in  the  nest  of  it>  own  spinning,  he  had  succeeded  after  a  hard 
struggle  in  throwing  oil'  his  sorrow  like  an  empty  shell.  Some 


162         JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  :    JOURNEY'S  END 

da}T  we  shall  tell  how  he  thought  lie  had  found  a  fine  cause 
to  which  to  devote  his  life,  in  which  he  had  no  interest  save 
that  of  sacrifice:  and,  as  it  is  ordered,  on  the  very  day  when  in 
his  heart  he  had  come  to  a  definite  renunciation  of  life,  it  was 
kindled  once  more.  His  friends  looked  at  him.  They  did  not 
know  what  had  happened,  and  dared  not  ask  him :  but  they 
felt  that  he  was  free  once  more,  and  that  there  was  in  him 
neither  regret  nor  bitterness  for  anything  or  against  anybody 
in  the  whole  wide  world. 

Christophe  got  up  and  wrent  to  the  piano,  and  said  to 
Olivier : 

"Would  you  like  me  to  sing  you  a  melody  of  Brahms?" 

"  Brahms  ?  "  said  Olivier.  "  Do  you  play  your  old  enemy's 
music  nowadays  ?  " 

"It  is  All  Saints'  Day,"  said  Christophe.  "The  day  when 
all  are  forgiven." 

Softly,  so  as  not  to  wake  the  child,  he  sang  a  few  bars  of 
the  old  Schwabian  folk-song: 

"...  Flir  die  Zeit,  wo  du  g'liebt  mi  Jiast, 
Da  dank'  i  dir  sclion, 
Und  i  wiinsch',  dass  dir's  anders  wo 
Besser  mag  geh'n.  ..." 

"...  For  the  time  when  thou  did'st  love  me, 
I  do  thank  thee  well; 
Aud  I  hope  that  elsewhere 
Thou  muy'st  better  fare.  .  .  ." 

"  Christophe  !  "  said  Olivier. 

Christophe  hugged  him  close. 

"  Come,  old  fellow,"  he  said.     "  We  have  fared  well." 

The  four  of  them  sat  near  the  sleeping  child.  They  did  not 
speak.  And  if  they  had  been  asked  what  they  were  thinking, — 
with  the  countenance  of  humility,  they  would  have  replied 
only: 

"  Love." 


THE    B  U  R  X  I  X  G  •  B  U  S  H 


it, 


/£,    s^i 


— f- 

-[ : Li^ 


J.'-y^U*      K  • 


/«•  kvvci/  niii 


«U 


CAME  calmness  to  his  heart.  No  wind  stirred.  The  air  was 
still.  .  .  . 

Christophe  was  at  rest :  peace  was  his.  He  was  in  a  cer- 
tain measure  proud  of  having  conquered  it:  but  secretly,  in  his 
heart  of  hearts,  he  was  sorry  for  it.  He  was  amazed  at  the 
silence.  His  passions  were  slumbering:  in  all  good  faith  he 
thought  that  they  would  never  wake  again. 

The  mighty,  somewhat  brutal  force  that  was  his  was  browsing 
listlessly  and  aimlessly. .  In  his  inmost  soul  there  was  a  secret 
void,  a  hidden  question:  "What's  the  good?":  perhaps  a  cer- 
tain consciousness  of  the  happiness  which  he  had  failed  to 
grasp.  He  had  not  force  enough  to  struggle  either  with  him- 
self or  with  others.  He  had  come  to  the  end  of  a  stage  in 
his  progress:  he  was  reaping  the  fruits  of  all  his  former  efforts, 
cumulatively :  too  easily  he  was  tapping  the  vein  of  music  that 
he  had  opened  and  while  the  public  was  naturally  behindhand, 
and  was  just  discovering  and  admiring  his  old  work,  he  was 
beginning  to  break  away  from  them  without  knowing  as  yet 
whether  he  would  be  able  to  make  any  advance  on  them.  He 
had  now  a  uniform  and  even  delight  in  creation.  At  this  period 
of  his  life  art  was  to  him  no  more  than  a  line  instrument  upon 
which  he  played  like  a  virtuoso.  He  was  ashamedly  conscious 
of  becoming  a  dilettante. 

"If,"  said  Ibsen,  "a  man  is  to  persevere  in  his  art.  he  must 
hare  something  else,  something  more  than  his  native-  genius: 
passions,  sorrows,  wliicli  shall  f\U  his  life  and  give  it  a  direc- 
tion. Otherwise  he  will  not  create,  he  will  write  books." 

Christophe  was  writing  books.  He  was  not  used  to  it.  His 
books  were  beautiful.  He  would  have  rather  had  them  less 
beautiful  and  more  alive.  He  was  like  an  athlete  resting,  not 
knowing  to  what  use  to  turn  his  muscles,  and.  yawning  in  bore- 
dom like  a  caged  wild  beast,  he  sat  looking  ahead  at  the  years 
and  years  of  peaceful  work  that  awaited  him.  And  as,  with 

165 


166         JEAN-CHRISTOPHE:    JOURNEY'S  END 

his  old  German  capacity  for  optimism,  he  had  no  ditliculty  in 
persuading  himself  that  everything  was  for  the  best,  he  thought 
that  such  a  future  was  no  doubt  the  appointed  inevitable  end: 
he  flattered  himself  that  he  had  issued  from  his  time  of  trial 
and  tribulation  and  had  become  master  of  himself.  That  was 
not  saying  much.  .  .  .  Oh,  well !  A  man  is  sovereign  over  that 
which  is  his.  he  is  what  he  is  capable  of  being.  ...  He  thought 
that  he  had  reached  his  haven. 

The  two  friends  were  not  living  together.  After  Jacque- 
line's flight,  Christophe  had  thought  that  Olivier  would  come 
back  and  take  up  his  old  quarters  with  him.  But  Olivier 
could  not.  Although  he  felt  keenly  the  need  of  intimacy  with 
Christophe.  yet  he  was  conscious  of  the  impossibility  of  resum- 
ing their  old  existence  together.  After  the  years  lived  with 
Jacqueline,  it  would  have  seemed  intolerable  and  even  sacri- 
legious to  admit  another  human  being  to  his  most  intimate 
life.— even  though  he  loved  and  were  loved  by  that  other  a 
thousand  times  more  than  Jacqueline. — There  was  no  room 
for  argument. 

Christophe  had  found  it  hard  to  understand.  He  returned 
again  and  again  to  the  charge,  he  was  surprised,  saddened. 
hurt,  and  angry.  Then  his  instinct,  which  was  liner  and 
quicker  than  his  intelligence,  bade  him  take  heed.  Suddenly  he 
ceased,  and  admitted  that  Olivier  was  right. 

But  they  saw  each  other  everv  day:  and  thev  had  never  been 
so  closely  united  even  when  they  were  living  under  the  same 
roof.  Perhaps  they  did  not  exchange  their  most  intimate 
thoughts  when  they  talked.  Thev  did  not  need  to  do  so.  The 
exchange  was  made  naturally,  without  need  of  words,  by  grace 
of  the  love  that  was  in  their  hearts. 

They  talked  very  little,  for  each  was  absorbed:  one  in  his 
art,  the  other  in  his  memories.  Olivier's  sorrow  was  growing 
less:  but  he  did  nothing  to  mitigate  it.  rather  almost  taking  a 
pleasure  in  it:  for  a  long  time  it  had  been  his  onlv  reason  for 
living.  He  loved  his  child:  but  his  child— -a  puling  baby — 
could  occupy  no  great  room  in  his  life.  There  are  men  who  are 
more  lovers  than  fathers,  and  it  is  useless  to  cry  out  against 
them.  Nature  is  not  uniform,  and  it  would  be  absurd  to  try 


THE  Bl'KXIXG  BUSH  167 

to  impose  identical  laws  upon  the  hearts  of  all  men.  No  man 
has  the  right  to  sacrifice  his  duty  to  his  heart.  At  least 
the  heart  must  be  granted  the  right  to  be  unhappy  where  a 
man  docs  his  duty.  What  Olivier  perhaps  most  loved  in  his 
child  was  the  woman  of  whose  body  it  was  made. 

Until  quite  recently  he  had  paid  little  attention  to  the  .suffer- 
ings of  others,  lie  was  an  intellectual  living  too  much  shut 
up  in  himself.  It  was  not  egoism  so  much  as  a  morbid  habit 
of  dreaming.  Jacqueline  had  increased  the  void  about  him: 
her  love  had  traced  a  magic  circle  about  Olivier  to  cut  him 
off  from  other  men,  and  the  circle  endured  after  love  had 
ceased  to  be.  In  addition  he  was  a  little  aristocratic  by  temper. 
From  his  childhood  on.  in  spite  of  his  soft  heart,  he  had  held 
aloof  from  the  mob  for  reasons  rooted  in  the  delicacy  of  his 
body  and  his  soul.  The  smell  of  the  people  and  their  thoughts 
were  repulsive  to  him. 

But  everything  had  changed  as  the  result  of  a  common- 
place tragedy  which  he  had  lately  witnessed. 

He  had  taken  a  very  modest  lodging  at  the  top  of  the  Mont- 
rouge  quarter,  not  far  from  Christophe  and  Oecile.  The  dis- 
trict was  rather  common,  and  the  house  in  which  he  lived  was 
occupied  by  little  gentlepeople,  clerks,  and  a  few  working-class 
families.  At  any  other  time  he  would  have  suffered  from  such 
surroundings  in  which  he  moved  as  a  stranger:  but  now  it 
mattered  very  little  to  him  when1  he  was:  he  felt  that  he  was 
a  stranger  everywhere.  lie  hardly  knew  and  did  not  want  to 
know  who  his  neighbors  were.  When  he  returned  from  his 
work — (lie  had  gone  into  a  publishing-house)— he  withdrew 
into  his  memories,  and  would  only  go  out  to  see  his  child  and 
Christophe.  His  lodging  was  not  home  to  him:  it  was  the 
dark  room  in  which  the  images  of  the  past  took  shape  and 
dwelling:  the  darker  it  was  the  more  clearly  did  the  inward 
images  emerge.  He  scarcely  noticed  the  faces  of  those  he 
passed  on  the  stairs.  And  yet  unconsciously  he  was  aware  of 
certain  faces  that  were  impressed  upon  his  mind.  There  is  a 
certain  order  of  mind  which  only  really  sees  things  after  they 
have  passed.  But  then,  nothing  escapes  them,  the  smallest 
details  are  graven  on  the  plate.  Olivier's  was  such  a  mind:  he 


168         JEAN-CHEISTOPHE  :   JOURNEY'S  END 

bore  within  himself  multitudes  of  the  shadowy  shapes  of  the 
living.  With  any  emotional  shock  they  would  come  mounting 
up  in  crowds :  and  Olivier  would  be  amazed  to  recognize  those 
whom  he  had  never  known,  and  sometimes  he  would  hold  out 
his  hands  to  grasp  them.  .  .  .  Too  late. 

One  day  as  he  came  out  of  his  rooms  he  saw  a  little  crowd 
collected  in  front  of  the  house-door  round  the  housekeeper,  who 
was  making  a  harangue.  He  was  so  little  interested  that  he 
was  for  going  his  way  without  troubling  to  find  out  what  was 
the  matter :  but  the  housekeeper,  anxious  to  gain  another  lis- 
tener, stopped  him,  and  asked  him  if  he  knew  what  had  hap- 
pened to  the  poor  Koussels.  Olivier  did  not  even  know  who 
"the  poor  Iloussels  "  were,  and  he  listened  with  polite  indif- 
ference. When  he  heard  that  a  working-class  family,  father, 
mother,  and  five  children,  had  committed  suicide  to  escape 
from  poverty  in  the  house  in  which  he  lived,  he  stopped,  like 
the  rest,  and  looked  up  at  the  walls  of  the  building,  and  lis- 
tened to  the  woman's  story,  which  she  was  nothing  loth  to  be- 
gin again  from  the  beginning.  As  she  went  on  talking,  old 
memories  awoke  in  him,  and  he  realized  that  he  had  seen  the 
wretched  family :  he  asked  a  few  questions.  .  .  .  Yes,  he  remem- 
bered them:  the  man — (he  used  to  hear  him  breathing  noisily 
on  the  stairs) — a  journeyman  baker,  with  a  paie  face,  all  the 
blood  drawn  out  of  it  by  the  heat  of  the  oven,  hollow  cheeks 
always  ill  shaven:  he  had  had  pneumonia  at  the  beginning  of 
the  winter :  he  had  gone  back  to  work  only  half  cured :  he  had 
had  a  relapse :  for  the  last  three  weeks  he  had  had  no  work  and 
no  strength.  The  woman  had  dragged  from  childbirth  to 
childbirth:  crippled  with  rheumatism,  she  had  worn  herself  out 
in  trying  to  make  both  ends  meet,  and  had  spent  her  days  run- 
ning hither  and  thither  trying  to  obtain  from  the  Public 
Charity  a  meager  sum  which  was  not  readily  forthcoming. 
Meanwhile  the  children  came,  and  went  on  coming:  eleven, 
seven,  three — not  to  mention  two  others  who  had  died  in  be- 
tween:— and,  to  crown  all,  twins  who  had  chosen  the  very  dire 
moment  to  make  their  appearance :  they  had  been  born  only  the 
month  before. 

— On  the  day  of  their  birth,  a  neighbor  said,  the  eldest  of 
the  five,  a  little  girl  of  eleven,  Justine — poor  little  mite ! — had 


THE  BURNING  BUSH  169 

begun  to  cry  and  asked  how  ever  she  could  manage  to  carry 
both  of  them. 

Olivier  at  once  remembered  the  little  girl, — a  large  forehead, 
with  colorless  hair  pulled  back,  and  sorrowful,  gray  bulging 
eyes.  He  was  always  meeting  her,  carrying  provisions  or  her 
little  sister :  or  she  would  be  holding  her  seven-year-old  brother 
by  the  hand,  a  little  pinch-faced,  cringing  boy  he  was,  with  one 
blind  eye.  When  they  met  on  the  stairs  Olivier  used  to  say, 
with  his  absent  courteous  manner : 

"  Pardon,  mademoiselle." 

But  she  never  said  anything :  she  used  to  go  stiffly  by,  hardly 
moving  aside :  but  his  illusory  courtesy  used  to  give  her  a  secret 
pleasure.  Only  the  evening  before,  at  six  o'clock,  as  he  was 
going  downstairs,  he  had  met  her  for  the  last  time :  she  was 
carrying  up  a  bucket  of  charcoal.  He  had  not  noticed  it,  ex- 
cept that  he  did  remark  that  the  burden  seemed  to  be  very 
heavy.  But  that  is  merely  in  the  order  of  things  for  the  chil- 
dren of  the  people.  Olivier  had  bowed,  as  usual,  without  look- 
ing at  her.  A  few  steps  lower  down  he  had  mechanically  looked 
up  to  see  her  leaning  over  the  balustrade  of  the  landing,  with 
her  little  pinched  face,  watching  him  go  down.  She  turned 
away  at  once,  and  resumed  her  climb  upstairs.  Did  she  know 
whither  she  was  climbing? — Olivier  had  no  doubt  that  she  did, 
and  he  was  obsessed  by  the  thought  of  the  child  bearing  death 
in  the  load  that  was  too  heavy  for  her,  death  the  deliverer — 
the  wretched  children  for  whom  to  cease  to  be  meant  an  end  of 
suffering!  He  was  unable  to  continue  his  walk.  He  wont 
back  to  his  room.  But  there  he  was  conscious  of  the  proximity 
of  the  dead.  .  .  .  Only  a  few  thin  walls  between  him  and  them. 
.  .  .  To  think  that  he  had  lived  so  near  to  such  misery! 

He  went  to  see  Christophe.  He  was  sick  at  heart:  ho  told 
himself  that  it  was  monstrous  for  him  to  have  boon  so  ab- 
sorbed as  he  had  been  in  vain  regrets  for  love  while  there  wore 
so  many  creatures  suffering  misfortunes  a  thousand  times  more 
cruel,  and  it  v;as  possible  to  help  and  save  them.  Tlis  emotion 
was  profound:  there  was  no  difficulty  in  communicating  it. 
Christopho  was  easily  impressionable,  and  he  in  his  turn  was 
moved.  When  he  hoard  Olivier's  story  he  tore  up  tho  page  of 
music  he  had  just  been  writing,  and  called  himself  a  selfish 


170         JEAN-CHIUSTOPHE:    JOUHNEY'S  END 

brute  to  be  amusing  liimself  with  childish  games.  But,  di- 
rectly after,  he  picked  up  the  pieces.  He  was  too  much  under 
the  spell  of  his  music.  And  his  instinct  told  him  that  a  work 
of  art  the  less  would  not  make  one  happy  man  the  more.  The 
tragedy  of  want  was  no  new  tiling  to  him:  from  his  childhood 
on  he  had  been  used  to  treading  on  the  edge  of  such  abysmal 
depths,  and  contriving  not  to  topple  over.  But  he  was  apt  to 
judge  suicide  harshly,  being  conscious  as  he  was  of  such  a  full- 
ness of  force,  and  unable  to  understand  how  a  man,  under  the 
pressure  of  any  suffering  whatsoever,  could  give  up  the  struggle. 
Suffering,  struggling,  is  there  anything  more  normal?  These 
things  are  the  backbone  of  the  universe. 

Olivier  also  had  passed  through  much  the  same  sort  of  ex- 
perience: but  he  had  never  been  able  to  resign  himself  to  it, 
either  on  his  own  account  or  for  others.  He  had  a  horror  of 
the  poverty  in  which  the  life  of  his  beloved  Antoinette  had  been 
consumed.  After  his  marriage  with  Jacqueline,  when  he  had 
suffered  the  softening  influence  of  riches  and  love,  he  had  made 
haste  to  thrust  back  the  memory  of  the  sorrowful  years  when 
he  and  his  sister  had  worn  themselves  out  each  day  in  the 
struggle  to  gain  the  right  to  live  through  the  next,  never  know- 
ing whether  they  would  succeed  or  no.  The  memories  of  those 
days  would  corne  to  him  now  that  he  no  longer  had  his  youth- 
ful egoism  to  preserve.  Instead  of  flying  before  the  face  of 
suffering  he  set  out  to  look  for  it.  He  did  not  need  to  go  far 
to  find  it.  In  the  state  of  mind  in  which  he  was  he  was  pi-one 
to  find  it  everywhere.  The  world  was  full  of  it.  the  world, 
that  hospital.  .  .  .  Oh.  the  agony,  the  sorrow!  Pains  of  the 
wounded  body,  quivering  flesh,  rotting  away  in  life.  The  silent 
torture  of  hearts  under  gnawing  grief.  Children  whom  no  one 
loves,  poor  hopeless  girls,  women  seduced  or  betrayed,  men  de- 
ceived in  their  friends,  their  loves,  their  faith,  the  pitiable  herd 
of  the  unfortunates  whom  life  has  broken  and  forgotten!  .  .  . 
Not  poverty  and  sickness  were  the  most  frightful  things  to  see, 
but  the  cruelty  of  men  one  to  another.  Hardly  had  Olivier 
raised  the  cover  of  the  hell  of  humanity  than  there  rose  to  his 
ears  the  plaint  of  all  the  oppressed,  the  exploited  poor,  the 
persecuted  peoples,  massacred  Armenians.  Finland  crushed  and 
stifled.  Poland  rent  in  pieces,  "Russia  martyred,  Africa  flung 


THE  BFKXTXU  BFSH  171 

to  the  rapacious  pack  of  Europe,  all  the  wretched  creatures  of 
the  human  race.  It  stifled  him:  he  heard  it  everywhere,  he 
could  no  longer  close  his  cars  to  it,  he  could  no  longer  conceive 
the  possibility  of  there  being  people  with  any  other  thought. 
He  was  for  ever  talking  about  it  to  Christophe.  Christophe 
grew  anxious,  and  said : 

"Be  quiet!     Let  me  work." 

And  as  he  found  it  hard  to  recover  his  balance  he  would  lose 
his  temper  and  swear. 

"  Damnation !  My  day  is  wasted !  And  you're  a  deal  the 
better  for  it.  aren't  you?" 

Olivier  would  beg  his  pardon. 

"  My  dear  fellow,"  said  Christophe,  "  it's  no  good  always 
looking  down  into  the  pit.  It  stops  your  living." 

"  One  must  lend  a  hand  to  those  who  are  in  the  pit." 

"  Xo  doubt.  But' how?  By  flinging  ourselves  down  as  well? 
For  that  is  what  you  want.  You've  got  a  propensity  for  seeing 
nothing  but  the  sad  side  of  life.  God  bless  you  !  Your  pes- 
simism is  charitable,  I  grant  you,  but  it  is  very  depressing. 
Do  you  want  to  create  happiness?  Very  well,  then,  be  happy." 

"Happy!  How  can  one  have  the  heart  to  be  happy  when 
one  sees  so  much  suffering?  There  can  only  be  happiness  in 
trying  to  lessen  it  and  fighting  the  evil." 

"  Very  good.  But  1  don't  help  the  unfortunate  much  by 
lashing  out  blindly  in  all  directions.  Tt  means  onlv  one  bad 
soldier  the  more.  But  1  can  bring  comfort  by  my  art  and 
spread  force  and  joy.  Have  you  any  idea  how  many  wretched 
beings  have  been  sustained  in  their  suffering  by  the  beauty  of 
an  idea,  by  a  winged  song?  Every  man  to  his  own  trade! 
You  French  people,  like  the  generous  seatterbrains  that  you 
are.  are  always  the  first  to  protest  against  the  injustice  of.  say. 
Spain  or  "Russia,  without  knowing  what  it  is  all  about.  I  love 
you  for  it.  But  do  you  think  you  are  helping  things  along? 
You  rush  at  it  and  bungle  it  and  the  result  is  nil, — if  not 
worse.  .  .  .  And,  look  you,  your  art  has  never  been  more  weak 
and  emaciated  than  now.  when  your  artists  claim  to  be  taking 
part  in  the  activities  of  the  world.  It  is  the  strangest  thing 
to  see  so  many  little  writers  and  artists,  all  dilettante  and 
rather  dishonest,  daring  to  set  themselves  up  as  apostles !  They 


172         JEAN-CHBISTOPHE :    JOURNEY'S  EXD 

would  do  much  better  if  they  were  to  give  the  people  wine  to 
drink  that  was  not  so  adulterated. — My  first  duty  is  to  do  what- 
ever I  am  doing  well,  and  to  give  you  healthy  music  which  shall 
set  new  blood  coursing  in  your  veins  and  let  the  sun  shine  in 
upon  you." 

If  a  man  is  to  shed  the  light  of  the  sun  upon  other  men,  he 
must  first  of  all  have  it  within  himself.  Olivier  had  none  of 
it.  Like  the  best  man  of  to-day,  he  was  not  strong  enough  to 
radiate  force  by  himself.  But  in  unison  with  others  he  might 
have  been  able  to  do  so.  But  with  whom  could  he  unite?  He 
was  free  in  mind  and  at  heart  religious,  and  he  was  rejected 
by  every  party  political  and  religious.  They  were  all  intolerant 
and  narrow  and  were  continually  at  rivalry.  Whenever  they 
came  into  power  they  abused  it.  Only  the  weak  and  the  op- 
pressed attracted  Olivier.  In  this  at  least  he  agreed  with  Chris- 
tophe's  opinion,  that  before  setting  oat  to  combat  injustice 
in  distant  lands,  it  were  as  well  to  fight  injustice  close  at  hand, 
injustice  everywhere  about,  injustice  for  which  each  and  every 
man  is  more  or  less  responsible.  There  are  only  too  many  peo- 
ple who  are  quite  satisfied  with  protesting  against  the  evil 
wrought  by  others,  without  ever  thinking  of  the  evil  that  they 
do  themselves. 

At  first  he  turned  his  attention  to  the  relief  of  the  poor. 
His  friend,  Madame  Arnaud,  helped  to  administer  a  charity. 
Olivier  got  her  to  allow  him  to  help.  But  at  the  outset  he 
had  more  than  one  setback :  the  poor  people  who  were  given 
into  his  charge  were  not  all  worthy  of  interest,  or  they  were 
unresponsive  to  his  sympathy,  distrusted  him,  and  shut  their 
doors  against  him.  Besides,  it  is  hard  for  a  man  of  intellect  to 
be  satisfied  with  charity  pure  and  simple:  it  waters  such  a  very 
small  corner  of  the  kingdom  of  wretchedness !  Its  effects  are 
almost  always  piecemeal,  fragmentary:  it  seems  to  move  by 
chance,  and  to  be  engaged  only  in  dressing  wounds  as  fast 
as  it  discovers  them :  generally  it  is  too  modest  and  in  too 
great  a  hurry  to  probe  down  to  the  roots  of  the  evil.  Xow  it 
was  just  this  probing  that  Olivier's  mind  found  indispensable. 

He  began  to  study  the  problem  of  social  poverty.  There  was 
no  lack  of  guides  to  point  the  way.  In  those  days  the  social 


THE  BURNING  BUSH  173 

question  had  become  a  society  question.  It  was  discussed  in 
drawing-rooms,  in  the  theater,  in  novels.  Everybody  claimed 
some  knowledge  of  it.  Some  of  the  young  men  were  expending 
the  best  part  of  their  powers  upon  it. 

Every  new  generation  needs  to  have  some  splendid  mania  or 
other.  Even  the  most  selfish  of  young  people  are  endowed 
with  a  superfluity  of  life,  a  capital  sum  of  energy  which  has 
been  advanced  to  them  and  cannot  be  left  idle  and  unpro- 
ductive: they  are  for  ever  seeking  to  expend  it  on  a  course  of 
action,  or — (more  prudently) — on  a  theory.  Aviation  or  Rev- 
olution, a  muscular  or  intellectual  exercise.  When  a  man  is 
young  he  needs  to  be  under  the  illusion  that  he  is  sharing  in 
some  great  movement  of  humanity  and  is  renewing  the  life  of 
the  world.  It  is  a  lovely  thing  when  the  senses  thrill  in  an- 
swer to  every  puff  of  the  winds  of  the  universe !  Then  a  man 
is  so  free,  so  light !  Not  yet  is  he  laden  with  the  ballast  of  a 
family,  he  has  nothing,  risks  next  to  nothing.  A  man  is  very 
generous  when  he  can  renounce  what  is  not  yet  his.  Besides, 
it  is  so  good  to  love  and  to  hate,  and  to  believe  that  one  is  trans- 
forming the  earth  with  dreams  and  shouting!  Young  people 
are  like  watch-dogs:  they  are  for  ever  howling  and  barking  at 
the  wind.  An  act  of  injustice  committed  at  the  other  end  of 
the  world  will  send  them  off  their  heads. 

Dogs  barking  through  the  night.  From  one  farm  to  another 
in  the  heart  of  the  forest  they  were  yelping  to  one  another, 
never  ceasing.  The  night  was  stormy.  It  was  not  easy  to 
sleep  in  those  days.  The  wind  bore  through  the  air  the  echoes 
of  so  many  acts  of  injustice!  .  .  .  The  tale  of  injustice  is  unnum- 
bered: in  remedying  one  there  is  danger  of  causing  others. 
What  is  injustice?- — To  one  man  it  means  a  shameful  peace, 
the  fatherland  dismembered.  To  another  it  signifies  war.  To 
another  it  means  the  destruction  of  the  past,  the  banishment 
of  princes:  to  another,  the  spoliation  of  the  Church:  to  yet  an- 
other the  stifling  of  the  future  to  the  peril  of  liberty.  For  the 
people,  injustice  lies  in  inequality :  for  the  upper  ten,  in 
equality.  There  are  so  many  different  kinds  of  injustice  that 
each  age  chooses  its  own, — the  injustice  that  it  fights  against, 
and  the  injustice  that  it  countenances. 

At  the  present  time  the  mightiest  efforts  of  the  world  were 


174         JEAN-CHRISTOPHE :    JOURNEY'S  END 

directed  against  social  injustice, — and  unconsciously  were  tend- 
ing to  the  production  of  fresh  injustice. 

And,  in  truth,  such  injustice  had  waxed  great  and  plain  to 
sec  since  the  working-classes,  growing  in  numbers  and  power, 
had  become  part  of  the  essential  machinery  of  the  State.  But 
in  spite  of  the  declamations  of  the  tribunes  and  bards  of  the 
people,  their  condition  was  not  worse,  but  rather  better  than  it 
had  ever  been  in  the  past :  and  the  change  had  come  about  not 
because  they  suffered  more,  but  because  they  had  grown 
stronger.  Stronger  by  reason  of  the  very  power  of  the  hostile 
ranks  of  Capital,  by  the  fatality  of  economic  and  industrial  de- 
velopment which  had  banded  the  workers  together  in  armies 
ready  for  the  fight,  and,  by  the  use  of  machinery,  had  given 
weapons  into  their  hands,  and  had  turned  every  foreman  into 
a  master  with  power  over  light,  lightning,  movement,  all  the 
energy  of  the  world.  From  this  enormous  mass  of  elementary 
forces,  which  only  a  short  time  ago  the  leaders  of  men  were 
trying  to  organize,  there  was  given  out  a  white  heat,  electric 
waves  gradually  permeating  the  whole  body  of  human  society. 

It  was  not  by  reason  of  its  justice,  or  its  novelty,  or  the 
force  of  the  ideas  bound  up  in  it  that  the  cause  of  the  people 
was  stirring  the  minds  of  the  intelligent  middle-class,  although 
they  wore  fain  to  think  so.  Its  appeal  lay  in  its  vitality. 

Jts  justice?  Justice  was  everywhere  and  every  day  violated 
thousands  of  times  without  the  world  ever  giving  a  thought 
to  it.  Its  ideas?  Scraps  of  truth,  picked  up  here  ami  there 
and  adjusted  to  the  interests  and  requirements  of  one  class 
at  the  expense  of  the  other  classes.  Jts  creed  was  as  absurd 
as  every  other  creed, — the  Divine  'Right  of  Kings,  the  Infalli- 
bility of  the  Popes.  Universal  Suffrage,  the  Equality  of  Man. — 
all  equally  absurd  if  one  only  considers  them  by  their  rational 
value  and  not  in  the  light  of  the  force  by  which  they  are  ani- 
mated. What  did  their  mediocrity  matter?  Ideas  have  never 
conquered  the  world  as  ideas,  but  only  by  the  force  they  rep- 
resent. They  do  not  grip  men  by  their  intellectual  contents, 
but  bv  the  radiant  vitality  which  is  ^ivcn  off  from  them  at  cer- 
tain periods  in  historv.  They  give  oil'  as  it  \vere  a  rich  scent 
which  overpowers  even  the  dullest  sense  of  smell.  The  loftiest 
and  most  sublime  idea  remains  inelfective  until  the  dav  when 


THE  BURNING  BUSH  175 

it  becomes  contagious,  not  by  its  own  merits,  but  by  the  merits 
of  the  groups  of  men  in  whom  it  becomes  incarnate  by  the 
transfusion  of  their  blood.  Then  the  withered  plant,  the  rose 
of  Jericho,  comes  suddenly  to  flower,  grows  to  its  full  height, 
and  fills  all  the  air  with  its  powerful  aroma. — Some  of  the  ideas 
which  were  now  tbe  flaming  standard  under  which  the  work- 
ing-classes were  inarching  on  to  the  assault  upon  the  capital- 
istic citadel,  emanated  from  the  brains  of  dreamers  of  the 
comfortable  classes.  While  they  had  been  left  in  their  com- 
fortable books,  they  had  lain  dead:  items  in  a  museum,  mum- 
mies packed  away  in  glass  cases  with  no  one  to  look  at  them. 
But  as  soon  as  the  people  laid  hands  on  them,  they  had  become 
part  and  parcel  of  the  people,  they  had  been  given  their  fever- 
ish reality,  which  deformed  them  while  it  gave  them  life,  breath- 
ing into  such  abstract  reason,  their  hallucinations,  and  their 
hopes,  like  a  burning  wind  of  Hegira.  They  were  quickly 
spread  from  man  to  man.  Men  succumbed  to  them  without 
knowing  from  whom  they  came  or  how  they  had  been  brought. 
They  were  no  respecters  of  persons.  The  moral  epidemic 
spread  and  spread:  and  it  was  quite  possible  for  limited  crea- 
tures to  communicate  it  to  superior  men.  Every  man  was  un- 
wittingly an  agent  in  the  transmission. 

Such  phenomena  of  intellectual  contagion  are  to  be  observed 
in  all  times  and  in  all  countries:  they  make  themselves  felt  even 
in  aristocratic  States  where  there  is  the  endeavor  to  maintain 
castes  hermetically  sealed  one  against  the  other.  But  nowhere 
are  they  more  electric  than  in  democracies  which  preserve  no 
sanitary  barrier  between  the  elect  and  the  mob.  The  elect  are 
contaminated  at  once  whatever  they  do  to  light  against  it.  In 
spite  of  their  pride  and  intelligence  they  cannot  resist  the  con- 
tagion ;  for  the  elect  are  much  weaker  than  they  think.  Intel- 
ligence is  a  little  island  fretted  by  the  tides  of  humanity,  crumb- 
ling away  and  at  last  engulfed.  It  onlv  emerges  again  on 
the  ebb  of  the  tide.— One  wonders  at  the  self-denial  of  the 
French  privileged  classes  when  on  the  night  of  August  1  they 
abdicated  their  rights.  Most  wonderful  of  all,  no  doubt,  is  the 
fact  that  they  could  not  do  otherwise.  I  fancy  a  good  many 
of  them  when  thev  returned  home  must  have  said  to  themselves: 
"What  have  I  done?  I  must  have  been  drunk.  .  .  ."  A  splen- 


176         JEAN-CHKISTOPHE:    JOURNEY'S  END 

did  drunkenness !  Blessed  be  wine  and  the  vine  that  gives  it 
forth !  It  was  not  the  privileged  classes  of  old  France  who 
planted  the  vine  whose  blood  brought  them  to  drunkenness. 
The  wine  was  extracted,  they  had  only  to  drink  it.  He  who 
drank  must  lose  his  wits.  Even  those  who  did  not  drink  turned 
dizzy  only  from  the  smell  of  the  vat  that  caught  them  as  they 
passed.  The  vintages  of  the  Eevolution !  .  .  .  Hidden  away 
in  the  family  vaults  there  are  left  only  a  few  empty  bottles 
of  the  wine  of  '89  :  but  our  grandchildren's  children  will  remem- 
ber that  their  great-grandfathers  had  their  heads  turned  by  it. 
It  was  a  sourer  wine  but  a  wine  no  less  strong  that  was 
mounting  to  the  heads  of  the  comfortable  young  people  of 
Olivier's  generation.  They  were  offering  up  their  class  as  a 
sacrifice  to  the  new  God,  Deo  ignoto: — the  people. 

To  tell  the  truth,  they  were  not  all  equally  sincere.  Many 
of  them  were  only  able  to  see  in  the  movement  an  opportunity 
of  rising  above  their  class  by  affecting  to  despise  it.  For  the 
majority  it  was  an  intellectual  pastime,  an  oratorical  enthu- 
siasm which  they  never  took  altogether  seriously.  There  is  a 
certain  pleasure  in  believing  that  you  believe  in  a  cause,  that 
you  are  fighting,  or  will  fight,  for  it, — or  at  least  could  fight. 
There  is  a  by  no  means  negligible  satisfaction  in  the  thought 
that  you  are  risking  something.  Theatrical  emotions. 

They  are  quite  innocent  so  long  as  you  surrender  to  them 
simply  without  any  admixture  of  interested  motive. — But  there 
were  men  of  a  more  worldly  type  who  only  played  the  game 
of  set  purpose :  the  popular  movement  was  to  them  only  a  road 
to  success.  Like  the  Norse  pirates,  they  made  use  of  the  rising 
tide  to  carry  their  ships  up  into  the  land :  they  aimed  at  reach- 
ing the  innermost  point  of  the  great  estuaries  so  as  to  be  left 
snugly  ensconced  in  the  conquered  cities  when  the  sea  fell  back 
once  more.  The  channel  was  narrow  and  the  tide  was  capri- 
cious: great  skill  was  needed.  But  two  or  three  generations 
of  demagogy  have  created  a  race  of  corsairs  who  know  every 
trick  and  secret  of  the  trade.  They  rushed  boldly  in  with 
never  even  so  much  as  a  glance  back  at  those  who  foundered  on 
the  way. 

This  piratical  rabble  is  made  up  of  all  parties :  thank  Heaven, 


THE  BURNING  BUSH  177 

no  party  is  responsible  for  it.  But  the  disgust  with  which 
such  adventurers  had  inspired  the  sincere  and  all  men  of  con- 
viction had  led  some  of  them  to  despair  of  their  class.  Oli- 
vier came  in  contact  with  rich  young  men  of  culture  who 
felt  very  strongly  that  the  comfortable  classes  were  moribund 
and  that  they  themselves  were  useless.  He  was  only  too  much 
inclined  to  sympathize  with  them.  They  had  begun  by  be- 
lieving in  the  reformation  of  the  people  by  the  elect,  they  had 
founded  Popular  Universities,  and  taken  no  account  of  the 
time  and  money  spent  upon  them,  and  now  they  were  forced 
to  admit  the  futility  of  their  efforts :  their  hopes  had  been 
pitched  too  high,  their  discouragement  sank  too  low.  The  peo- 
ple had  either  not  responded  to  their  appeal  or  had  run  away 
from  it.  When  the  people  did  come,  they,  understood  every- 
thing all  wrong,  and  only  assimilated  the  vices  and  absurdities 
of  the  culture  of  tile  superior  classes.  And  in  the  end  more 
than  one  scurvy  knave  had  stolen  into  the  ranks  of  the  burgess 
apostles,  and  discredited  them  by  exploiting  both  people  and 
apostles  at  the  same  time.  Then  it  seemed  to  honest  men  that 
the  middle-class  was  doomed,  that  it  could  only  infect  the  peo- 
ple who,  at  all  costs,  must  break  free  and  go  their  way  alone. 
So  they  were  left  cut  off  from  all  possibility  of  action,  save  to 
predict  and  foresee  a  movement  which  would  be  made  without 
and  against  themselves.  Some  of  them  found  in  this  the  joy 
of  renunciation,  the  joy  of  deep  disinterested  human  sympathy 
feeding  upon  itself  and  the  sacrifice  of  itself.  To  love,  to  give 
self!  Youth  is  so  richly  endowed  that  it  can  afford  to  do  with- 
out repayment :  youth  has  no  fear  of  being  left  despoiled.  And 
it  can  do  without  everything  save  the  art  of  loving. — Others 
again  found  in  it  a  pleasurable  rational  satisfaction,  a  sort  of 
imperious  logic:  they  sacrificed  themselves  not  to  men  so  much 
as  to  ideas.  These  were  the  bolder  spirits.  They  took  a  proud 
delight  in  deducing  the  fated  end  of  their  class  from  their  rea- 
soned arguments.  Tt  would  have  hurt  them  more  to  see  their 
predictions  falsified  than  to  be  crushed  beneath  the  weight  of 
circumstance.  In  their  intellectual  intoxication  they  cried 
aloud  to  those  outside:  "Harder!  Strike  harder!  Let  there 
be  nothing  left  of  us !  "•  —They  had  become  the  theorists  of 
violence. 


17S         JEAN-CHRISTOPHE :    JOURNEY'S  KXT) 

Of  the  violence  of  others.  For,  as  usual,  these  apostles  of 
brute  force  were  almost  always  refined  and  weakly  people. 
Many  of  them  were  officials  of  the  State  which  they  talked  of 
destroying,  industrious,  conscientious,  and  orderly  officials. 

Their  theoretical  violence  was  the  throwback  from  their 
weakness,  their  bitterness,  and  the  suppression  of  their  vitality. 
But  above  all  it  was  an  indication  of  the  storms  brewing  all 
around  them.  Theorists  are  like  meteorologists:  they  state  in 
scientific  terms  not  what  the  weather  will  be,  but  what  the 
weather  is.  They  are  weathercocks  pointing  to  the  quarter, 
whence  the  wind  blows.  When  they  turn  they  are  never  far 
from  believing  that  they  are  turning  the  wind. 

The  wind  had  turned. 

Ideas  are  quickly  used  up  in  a  democracy,  and  the  more 
quickly  they  are  propagated,  the  more  quickly  are  they  worn 
out.  There  are  any  number  of  Republican's  in  France  who  in 
less  than  fifty  years  have  grown  disgusted  with  the  Republic, 
with  Universal  Suffrage,  with  all  the  manifestations  of  liberty 
won  with  such  blind  intoxication!  After  the  fetish  worship 
of  numbers,  after  the  gaping  optimism  which  had  believed  in 
the  sanctity  of  the  majority  and  had  looked  to  it  for  the  prog- 
ress of  humanity,  there  came  the  wind  of  brute  force:  the  in- 
ability of  the  majority  to  govern  themselves,  their  venality, 
their  corruption,  their  base  and  fearful  hatred  of  all  superi- 
ority, their  oppressive  cowardice,  raised  the  spirit  of  revolt: 
the  minorities  of  energy — every  kind  of  minority — appealed 
from  the  majority  to  force.  A  queer,  yet  inevitable  alliance 
was  brought  about  between  the  royalists  of  the  Action  Fran- 
c/tise.  and  the  syndicalists  of  the  (\  (J.  T.  Balzac  speaks  some- 
where of  the  men  of  his  time  who  "  tlwngli  aristocrats  In/  in- 
clination, yd  became  Republicans  in  spile  of  themselves,  only 
to  find  man  a  inferior*  (iniont/  I  heir  equals." — A  scant  sort  of 
pleasure.  Those  who  are  inferior  must  be  made  to  accept 
themselves  as  such  :  and  to  bring  that  about  there  is  nothing 
to  be  done  but  to  create  an  authority  which  shall  impose  the 
supremacy  of  the  elect — of  cilher  class,  working  or  burgess — 
upon  the  oppressive  majority.  Our  voung  intellectuals,  be- 
ing proud  and  of  the  better  class,  became  royalists  or  revolu- 
tionaries out  of  injured  vanity  and  hatred  of  democratic 


THE  BURNIXC  BUSH  170 

equality.  And  the  disinterested  theorists,  the  philosophers  of 
brute  force,  like  good  little  weathercocks,  reared  their  heads 
above  them  and  were  the  oriflammes  of  the  storm. 

Last  of  all  there  was  the  herd  of  literary  men  in  search  of 
inspiration— men  who  could  write  and  yet  knew  not  what  to 
write:  like  the  Greeks  at  Aulis,  they  were  becalmed  and  could 
make  no  progress,  and  sat  impatiently  waiting  for  a  kindly 
wind  from  any  quarter  to  come  and  belly  out  their  sails. — 
There  were  famous  men  among  them,  men  who  had  been 
wrenched  away  from  their  stylistic  labors  and  plunged  into 
public  meetings  by  the  Dreyfus  affair.  An  example  which  had 
found  only  too  many  followers  for  the  liking  of  those  who  had 
set  it.  There  was  now  a  mob  of  writing  men  all  engrossed 
in  politics,  and  claiming  to  control  the  affairs  of  the  State. 
On  the  slightest  excuse  they  would  form  societies,  issue  mani- 
festoes, save  the  Capitol.  After  the  intellectuals  of  the  ad- 
vance guard  came  the  intellectuals  of  the  rear:  they  were  much 
of  a  muchness.  Each  of  the  two  parties  regarded  the  other 
as  intellectual  and  themselves  as  intelligent.  Those  who  had 
the  luck  to  have  in  their  veins  a  few  drops  of  the  blood  of  the 
people  bragged  about  it:  they  dipped  their  pens  into  it.  wrote 
with  it. — They  were  all  malcontents  of  the  burgess  class,  and 
were  striving  to  recapture  the  authority  which  that  class  had 
irreparably  lost  through  its  selfishness.  Only  in  rare  instances 
were  these  apostles  known  to  keep  up  their  apostolic  xeal  for 
any  length  of  time.  In  the  beginning  the  cause  meant  a  cer- 
tain amount  of  success  to  them,  success  which  in  all  proba- 
bility was  in  no  wise  due  to  their  oratorical  gifts.  It  gave 
them  a  delicious  flattery  for  their  vanity.  Thereafter  they 
went  on  with  less  success  and  a  certain  secret  fear  of  being 
rather  ridiculous.  In  the  long-run  the  last  feeling  was  apt  to 
dominate  the  rest,  being  increased  by  the  fatigue  of  playing 
a  difficult  part  for  men  of  their  distinguished  tastes  and  in- 
nate skepticism.  Hut  thev  waited  upon  the  favor  of  the  wind 
and  of  their  escort  before  thev  could  withdraw.  For  they  were 
held  captive  both  by  wind  and  escort.  These  latter-day  Yol- 
taires  and  Joseph  de  Maistres.  beneath  their  boldness  in  speech 
and  writing,  concealed  a  dread  uncertainty,  feeling  the  ground. 
being  fearful  of  compromising  themselves  with  the  young  men, 


180         JEAN-CHRISTOPHE :    JOURNEY'S  END 

and  striving  hard  to  please  them  and  to  be  younger  than  the 
young.  They  were  revolutionaries  or  counter-revolutionaries 
merely  as  a  matter  of  literature,  and  in  the  end  they  resigned 
themselves  to  following  the  literary  fashion  which  they  them- 
selves had  helped  to  create. 

The  oddest  of  all  the  types  with  which  Olivier  came  in  con- 
tact in  the  small  burgess  advance  guard  of  the  Revolution  was 
the  revolutionary  who  was  so  from  timidity. 

The  specimen  presented  for  his  immediate  observation  was 
named  Pierre  Canet.  He  was  brought  up  in  a  rich,  middle- 
class,  and  conservative  family,  hermetically  sealed  against  any 
new  idea :  they  were  magistrates  and  officials  who  had  distin- 
guished themselves  by  crabbing  authority  or  being  dismissed : 
thick-witted  citizens  of  the  Marais  who  flirted  with  the  Church 
and  thought  little,  but  thought  that  little  well.  He  had  mar- 
ried, for  want  of  anything  better  to  do,  a  woman  with  an  aris- 
tocratic name,  who  had  no  great  capacity  for  thought,  but  did  her 
thinking  no  less  well  than  he.  The  bigoted,  narrow,  and  retro- 
grade society  in  which  he  lived,  a  society  which  was  perpetually 
chewing  the  cud  of  its  own  conceit  and  bitterness,  had  finally 
exasperated  him, — the  more  so  as  his  wife  was  ugly  and  a  bore. 
He  was  fairly  intelligent  and  open-minded,  and  liberal  in  as- 
piration, without  knowing  at  all  clearly  in  what  liberalism  con- 
sisted :  there  was  no  likelihood  of  his  discovering  the  meaning 
of  liberty  in  his  immediate  surroundings.  The  only  thing  he 
knew  for  certain  was  that  liberty  did  not  exist  there :  and  he 
fancied  that  he  had  only  to  leave  to  find  it,  On  his  iirst  move 
outwards  he  was  lucky  enough  to  fall  in  with  certain  old  col- 
lege friends,  some  of  whom  had  been  smitten  with  syndicalistic 
ideas.  He  was  even  more  at  sea  in  their  company  than  in  the 
society  which  he  had  just  quitted:  but  he  would  not  admit  it: 
he  had  to  live  somewhere:  and  he  was  unable  to  find  people 
of  his  own  cast  of  thought  (that  is  to  say,  people  of  no  cast 
of  thought  whatever),  though,  God  knows,  the  species  is  by 
no  means  rare  in  France !  But  they  are  ashamed  of  them- 
selves: they  hide  themselves,  or  they  take  on  the  hue  of  one 
of  the  fashionable  political  colors,  if  not  of  several,  all  at  once. 
Besides,  he  was  under  the  influence  of  his  friends. 

As    always   happens,    he    had    particularly    attached    himself 


THE  BURNING  BUSH  181 

to  the  very  man  who  was  most  different  from  himself.  This 
Frenchman,  French,  burgess  and  provincial  to  his  very  soul, 
had  become  the  fid  us  Achates  of  a  young  Jewish  doctor  named 
Manousse  Heimann,  a  Russian  refugee,  who,  like  so  many  of 
his  fellow-countrymen,  had  the  twofold  gift  of  settling  at  once 
among  strangers  and  making  himself  at  home,  and  of  being 
so  much  at  his  ease  in  any  sort  of  revolution  as  to  rouse  won- 
der as  to  what  it  was  that  most  interested  him  in  it:  the  game 
or  the  cause.  His  experiences  and  the  experiences  of  others 
were  a  source  of  entertainment  to  him.  He  was  a  sincere 
revolutionary,  and  his  scientific  habit  of  mind  made  him  re- 
gard the  revolutionaries  and  himself  as  a  kind  of  madmen. 
His  excited  dilettantism  and  his  extreme  instability  of  mind 
made  him  seek  the  company  of  men  the  most  opposite.  He 
had  acquaintances  among  those  in  authority  and  even  among 
the  police:  he  was  perpetually  prying  and  spying  with  that 
morbid  and  dangerous  curiosity  which  makes  so  many  Russian 
revolutionaries  seem  to  be  playing  a  double  game,  and  some- 
times reduces  the  appearance  to  reality.  It  is  not  treachery  so 
much  as  versatility,  and  it  is  thoroughly  disinterested.  There 
are  so  many  men  of  action  to  whom  action  is  a  theater  into 
which  they  bring  their  talents  as  comedians,  quite  honestly  pre- 
pared at  any  moment  to  change  their  part!  Manousse  was  as 
faithful  to  the  revolutionary  part  as  it  was  possible  for  him 
to  be:  it  was  the  character  which  was  most  in  accord  with  his 
natural  anarchy,  and  his  delight  in  demolishing  the  laws  of 
the  countries  through  which  he  passed.  But  vet,  in  spite  of 
everything,  it  was  only  a  part.  It  was  always  impossible  to 
know  how  much  was  true  and  how  much  invented  in  what  he  said, 
and  even  he  himself  was  never  very  sure. 

He  was  intelligent  and  skeptical,  endowed  with  the  psycho- 
logical subtlety  of  his  twofold  nationality,  could  discern  quite 
marvelously  the  weaknesses  of  others,  and  his  own.  and  was 
extremely  skilful  in  playing  upon  them,  so  that  he  had  no 
difficulty  in  gaining  an  ascendancy  over  (1anet.  It  amused  him 
to  drag  this  Sancho  Pan/a  into  Quixotic  pranks.  He  made  no 
scruple  about  using  him.  disposing  of  his  will,  his  time,  his 
money, — not  for  his  own  benefit,  (he  needed  none,  though  no 
one  knew  how  or  in  what  way  he  lived), — but  in  the  most  com- 


]82         JEAN-CHRISTOPHE :    JOURNEY'S  END 

promising  demonstrations  of  the  cause.  Canet  submitted  to  it 
all :  he  tried  to  persuade  himself  that  he  thought  like  Manousse. 
He  knew  perfectly  well  that  this  was  not  the  case:  such  ideas 
scared  him:  they  were  shocking  to  his  common  sense.  And  ho 
had  no  love  for  the  people.  And,  in  addition,  he  had  no  cour- 
age. This  big,  bulky,  corpulent  young  man.  with  his  clean- 
shaven pinkish  face,  his  short  breathing,  his  pleasant,  pompous, 
and  rather  childish  way  of  speaking,  with  a  chest  like  the 
Farnese  Hercules,  (he  was  a  fair  hand  at  boxing  and  single- 
stick), was  the  most  timid  of  men.  If  he  took  a  certain  pride 
in  being  taken  for  a  man  of  a  subversive  temper  by  his  own 
people,  in  his  heart  of  hearts  he  used  to  tremble  at  the  boldness 
of  his  friends.  No  doubt  the  little  thrill  they  gave  him  was 
by  no  means  disagreeable  as  long  as  it  was  only  in  fun.  But 
their  fun  was  becoming  dangerous.  His  fervent  friends  were 
growing  aggressive,  their  hardy  pretensions  were  increasing: 
they  alarmed  Canet's  fundamental  egoism,  his  deeply  rooted 
sense  of  propriety,  his  middle-class  pusillanimity.  He  dared  not 
ask:  "Where  arc  you  taking  me  to?"  But,  under  'his  breath, 
he  fretted  and  fumed  at  the  recklessness  of  these  young  men 
who  seemed  to  love  nothing  so  much  as  breaking  their  necks, 
and  never  to  give  a  thought  as  to  whether  they  wore  not  at  the 
same  time  running  a  risk  of  breaking  other  people's. — What 
was  it  impelled  him  to  follow  them?  Was  he  not  free  to  break 
with  them?  He  had  not  the  courage.  He  was  afraid  of  be- 
ing left  alone,  like  a  child  who  gets  left  behind  and  begins  to 
whimper.  He  \vas  like  so  many  men:  they  have  no  opinions, 
except  in  so  far  as  they  disapprove  of  all  enthusiastic  opinion: 
but  if  a  man  is  to  be  independent  he  must  stand  alone,  and 
how  manv  men  are  there  who  are  capable  of  that?  How  many 
men  are  there,  even  amongst  the  most  clear  sighted,  who  will 
dare  to  break  free  of  the  bondage  of  certain  prejudices,  certain 
postulates  which  cramp  and  fetter  all  the  men  of  the  same 
generation?  That  would  mean  setting  up  a  Avail  betAveen 
themselves  and  others.  On  the  one  hand,  freedom  in  the  Avil- 
dernoss.  on  the  other,  mankind.  They  do  not  hesitate:  they 
choose  mankind,  the  herd.  The  herd  is  evil  smelling,  but  it 
gives  Avarmth.  Then  those  AV!IO  have  chosen  pretend  to  think 
what  they  do  not  in  fact  think.  It  is  not  very  difficult  for 


THE  BURXIXG  BUSH  183 

them:  they  know  so  little  what  they  think!  .  .  .  "Know  thy- 
self!" .  .  .  How  could  they,  these  men  who  have  hardly  a  Me 
to  know?  In  every  collective  belief,  religious  or  social,  very 
rare  are  the  men  who  believe,  because  very  rare  are  tbe  men 
who  are  men.  Faith  is  an  heroic  force :  its  fire  lias  kindled  but 
a  very  few  human  torches,  and  even  these  have  often  flickered. 
The  apostles,  the  prophets,  even  -Jesus  have  doubted.  The  rest 
are  only  reflections, — save  at  certain  hours  when  their  souls  are 
dry  and  a  few  sparks  falling  from  a  great  torch  set  light  to  all 
the  surface  of  the  plain:  then  the  fire  dies  down,  and  nothing 
gleams  but  the  glowing  embers  beneath  the  ashes.  Xot  more 
than  a  few  hundred  Christians  really  believe  in  Christ.  The 
rest  believe  that  they  believe,  or  else  they  only  try  to  believe. 

Many  of  these  revolutionaries  were  like  that.  Our  friend 
Canet  tried  hard  to  believe  that  he  was  a  revolutionary:  he  did 
believe  it.  And  he  was  scared  at  his  o\vn  boldness. 

All  these  comfortable  people  invoked  divers  principles:  some 
followed  tbe  bidding  of  their  hearts,  others  that  of  their  rea- 
son, others  again  only  their  interests:  some  associated  their  \\~fiy 
of  thinking  with  the  (*ospel.  others  with  M.  Bergson.  others. 
again,  with  Karl  Marx,  with  Proudhon.  \vith  Joseph  de  Maistre, 
with  Xiet/.sche.  or  with  M.  Sorel.  There  were  men  who  were 
revolutionaries  to  be  in  the  fashion,  some  who  were  so  out  of 
snobbishness,  and  some  from  shyness:  some  from  hatred,  others 
from  love:  some  from  a  need  of  active,  hot-headed  heroism:  and 
some  in  sheer  slavislmess,  from  the  shceplike  ipiality  of  their 
minds.  But  all.  without  knowing  it,  were  at  th 
wind.  All  were  no  more  than  those  whirling  clouds 
which  are  to  be  seen  like  smoke  in  the  far  distance  on  the  white 
roads  in  the  country,  clouds  of  dust  foretelling  the  coming  of 
the  storm. 

Olivier  and  Christophe  watched  the  wind  coming.  Both  of 
them  had  strong  eyes.  But  they  used  them  in  different  ways. 
Olivier,  whose  clear  gaze,  in  spite  of  himself,  pierced  to  the  very 
inmost  thoughts  of  men.  was  saddened  by  their  mediocrity:  but 
he  saw  the  hidden  force  that  sustained  them :  he  was  most  struck 


184         JEAX-CHRISTOPHE:    JOURNEY'S  END 

by  the  tragic  aspect  of  things.  Christophe  was  more  sensible 
of  their  comic  aspect.  Men  interested  him,  ideas  not  at  all. 
He  affected  a  contemptuous  indifference  towards  them.  He 
laughed  at  Socialistic  Utopias.  In  a  spirit  of  contradiction  and 
out  of  instinctive  reaction  against  the  morbid  humanitarianism 
which  was  the  order  of  the  day,  he  appeared  to  be  more  selfish 
than  he  Avas:  he  was  a  self-made  man,  a  sturdy  upstart,  proud 
of  his  strength  of  body  and  will,  and  he  was  a  little  too  apt  to 
regard  all  those  who  had  not  his  force  as  shirkers.  In  poverty 
and  alone  he  had  been  able  to  win  through:  let  others  do  the 
same!  Why  all  this  talk  of  a  social  question?  What  ques- 
tion ?  Poverty  ? 

"  I  know  all  about  that,"  he  would  say.  "  My  father,  my 
mother,  I  myself,  we  have  been  through  it.  It's  only  a  mat- 
ter of  getting  out  of  it." 

"  Not  everybody  can,"  Olivier  would  reply.  "  What  about  the 
sick  and  the  unlucky  ?  " 

"  One  must  help  them,  that's  all.  But  that  is  a  very  dif- 
ferent thing  from  setting  them  on  a  pinnacle,  as  people  are  do- 
ing nowadays.  Only  a  short  while  ago  people  \vere  asserting 
the  odious  doctrine  of  the  rights  of  the  strongest  man.  Upon 
my  word,  I'm  inclined  to  think  that  the  rights  of  the  weakest 
are  even  more  detestable :  they're  sapping  the  thought  of  to-day, 
the  weakest  man  is  tyrannizing  over  the  strong,  and  exploiting 
them.  It  really  looks  as  though  it  has  become  a  merit  to  be 
diseased,  poor,  unintelligent,  broken, — and  a  vice  to  be  strong, 
upstanding,  happy  in  fighting,  and  an  aristocrat  in  brains  and 
blood.  And  what  is  most  absurd  of  all  is  this,  that  the  strong 
are  the  first  to  believe  it.  ...  It's  a  fine  subject  for  a  comedy, 
my  dear  Olivier  !  " 

"  I'd  rather  have  people  laugh  at  me  than  make  other  peo- 
ple weep." 

"Good  boy!"  said  Christophe.  "But,  good  Lord,  who  ever 
said  anything  to  the  contrary?  When  I  see  a  hunchback,  my 
back  aches  for  him.  .  .  .  We're  playing  the  comedy,  we  won't 
write  it." 

He  did  not  suffer  himself  to  be  bitten  by  the  prevalent  dreams 
of  social  justice.  His  vulgar  common  sense  told  him  and  he 
believed  that  what  had  been  would  be. 


THE  BUKXIXG  BUSH  185 

"  But  if  anybody  said  that  to  you  about  art  you'd  be  up  in 
arms  against  him." 

"  May  be.  Anyhow,  I  don't  know  about  anything  except  art. 
Nor  do  you.  I've  no  faith  in  people  who  talk  about  things 
without  knowing  anything  about  them." 

Olivier's  faith  in  such  people  was  no  greater.  Both  of  them 
were  inclined  to  push  their  distrust  a  little  too  far:  they  had 
always  held  aloof  from  politics.  Olivier  confessed,  not  without 
shame,  that  he  could  not  remember  ever  having  used  his  rights 
as  an  elector :  for  the  last  ten  years  he  had  not  even  entered 
his  name  at  the  mairie. 

"  Why,"  he  asked,  "  should  I  take  part  in  a  comedy  which 
I  know  to  be  futile  ?  Vote  ?  For  whom  should  I  vote  ?  I  don't 
see  any  reason  for  choosing  between  two  candidates,  both  of 
whom  are  unknown  to  me,  while  I  have  only  too  much  reason  to 
expect  that,  directly  the  election  is  over,  they  will  both  be  false 
to  all  their  professions  of  faith.  Keep  an  eye  on  them  ?  Re- 
mind them  of  their  duty?  It  would  take  up  the  whole  of  my 
life,  with  no  result.  I  have  neither  time,  nor  strength,  nor  the 
rhetorical  weapons,  nor  sufficient  lack  of  scruple,  nor  is  my 
heart  steeled  against  all  the  disgust  that  action  brings.  Much 
better  to  keep  clear  of  it  all.  I  am  quite  ready  to  submit  to 
the  evil.  But  at  least  I  won't  subscribe  to  it." 

But.  in  spite  of  his  excessive  clear-sightedness,  Olivier,  to 
whom  the  ordinary  routine  of  politics  was  repulsive,  yet  pre- 
served a  chimerical  hope  in  a  revolution.  He  knew  that  it  was 
chimerical :  but  he  did  not  discard  it.  It  was  a  sort  of  racial 
mysticism  in  him.  Xot  for  nothing  does  a  man  belong  to  the 
greatest  destructive  and  constructive  people  of  the  Western  world, 
the  people  who  destroy  to  construct  and  construct  to  destroy. — 
the  people  who  play  with  ideas  and  life,  and  are  for  ever  making 
a  clean  sweep  so  as  to  make  a  new  and  better  beginning,  and 
shed  their  blood  in  pledge. 

Christophe  was  endowed  with  no  such  hereditary  Messianism. 
He  was  too  German  to  relish  much  the  idea  of  a  revolution.  He 
thought  that  there  was  no  changing  the  world.  Why  all  these 
theories,  all  these  words,  all  this  futile  uproar? 

"  I  have  no  need,"  he  would  say,  "  to  make  a  revolution — or 
long  speeches  about  revolution— in  order  to  prove  to  my  own  sat- 


186         JEAN-CHRISTOPHE :    JOURNEY'S  EM) 

isfaction  that  I  am  strong.  T  have  no  need,  like  these  young 
men  of  yours,  to  overthrow  the  State  in  order  to  restore  a  King 
or  a  Committee  of  Public  Safety  to  defend  me.  That's  a  queer 
way  of  proving  your  strength!  I  can  defend  myself.  1  am  not 
an  anarchist:  1  love  all  necessary  order  and  1  revere  the  laws 
which  govern  the  universe.  But  I  don't  want  an  intermediary 
between  them  and  myself.  My  will  knows  how  to  command,  and 
it  knows  also  how  to  submit.  You've  got  the  classics  on  the  tip 
of  your  tongue.  Why  don't  you  remember  your  Corneille:  '  My- 
self alone,  and  that  w  enough.'  Your  desire  for  a  master  is 
only  a  cloak  for  your  weakness.  'Force  is  like  the  light :  only  the 
blind  can  deny  it.  Be  strong,  calmly,  without  all  your  theories, 
without  any  act  of  violence,  and  then,  as  plants  turn  to  the  sun, 
so  the  souls  of  the  weak  will  turn  to  you." 

But  even  while  he  protested  that  he  had  no  time  to  waste  011 
political  discussions,  he  wis  much  less  detached  from  it  all  than 
he  wished  to  appear.  He  was  suffering,  as  an  artist,  from  the 
social  unrest,  hi  his  momentary  dearth  of  strong  passion  he 
would  sometimes  pause  to  look  around  and  wonder  for  what  peo- 
ple he  was  writing.  Then  he  would  see  the  melancholy  patrons 
of  contemporary  art,  the  weary  creatures  of  the  upper-classes,  the 
dilettante  men  and  women  of  the  burgess-class,  and  he  would 
think: 

u  What  profits  it  to  work  for  such  people  as  these?" 
In  truth  there  was  no  lack  of  men  of  refinement  and  culture, 
men  sensitive  to  skill  and  craft,  men  even  who  were  not  incapa- 
ble of  appreciating  the  novelty  or — (it  is  all  the  same) — the 
archaism  of  fine  feeling.  Hut  they  were  bored,  too  intellectual. 
not  sufficiently  aiive  to  believe  in  the  reality  of  art:  thev  were 
only  interested  in  tricks, — tricks  of  sound,  or  juggling  with 
ideas:  most  of  them  were  distraught  by  oilier  worldly  interests, 
accustomed  to  scattering  their  attention  over  their  multifarious 
occupations,  none  of  which  was  "  necessarv."  It  was  almost  im- 
possible for  them  to  pierce  th«'  outer  covering  of  art.  to  fee!  its 
heart  deep  down:  art  was  not  flesh  and  blood  to  them;  it  was 
literature.  Their  critics  built  up  their  impotence  to  issue  from 
dilettantism  into  a  theory,  an  intolerant  theory.  When  it  hap- 
pened that  a  few  here  and  there  were  vibrant  enough  to  respond 
to  the  voice  of  art.,  thev  were  not.  strong  enough  to  bear  it.  and 


THE  BURNING  BUSH  187 

were  left  disgruntled  and  nerve-ridden  for  life.  They  were  sick 
men  or  dead.  What  could  art  do  in  such  a  hospital? — And  yet 
in  modern  society  he  was  unable  to  do  without  these  cripples: 
for  they  had  money,  and  they  ruled  the  Press:  they  only  could 
assure  an  artist  the  means  of  living.  So  then  he  must  submit 
to  such  humiliation:  an  intimate  and  sorrowful  art,  music  in 
which  is  told  the  secret  of  the  artist's  inmost  life,  offered  up  as 
an  amusement — or  rather  as  a  palliative  of  boredom,  or  as  an- 
other sort  of  boredom — in  the  theaters  or  in  fashionable  draw- 
ing-rooms, to  an  audience  of  snobs  and  worn-out  intellectuals. 

Christophe  was  seeking  the  real  public,  the  public  which  be- 
lieves in  the  emotions  of  art  as  in  those  of  life,  and  feels  them 
with  a  virgin  soul.  And  he  was  vaguely  attracted  by  the  new 
promised  world — the  people.  The  memories  of  his  childhood. 
Gottfried  and  the  poor,  who  had  revealed  .to  him  the  living 
depths  of  art,  or  had  shared  with  him  the  sacred  bread  of  music, 
made  him  inclined  to  believe  that  his  real  friends  were  to  be 
found  among  such  people.  Like  many  another  young  man  of 
a  generous  heart  and  simple  faith,  he  cherished  great  plans  for 
a  popular  art,  concerts,  and  a  theater  for  the  people,  which  he 
would  have  been  hard  put  to  it  to  define.  He  thought  that  a 
revolution  might  make  it  possible;  to  bring  about  a  great  artistic 
renascence,  and  he  pretended  that  he  had  no  other  interest  in  the 
social  movement.  P>ut  he  was  hoodwinking  himself:  he  was 
much  too  alive  not  to  be  attracted  and  drawn  onward  by  the  sight 
of  the  most  living  activity  of  the  time. 

In  all  that  he  saw  he  was  least  of  all  interested  in  the  middle- 
class  theorists.  The  fruit  borne  by  such  trees  is  too  often 
less:  all  the  juices  of  life  art1  wasted  in  ideas.  Christophe 
not  distinguish  between  one  idea  and  another.  He  had  no 
preference  even  for  ideas  which  were  his  own  when  he  came  up- 
on them  congealed  in  systems.  With  good-humored  coniempt  he 
held  aloof  from  the  theorists  of  force-  as  from  the  theorists  of 
weakness.  In  every  comedy  the  one  ungrateful  part  i<  that  of 
the  raisonneur.  The  public  prefers  not  onlv  the  sympathetic 
characters  to  him,  but  the  unsympathetic  characters  also.  Chris- 
tophe  was  like  the  public  in  that.  The  n//xo////r ///•.<  of  the  social 
question  seemed  tiresome  to  him.  P>ut  lit*  amused  himself  by 
watching  the  rest,  the  simple,  the  men  of  conviction,  those  who 


188         JEAX-CHRISTOPHE :    JOURNEY'S  END 

believed  and  those  who  wanted  to  believe,  those  who  were  tricked 
and  those  who  wanted  to  be  tricked,  not  to  mention  the  buccaneers 
who  plied  their  predatory  trade,  and  the  sheep  who  were  made 
to  be  fleeced.  His  sympathy  was  indulgent  towards  the  pathet- 
ically absurd  little  people  like  fat  Canct.  Their  mediocrity  was 
not  offensive  to  him  as  it  was  to  Olivier.  Tie  watched  them  all 
with  affectionate  and  mocking  interest:  he  believed  that  he  was 
outside  the  piece  they  were  playing:  and  he  did  not  see  that  lit- 
tle by  little  he  was  being  drawn  into  it.  He  thought  only  of  be- 
ing a  spectator  watching  the  wind  rush  by.  But  already  the 
wind  had  caught  him,  and  was  dragging  him  along  into  its 
whirling  cloud  of  dust. 

The  social  drama  was  twofold.  The  piece  played  by  the  in- 
tellectuals was  a  comedy  within  a  comedy;  the  people  hardly 
heeded  it.  The  real  drama  was  that  of  the  people.  It  was  not 
easy  to  follow  it :  the  people  themselves  did  not  always  know 
where  they  were  in  it.  It  was  all  unexpected,  unforeseen. 

It  was  not  only  that  there  was  much  more  talk  in  it  than 
action.  Every  Frenchman,  be  he  burgess  or  of  the  people,  is  as 
great  an  eater  of  speeches  as  he  is  of  bread.  But  all  men  do  not 
eat  the  same  sort  of  bread.  There  is  the  speech  of  luxury  for 
delicate  palates,  and  the  more  nourishing  sort  of  speech  for 
hungry  gullets.  If  the  words  are  the  same,  they  are  not  kneaded 
into  the  same  shape:  taste,  smell,  meaning,  all  are  different. 

The  first  time  Olivier  attended  a  popular  meeting  and  tasted 
of  the  fare  he  lost  his  appetite:  his  gorge  rose  at  it,  and  he 
could  not  swallow.  He  was  disgusted  by  the  platitudinous  qual- 
ity of  thought,  the  drab  and  uncouth  clumsiness  of  expression, 
the  vague  generalizations,  the  childish  logic,  the  ill-mixed  mayon- 
naise of  abstractions  and  disconnected  facts.  The  impropriety 
and  looseness  of  the  language  were  not  compensated  by  the  raci- 
ness  and  vigor  of  the  vulgar  tongue.  The  whole  thing  was  com- 
pounded of  a  newspaper  vocabulary,  stale  tags  picked  up  from 
the  reaeh-me-downs  of  middle-class  rhetoric.  Olivier  was  par- 
ticularly amazed  at  the  lack  of  simplicity.  He  forgot  that  liter- 
ary simplicity  is  not  natural,  but  acquired:  it  is  a  thing  achieved 
by  the  people  of  the  elect.  Dwellers  in  towns  cannot  be  simple: 
they  are  rather  always  on  the  lookout  for  far-fetched  expressions. 


THE  BURNING  BUSH  189 

Olivier  did  not  understand  the  effect  such  turgid  phrases  might 
have  on  their  audience.  He  had  not  the  key  to  their  meaning. 
We  call  foreign  the  languages  of  other  races,  and  it  never  occurs 
to  us  that  there  are  almost  as  many  languages  in  our  nation  as 
there  are  social  grades.  It  is  only  for  a  limited  few  that  words 
retain  their  traditional  and  age-old  meaning:  for  the  rest  they 
represent  nothing  more  than  their  own  experience  and  that  of 
the  group  to  which  they  belong.  Many  of  such  words,  which 
are  dead  for  the  select  few  and  despised  by  them,  arc  like  an 
empty  house,  wherein,  as  soon  as  the  few  are  gone,  new  energy 
and  quivering  passion  take  up  their  abode.  If  you  wish  to  know 
the  master  of  the  house,  go  into  it. 
That  Christophe  did. 

He  had  been  brought  into  touch  with  the  working-classes  by 
a  neighbor  of  his  who  was  employed  on  the  State  Railways.  He 
was  a  little  man  of  forty-live,  prematurely  old,  with  a  pathet- 
ically bald  head,  deep-sunken  eyes,  hollow  cheeks,  a  prominent 
nose,  fleshy  and  aquiline,  a  clever  mouth,  and  malformed  ears 
with  twisted  lobes:  the  marks  of  degeneracy.  His  name  was 
Alcide  Gautier.  He  was  not  of  the  people,  but  of  the  lower  mid- 
dle-class. He  came  of  a  good  family  who  had  spent  all  they 
had  on  the  education  of  their  only  son.  but,  for  want  of  means, 
had  been  unable  to  let  him  go  through  with  it.  As  a  very  young 
man  he  had  obtained  one  of  those  Government  posts  which  seem 
to  the  lower  middle-class  a  very  heaven,  and  are  in  reality  death, 
— living  death. — Once  he  had  gone  into  it.  it  had  been  impos- 
sible for  him  to  escape.  He  had  committed  the  offense — (for  it 
is  an  offense  in  modern  society) — of  marrying  for  love  a  pretty 
workgirl,  whose  innate  vulgarity  had  only  increased  with  time. 
She  gave  him  three  children  and  he  had  to  earn  a  living  for 
them.  This  man,  who  was  intelligent  and  longed  with  all  his 
might  to  finish  his  education,  was  cramped  and  fettered  by  pov- 
erty. He  was  conscious  of  latent  powers  in  himself  which  were 
stifled  by  the  difficulties  of  his  existence:  he  could  not  take  any 
decisive  step.  lie  was  never  alone,  lie  was  a  bookkeeping 
clerk  and  had  to  spend  his  days  over  purely  mechanical  work 
in  a  room  which  he  had  to  share  with  several  of  his  colleagues 
who  were  vulgar  chattering  creatures :  thev  were  for  ever  talking 


190         JEAN-CHRISTOPHE :    JOURNEY'S  EX1) 

of  idiotic  things  and  avenged  themselves  for  the  absurdity  of 
their  existence  by  slandering  their  chiefs  and  making  fun  of 
him  and  his  intellectual  point  of  view  which  he  had  not  been 
prudent  enough  to  conceal  from  them.  When  he  returned  home 
it  was  to  find  an  evil-smelling  charmless  room,  a  noisy  common 
wife  who  did  not  understand  him  and  regarded  him  as  a  hum- 
bug or  a  fool.  His  children  did  not  take  after  him  in  anything: 
they  took  after  their  mother.  Was  it  just  that  it  should  be  so? 
Was  it  just?  Nothing  but  disappointment  and  suffering  and 
perpetual  poverty,  arid  work  that  took  up  his  whole  day  from 
morning  to  night,  and  never  the  possibility  of  snatching  an  hour 
for  recreation,  an  hour's  silence,  all  this  had  brought  him  to  a 
state  of  exhaustion  and  nervous  irritability. — Christophe.  who 
had  pursued  his  acquaintance  with  him,  was  struck  by  the 
tragedy  of  bis  lot:  an  incomplete  nature,  lacking  sufficient  cul- 
ture and  artistic  taste,  yet  made  for  great  things  and  crushed  by 
misfortune.  Gautier  clung  to  Christophe  as  a  weak  man  drown- 
ing grasps  at  the  arm  of  a  strong  swimmer.  He  felt  a  mixture 
of  sympathy  and  envy  for  Christophe.  Pie  took  him  to  popular 
meetings,  and  showed  him  some  of  the  leaders  of  the  syndicalist 
party  to  which  he  belonged  for  no  other  reason  than  his  bitter- 
ness against  society.  For  be  was  an  aristocrat  gone  wrong.  It 
hurt  him  terriblv  to  mix  with  the  people. 

Christophe  was  much  more  democratic  than  he — the  more  so 
as  nothing  forced  him  to  be  so — and  enjoyed  the  meetings.  The 
speeches  amused  him.  He  did  not  share  Olivier's  feeling  of  re- 
pulsion: he  was  hardly  at  all  sensible  of  the  absurdities  of  the 
language.  In  his  eyes  a  windbag  was  as  good  as  any  other  man. 
He  affected  a  sort  of  contempt  for  eloquence  in  general.  But 
though  he  took  no  particular  pains  to  understand  their  rhetoric, 
he  did  feel  the  music  which  came  through  the  man  who  was 
speaking  and  the  men  who  were  listening.  The  power  of  the 
speaker  was  raised  lo  the  hundredth  degree  bv  the  echo  thrown 
back  from  his  hearers.  At  first  Christophe  only  took  stock  of 
the  speakers,  and  he  was  interested  enough  to  make  the  acquaint- 
ance of  some  of  them. 

The  man  who  had  the  most  influence  on  the  crowd  was  Casi- 
mir  -Joussier. — a  little,  pale,  dark  man.  between  thirty  and  thirty- 
five,  with  a  Mongolian  cast  of  countenance,  thin,  puny,  with  cold 


THE  BURNING  BFSH  191 

burning  eyes,  scant  hair,  and  a  pointed  hoard.  His  power  lay 
not  so  much  in  his  gesture,  which  was  poor,  stilted,  and  rarely 
in  harmony  with  the  words, — not  so  much  in  his  speech,  which 
was  raucous  and  sibilant,  with  marked  pauses  for  breathing, — 
as  in  his  personality  and  the  emphatic  assurance  and  force  of 
will  which  emanated  from  it.  lie  never  seemed  to  admit  the 
possibility  of  anv  one  thinking  differently  from  himself:  and  as 
what  he  thought  was  what  his  audience  wanted  to  think  they  had 
no  difficulty  in  understanding  one  another.  He  would  go  on 
saying  thrice,  four  times,  ten  times,  the  things  they  expected 
him  to  say:  he  never  stopped  hammering  the  same  nail  with  a 
tenacious  fury:  and  his  audience,  following  his  example,  would 
hammer,  hammer,  hammer,  until  the  nail  was  buried  deep  in 
the  flesh. — Added  to  this  personal  ascendancy  was  the  confidence 
inspired  by  his  past  life,  the  prestige  of  many  terms  in  prison, 
largely  deserved  by  his  violent  writings,  lie  breathed  out  an  in- 
domitable energy :  but  for  the  seeing  eye  there  was  revealed  be- 
neath it  all  an  accumulated  fund  of  weariness,  disgust  with  so 
much  continual  effort,  anger  against  fate.  He  was  one  of  those 
men  who  every  day  spend  more  than  their  income  of  vitality. 
From  his  childhood  on  he  had  been  ground  down  by  work  and 
poverty.  PFe  had  plied  all  sorts  of  trades:  journeyman  glass- 
blower,  plumber,  printer:  his  health  was  ruined:  he  was  a  prev 
to  consumption,  which  plunged  him  into  fits  of  bitter  discour- 
agement and  dumb  despair  of  the  cause  and  of  himself:  at  other 
times  it  would  raise  him  up  to  a  pitch  of  excitement,  lie  was  a 
mixture  of  calculated  and  morbid  violence,  of  policy  and  reck- 
lessness. He  was  educated  up  to  a  certain  point:  he  had  a  good 
knowledge  of  many  things,  science,  sociology,  and  his  various 
trades:  he  had  a  verv  poor  knowledge  of  many  others:  and  he 
was  just  as  cocksure  with  both:  he  had  Ftopian  notions,  just 
ideas,  ignorance  in  many  directions,  a  praetical  mind,  many 
prejudices,  experience,  and  suspicion  and  hatred  of  burgess  so- 
ciety. That  did  not  prevent  his  welcoming  (Miristophe.  His 
pride  was  tickled  bv  being  sought  out  bv  a  \vell-known  artist. 
He  was  of  the  race  of  leaders,  and.  whatever  he  did.  he  was 
brusque  with  ordinary  workmen.  Although  in  all  good  faith 
he  desired  perfect  equality,  he  found  it  easier  to  realize  with 
those  above  than  with  those  beneath  him. 


192         JEAN-CHRISTOPHE :    JOURNEY'S  END 

Cliristophe  came  across  other  leaders  of  the  working-class 
movement.  There  was  no  great  sympathy  between  them.  If 
the  common  fight — with  difficulty — produced  unity  of  action,  it 
was  very  far  from  creating  unity  of  feeling.  It  was  easy  to  see 
the  external  and  purely  transitory  reality  to  which  the  distinc- 
tion between  the  classes  corresponded.  The  old  antagonisms  were 
only  postponed  and  marked  :  but  they  continued  to  exist.  In 
the  movement  were  to  be  found  men  of  the  north  and  men  of 
the  south  with  their  fundamental  scorn  of  each  other.  The 
trades  were  jealous  of  each  other's  wages,  and  watched  each  other 
with  an  undisguised  feeling  of  superiority  to  all  others  in  each. 
But  the  great  difference  lay — and  always  will  lie — in  tempera- 
ment. Foxes  and  wolves  and  horned  beasts,  beasts  with  sharp 
teeth,  and  beasts  with  four  stomachs,  beasts  that  are  made  to 
eat,  and  beasts  that  are  made  to  he  eaten,  all  sniffed  at  each 
other  as  they  passed  in  the  herd  that  had  been  drawn  together 
by  the  accident  of  class  and  common  interest :  and  they  recog- 
nized each  other :  and  they  bristled. 

Christophe  sometimes  had  his  meals  at  a  little  creamery  and 
restaurant  kept  by  a  former  colleague  of  Gautier's,  one  Simon, 
a  railway  clerk  who  had  been  dismissed  for  taking  part  in  a 
strike.  The  shop  was  frequented  by  syndicalists.  There  were 
five  or  six  of  them  who  used  to  sit  in  a  room  at  the  back,  look- 
ing on  to  an  inclosed  courtyard,  narrow  and  ill-lit,  from  which 
there  arose  the  never-ceasing  desperate  song  of  two  caged  cana- 
ries straining  after  the  light.  Joussier  used  to  come  with  his 
mistress,  the  fair  Berthc,  a  large  coquettish  young  woman,  with 
a  pale  face,  and  a  purple  cap,  and  merry,  wandering  eyes.  She 
had  under  her  thumb  a  good-looking  boy,  Leopold  Graillot,  a 
journeyman  mechanic,  who  was  clever  and  rather  a  poseur:  he 
was  the  esthete  of  the  company.  Although  he  called  himself  an 
anarchist,  and  was  one  of  the  most  violent  opponents  of  the 
burgess-class,  his  soul  was  typical  of  that  class  at  its  very  worst. 
Every  morning  for  years  he  had  drunk  in  the  erotic  and  de- 
cadent news  of  the  halfpenny  literary  papers.  His  reading 
had  given  him  a  strongly  addled  brain.  His  mental  subtlety  in 
imagining  the  pleasures  of  the  senses  was  allied  in  him  witli  an 
absolute  lack  of  physical  delicacy,  indifference  to  cleanliness, 
and  the  comparative  coarseness  of  his  life.  He  had  acquired  a 


THE  BURNING  BUSH  193 

taste  for  an  occasional  glass  of  such  adulterated  wine — the  in- 
tellectual alcohol  of  luxury,  the  unwholesome  stimulants  of  un- 
healthy rich  men.  Being  unable  to  take  these  pleasures  in  the 
flesh,  he  inoculated  his  brain  with  them.  That  means  a  bad 
tongue  in  the  morning  and  weakness  in  the  knees.  But  it  puts 
you  on  an  equality  with  the  rich.  And  you  hate  them. 

Christophe  could  not  bear  him.  He  was  more  in  sympathy 
with  Sebastien  Coquard,  an  electrician,  who,  with  Joussier,  was 
the  speaker  with  the  greatest  following.  He  did  not  over- 
burden himself  with  theories.  He  did  not  always  know  where 
he  was  going.  But  he  did  go  straight  ahead.  He  was  very 
French.  He  was  heavily  built,  about  forty,  with  a  big  red  face, 
a  round  head,  red  hair,  a  flowing  beard,  a  bull  neck,  and  a  bel- 
lowing voice.  Like  Joussier,  lie  was  an  excellent  workman,  but 
he  loved  drinking  and  laughter.  The  sickly  Joussier  regarded 
his  superabundant  health  with  the  eyes  of  envy :  and,  though 
they  were  friends,  there  was  always  a  simmering  secret  hostility 
between  them. 

Amelie,  the  manageress  of  the  creamery,  a  kind  creature  of 
forty-five,  who  must  have  been  pretty  once,  and  still  was,  in 
spite  of  the  wear  of  time,  used  to  sit  witli  them,  with  some  sew- 
ing in  her  hands,  listening  to  their  talk  with  a  jolly  smile,  mov- 
ing her  lips  in  time  to  their  words:  every  now  and  then  she 
would  drop  a  remark  into  the  discussion,  and  she  would  empha- 
size her  words  with  a  nod  of  her  head  as  she  worked.  She  had 
a  married  daughter  and  two  children  of  seven  and  ten — a  little 
girl  and  a  boy — who  used  to  do  their  home  lessons  at  the  corner 
of  a  sticky  table,  putting  out  their  tongues,  and  picking  up  scraps 
of  conversations  which  were  not  meant  for  their  ears. 

On  more  than  one  occasion  Olivier  tried  to  go  with  Chris- 
tophe. But  he  could  not  feel  at  ease  with  these  people.  When 
these  working-men  were  not  tied  down  by  strict  factory  hours 
or  the  insistent  scream  of  a  hooter,  they  seemed  to  have  an  in- 
credible amount  of  time  to  waste,  either  after  work,  or  between 
jobs,  in  loafing  or  idleness.  Christophe,  being  in  one  of  those 
periods  when  the  mind  has  completed  one  piece  of  work  and  is 
waiting  until  a  new  piece  of  work  presents  itself,  was  in  no 
greater  hurry  than  they  were:  and  he  liked  sitting  there  with 
his  elbows  on  the  table,  smoking,  drinking,  and  talking.  But 


194          JEAN-CHEISTOPHE:    JOTJBNEY'S  END 

Olivicr's  respectable  burgess  instincts  were  shocked,  and  so  were 
his  traditional  habits  of  mciital  discipline,  and  regular  work,  and 
scrupulous  economy  of  time:  and  he  did  not  relish  such  a  waste 
of  so  many  precious  hours.  Besides  that,  he  was  not  good 
at  talking  or  drinking.  Above  all  there  was  his  physical  dis- 
taste for  it  all,  the  secret  antipathy  which  raises  a  physical  bar- 
rier between  the  different  types  of  men,  the  hostility  of  the 
senses,  which  stands  in  the  way  of  the  communion  of  their  souls, 
the  revolt  of  the  flesh  against  the  heart.  When  Olivier  was 
alone  with  Christophe  he  would  talk  most  feelingly  about  the 
duty  of  fraternizing  with  the  people:  but  when  he  found  him- 
self face  to  face  with  the  people,  he  was  impotent  to  do  any- 
thing, in  spite  of  his  good  will.  Christophe,  on  the  other  baud, 
who  laughed  at  his  ideas,  could,  without  the  least  effort,  meet 
any  workman  he  chanced  to  come  across  in  brotherhood.  It 
really  hurt  Olivier  to  find  himself  so  cut  oil'  from  these  men.  lie 
tried  to  be  like  them,  to  think  like  them,  to  speak  like  them. 
lie  could  not:  do  it.  His  voice  was  dull,  husky,  had  not  the 
ring  that  was  in  theirs.  When  he  tried  to  catch  some  of  their 
expressions  the  words  would  stick  in  his  throat  or  sound  queer 
and  strange.  He  watched  himself;  he  was  embarrassed,  and 
embarrassed  them.  lie  knew  it.  .lie  knew  tiiat  to  them  he 
was  a  stranger  and  suspect,  that  none  of  them  was  in  sympathy 
with  him,  and  then,  when  he  was  gone,  everybody  would  sigh 
with  relief:  "Ouf!"  As  he  passed  among  them  he  would  no- 
tice; hard,  icy  glances,  such  hostile  glances  as  the  working-classes, 
embittered  by  poverty,  cast  at  any  comfortable  burgess.  Per- 
haps Christophe  came  in  for  some  of  it  too:  but  he  never  noticed 
it. 

Of  all  the  people  in  that  place  the  only  ones  who  showed  any 
inclination  to  be  friendly  with  Olivier  were  Amelie's  children. 
They  were  much  more  attracted  by  I  heir  superior  in  station  than 
disposed  to  hate  him.  The  little  hoy  was  fascinated  by  the  bur- 
gess mode  of  thought:  he  was  clever  enough  to  love  it.  though 
not  clever  enough  to  understand  it  :  the  little  girl,  who  was  very 
pretty,  bad  once  been  taken  by  Olivier  to  see  Madame  Arnaud. 
and  she  was  hypnotized  by  the1  comfort  and  ease  of  it  all:  she 
was  silentlv  delighted  to  sit  in  the  fine  armchairs,  and  to  feel 
the  beautiful  clothes,  and  to  be  with  lovely  ladies:  like  the  little 


THE  BURNING  BUSH  195 

simpleton  she  was,  she  longed  to  escape  from  the  people  and 
soar  upwards  to  the  paradise  of  riches  and  solid  com  fort.  Oli- 
vier had  no  desire  or  taste  for  the  cultivation  of  these  inclina- 
tions in  her:  and  the  simple  homage  she  paid  to  his  class  by  no 
means  consoled  him  for  the  silent  antipathy  of  her  companions. 
Their  ill-disposition  towards  him  pained  him.  He  had  such 
a  burning  desire  to  understand  them  !  And  in  truth  he  did 
understand  them,  too  well,  perhaps:  he  watched  them  too  closely, 
and  he  irritated  them.  It  was  not  that  he  was  indiscreet  in  his 
curiosity,  but  that  he  brought  to  bear  on  it  his  habit  of  an- 
alyzing the  souls  of  men  and  his  need  of  love. 

It  was  not  long  before  he  perceived  the  secret  drama  of  Jous- 
sier's  life:  the  disease  which  was  undermining  his  constitution. 
and  the  cruelty  of  his  mistress.  She  loved  him,  she  was  proud 
of  him:  but  she  had  too  much  vitality:  he  knew  that  she  was 
slipping  away  from  him,  would  slip  away  from  him:  and  he 
was  aflame  with  jealousy.  She  found  his  jealousy  diverting: 
she  was  for  ever  exciting  the  men  about  her,  bombarding  them 
with  her  eyes,  flinging  around  them  her  sensual  provocative  at- 
mosphere: she  loved  to  play  with  him  like  a  cat.  Perhaps  she 
deceived  him  with  (Jraillot.  Perhaps  it  pleased  her  to  let  him 
think  so.  In  any  case  if  she  were  not  actually  doing  so.  she 
very  probably  would.  Joussier  dared  not  forbid  her  to  love 
whomsoever  she  pleased:  did  he  not  profess  the  woman's  right 
to  liberty  equally  with  the  man's?  She  reminded  him  of  that 
slyly  and  insolently  one  day  when  he  was  upbraiding  her.  He 
was  delivered  up  to  a  terrible  struggle  within  himself  between 
his  theories  of  liberty  and  his  violent  instincts.  At  heart  he 
was  still  a  man  like  the  men  of  old.  despotic  and  jealous:  by 
reason  he  was  a  man  of  the  future,  a  Utopian.  She  was  ueiti 
more  nor  less  than  the  woman  of  yesterday,  to-morrmv. 
time.- — And  Olivier,  looking  on  at  their  sen-ret  duel,  the  s 
of  which  was  known  to  him  bv  his  o\vn  experience,  was 
pity  tor  Joussier  when  he  realized  his  weakness.  Hut  • 
guessed  that  Olivier  was  reading  him:  and  he  was  very  far  from 
liking  him  for  it. 

There  was  another  interested  witness,  an  indulgent  specta- 
tor of  this  game  of  love  and  hate.  This  was  the  manageress. 
Amelie.  She  saw  everything  without  seeming  to  do  so.  She 


196         JEAN-CHEISTOPHE :    JOURNEY'S  END 

knew  life.  She  was  an  honest,  healthy,  tranquil,  easy-going 
woman,  and  in  her  youth  had  been  free  enough.  She  had 
been  in  a  florist's  shop :  she  had  had  a  lover  of  the  class  above 
her  own :  she  had  had  other  lovers.  Then  she  had  married  a 
working-man.  She  had  become  a  good  wife  and  mother.  But 
she  understood  everything,  all  the  foolish  ways  of  the  heart, 
Joussier's  jealousy,  as  well  as  the  young  woman's  desire  for 
amusement.  She  tried  to  help  them  to  understand  each  other 
with  a  few  affectionate  words : 

"You  must  make  allowances:  it  is  not  worth  while  creating 
bad  blood  between  you  for  such  a  trifle.  .  .  ." 

She  was  not  at  all  surprised  when  her  words  produced  no  re- 
sult. .  .  . 

"  That's  the  way  of  the  world.  We  must  always  be  tortur- 
ing ourselves.  .  .  ." 

She  had  that  splendid  carelessness  of  the  people,  from  which 
misfortune  of  every  sort  seems  harmlessly  to  glide.  She  had 
had  her  share  of  unhappiness.  Three  months  ago  she  had  lost 
a  boy  of  fifteen  whom  she  dearly  loved  :  it  had  been  a  great  grief 
to  her :  but  now  she  was  once  more  busy  and  laughing.  She 
used  to  say : 

"  If  one  were  to  think  of  these  things  one  could  not  live." 

So  she  ceased  to  think  of  it.  It  was  not  selfishness.  She 
could  not  do  otherwise:  her  vitality  was  too  strong:  she  was  ab- 
sorbed by  the  present:  it  was  impossible  for  her  to  linger  over 
the  past.  She  adapted  herself  to  things  as  they  were,  and  would 
adapt  herself  to  whatever  happened.  If  the  revolution  were  to 
come  and  turn  everything  topsy-turvy  she  would  soon  manage 
to  be  standing  firmly  on  her  feet,  and  do  everything  that  was 
there  to  do;  she  would  be  in  her  place  wherever  she  might  be 
set  down.  At  heart  she  had  only  a  modified  belief  in  the  revo- 
lution. She  had  hardly  any  real  faith  in  anything  whatever. 
It  is  hardly  necessary  to  add  that  she  used  to  consult  the  cards 
in  her  moments  of  perplexity,  and  that  she  never  failed  to  make 
the  siyn  of  the  cross  when  she  met  a  funeral.  She  was  very  open- 
minded  and  very  tolerant,  and  she  had  the  skepticism  of  the 
people  of  Paris,  that  healthy  skeptic-ism  which  doubts,  as  a  man 
breathes,  joyously.  Though  she  was  the  wife  of  a  revolutionary, 
nevertheless  she  took  up  a  motherly  and  ironical  attitude  to- 


THE  BURNING  BUSH  197 

wards  her  husband's  ideas  and  those  of  his  party— and  those  of 
the  other  parties. — the  sort  of  attitude  she  had  towards  the  fol- 
lies of  youth — and  of  maturity.  She  was  never  much  moved  by 
anything.  But  she  was  interested  in  everything.  And  she  was 
equally  prepared  lor  good  and  bad  luck.  In  line,  she  was  an 
optimist. 

''  It's  no  good  getting  angry.  .  .  .  Everything  settles  itself 
so  long  as  your  health  is  good.  .  .  ." 

That  was  clearly  to  Christophe's  way  of  thinking.  They  did 
not  need  much  conversation  to  discover  that  they  belonged  to 
the  same  family.  Every  now  and  then  they  would  exchange 
a  good-humored  smile,  while  the  others  were  haranguing  and 
shouting.  But.  more  often,  she  would  laugh  to  herself  as  she 
looked  at  Christophc,  and  saw  him  being  caught  up  by  the  argu- 
ment to  which  he  would  at  once  bring  more  passion  than  all 
the  rest  put  together. 

Christophe  did  not  observe  Olivier's  isolation  and  embarrass- 
ment. He  made  no  attempt  to  probe  down  to  the  inner  work- 
ings of  his  companions.  But  he1  used  to  eat  and  drink  with 
them,  and  laugh  and  lose  his  temper.  They  were  never  dis- 
trustful of  him.  although  they  used  to  argue  heatedly  enough. 
He  did  not  mince  his  words  with  them.  At  bottom  he  would 
have  found  it  very  hard  to  say  whether  he  was  with  or  against 
them.  He  never  stopped  to  think  about  it.  Xo  doubt  if  the 
choice  had  been  forced  upon  him  he  would  have  been  a  syn- 
dicalist as  against  Socialism  and  all  the  doctrines  of  the  State — 
that  monstrous  entity,  that  factory  of  officials,  human  machines. 
His  reason  approved  of  the  mighty  effort  of  the  cooperative 
groups,  the  two-edged  ax  of  which  strikes  at  the  same  time  at 
the  dead  abstractions  of  the  socialistic  State,  and  at  the  sterility 
of  individualism,  that  corrosion  of  energy,  thai  dispersion  of  col- 
lective force  in  individual  frailties. — the  great  source  of  mod- 
ern wretchedness  for  which  the  French  Revolution  is  in  [tart 
responsible. 

But  Nature  is  stronger  than  reason.  When  Christophe  came 
in  touch  with  the  syndicates — those  formidable  coalitions  of  the 
weak— his  vigorous  individuality  drew  hack.  He  could  not  help 
despising  those  men  who  needed  to  be  linked  together  before 


198         JEAX-CHRISTOPHE:    JOURXEY'S  EXD 

they  could  march  on  to  the  fight;  and  if  he  admitted  that  it 
was  right  for  them  to  submit  to  such  a  law,  he  declared  that 
such  a  law  was  not  for  him.  Besides,  if  the  weak  and  the  op- 
pressed are  sympathetic,  they  cease  altogether  to  be  so  when 
they  in  their  turn  become  oppressors.  Christophe,  who  had  only 
recently  been  shouting  out  to  the  honest  men  living  in  isolation : 
"  Unite !  Unite !  "  had  a  most  unpleasant  sensation  \vhen  for  the 
first  time  he  found  himself  in  the  midst  of  such  unions  of  honest 
men,  all  mixed  up  with  other  men  who  were  less  honest,  and 
yet  were  endowed  with  their  force,  their  rights,  and  only  too 
ready  to  abuse  them.  The  best  people,  those  whom  Christophe 
loved,  the  friends  whom  he  had  met  in  The  House,  on  every 
floor,  drew  no  sort  of  profit  from  these  fighting  combinations. 
They  were  too  sensitive  at  heart  and  too  timid  not  to  be  scared : 
they  were  fated  to  be  the  first  to  be  crushed  out  of  existence  by 
them.  Face  to  face  with  the  working-class  movement  they  were 
in  the  same  position  as  Olivier  and  the  most  warmly  generous  of 
the  young  men  of  the  middle-class.  Their  sympathies  were  with 
the  workers  organizing  themselves.  But  they  had  been  brought 
up  in  the  cult  of  liberty :  now  liberty  was  exactly  what  the  revo- 
lutionaries cared  for  least  of  all.  Besides,  who  is  there  nowa- 
days that  cares  for  liberty?  A  select  few  who  have  no  sort  of 
influence  over  the  world.  Liberty  is  passing  through  dark  days. 
The  Popes  of  Rome  proscribe  the  light  of  reason.  The  Popes 
of  Paris  put  out  the  light  of  the  heavens.  And  M.  Pataud 
puts  out  the  lights  of  the  streets.  Everywhere  imperialism 
is  triumphant :  the  theocratic  imperialism  of  the  Church  of 
Rome:  the  military  imperialism  of  the  mercantile  and  mystic 
monarchies:  the  bureaucratic  imperialism  of  the  republics  of 
Freemasonry  and  covetousness :  the  dictatorial  imperialism  of 
the  revolutionary  committees.  Poor  liberty,  thou  art  not  in 
this  world !  .  .  .  The  abuse  of  power  preached  and  practised  by 
the  revolutionaries  revolted  Christophe  and  Olivier.  They  had 
little  regard  for  the  blacklegs  who  refuse  to  suffer  for  the  com- 
mon cause.  But  it  seemed  abominable  to  them  that  the  others 
should  claim  the  right  to  use  force  against  them. — And  yet  it 
is  necessary  to  take  sides.  Nowadays  the  choice  in  fact  lies  not 
between  imperialism  and  liberty,  but  between  one  imperialism 
and  another.  Olivier  said  : 


THE  BURNING  BUSH  199 

"  Neither.     I  am  for  the  oppressed." 

Christophe  hated  the  tyranny  of  the  oppressors  no  less.  But 
he  was  dragged  into  the  wake  of  force  in  the  track  of  the  army 
of  the  working-classes  in  revolt. 

He  was  hardly  aware  that  it  was  so.  He  would  tell  his  com- 
panions in  the  restaurant  that  he  was  not  with  them. 

"  As  long  as  you  are  only  out  for  material  interests,"  he 
would  say,  "you  don't  interest  me.  The  day  when  you  inarch 
out  for  a  helief  then  I  shall  be  with  you.  Otherwise,  what  have 
I  to  do  with  the  conflict  between  one  man's  belly  and  another's? 
I  am  an  artist;  it  is  my  duty  to  defend  art;  I  have  no  right  to 
enroll  myself  in  the  service  of  a  party.  I  am  perfectly  aware 
that  recently  certain  ambitious  writers,  impelled  by  a  desire  for 
an  unwholesome  popularity,  have  set  a  bad  example.  It  seems 
to  me  that  they  have  not  rendered  any  great  service  to  the  cause 
which  they  defended  in  that  way:  but  they  have  certainly  be- 
trayed art.  It  is  our,  the  artists',  business  to  save  the  light  of 
the  intellect.  We  have  no  right  to  obscure  it  with  vour  blind 
struggles.  Who  shall  hold  the  light  aloft  if  we  let  it  fall? 
You  will  be  glad  enough  to  find  it  still  intact  after  the  battle. 
There  must  always  be  workers  busy  keeping  up  the  lire  in  the 
engine,  while  there  is  fighting  on  the  deck  of  the  ship.  To  un- 
derstand everything  is  to  hate  nothing.  The  artist  is  the  com- 
pass which,  through  the  raging  of  the  storm,  points  steadily  to 
the  north." 

They  regarded  him  as  a  maker  of  phrases,  and  said  that,  if 
he  were  talking  of  compasses,  it  was  very  clear  that  he  had  lost 
his:  and  they  gave  themselves  the  pleasure  of  indulging  in  a  lit- 
tle friendly  contempt  at  his  expense.  In  their  eyes  an  artist 
was  a  shirker  who  contrived  to  work  as  little  and  as  agreeably 
as  possible. 

He  replied  that  he  worked  as  hard  as  they  did,  harder  even, 
and  that  lie  was  not  nearly  so  afraid  of  work.  Nothing  dis- 
gusted him  so  much  as  x<ibol<t<j<>,  the  deliberate  bungling  of  work, 
and  skulking  raised  to  the  level  of  a  principle. 

"All  these  wretched  people."  he  would  sav.  "afraid  for  their 
own  skins!  .  .  .  (iood  Lord!  I've  never  stopped  working  since 
I  was  eight.  You  people  don't  love  your  work  :  at  heart  vou're 
just  common  men.  ...  If  only  you  were  capable  of  destroying 


200         JEAN-CHRISTOPHE :    JOrHNEY'S  END 

the  Old  World!  But  you  can't  do  it.  You  don't  even  want 
to.  No,  you  don't  oven  want  to.  It  is  all  very  well  for  you  to 
go  about  shrieking  menace  and  pretending  you're  going  to  ex- 
terminate the  human  race.  You  luue  only  one  thought:  to  get 
the  upper  hand  and  lie  .snugly  in  the  warm  beds  of  the  middle- 
classes.  Except  for  a  few  hundred  poor  devils,  navvies,  who 
are  always  ready  to  break  their  bones  or  other  people's  bones 
for  no  particular  reason, — just  for  fun — or  for  the  pain,  the  age- 
old  pain  with  which  they  are  simply  bursting,  the  whole  lot  of 
you  think  of  nothing  but  deserting  the  camp  and  going  over  to 
the  ranks  of  the  middle-classes  on  the  first  opportunity.  You 
become  Socialists,  journalists,  lecturers,  men  of  letters,  deputies. 
Ministers.  .  .  .  Bah!  Hah!  Don't  you  go  howling  about  so- 
and-so!  You're  no  better.  You  say  he  is  a  traitor?  .  .  .  Good. 
Whose  turn  next?  You'll  all  come  to  it.  There  is  not  one  of 
you  who  can  resist  the  bait.  How  could  you?  There  is  not 
one  of  you  who  believes  in  the  immortality  of  the  soul.  You 
are  just  so  many  bellies,  I  tell  you.  Kmpty  bellies  thinking  of 
nothing  but  being  filled.'' 

Thereupon  they  would  all  lose  their  tempers  and  all  talk  at 
once.  And  in  the  heat  of  the  argument  it  would  often  happen 
that  Christophe,  whirled  away  by  his  passion,  would  become  more 
revolutionary  than  the  others.  In  vain  did  he  light  against  it: 
his  intellectual  pride,  his  complacent  conception  of  a  purely 
esthetic  world,  made  for  the  joy  of  the  spirit,  would  sink  deep 
into  the  ground  at;  the  sight  of  injustice.  Esthetic,  a  world  in 
which  eight  men  out  of  ten  live  in  nakedness  and  want,  in  phys- 
ical and  moral  wretchedness?  Oh!  conic!  A  man  must  be  an 
impudent  creature  of  privilege  who  would  dare  to  claim  as 
much.  An  artist  like  Christophe,  in  his  inmost  conscience,  could 
not  but  be  on  the  side  of  the  working-classes.  What  man  more 
than  the  spiritual  worker  has  to  suiVer  from  the  immorality  of 
social  conditions,  from  the  scandalously  unequal  partition  of 
wealth  among  men?  The  art's)  dies  of  hunger  or  becomes  a 
millionaire  for  no  other  reason  than  the  v-aprico  of  fashion  and 
of  those  who  speculate  on  fashion.  A  societv  which  suffers  its 
best  men  to  die  or  gives  them  extravagant  rewards  is  a  mon- 
strous society:  it  must  be  swept  and  put  in  order.  Kvery  man. 
"whether  he  works  or  no.  has  a  ri^'ht  to  a  living  minimum. 


THE  BURNING  BUSH  201 

Every  kind  of  work,  good  or  mediocre,  should  bo  rewarded,  not 
according  to  its  real  value — (who  can  be  the  infallible  judge  of 
that?) — but  according  to  the  normal  legitimate  needs  of  the 
worker.  Society  can  and  should  assure  the  artist,  the  scientist, 
and  the  inventor  an  income  sufficient  to  guarantee  that  they  have 
the  means  and  the  time  yet  further  to  grace  and  honor  it. 
Nothing  more.  The  Gioconda  is  not  worth  a  million.  There 
is  no  relation  between  a  sum  of  money  and  a  work  of  art:  a 
work  of  art  is  neither  above  nor  below  money:  it  is  outside  it. 
It  is  not  a  question  of  payment :  it  is  a  question  of  allowing  the 
artist  to  live.  Give  him  enough  to  feed  him.  and  allow  him 
to  work  in  peace.  It  is  absurd  and  horrible  to  try  to  make  him 
a  robber  of  another's  property.  This  thing  must  be  put  bluntly: 
every  man  who  has  more  than  is  necessary  for  his  livelihood  and 
that  of  his  family,  and  for  the  normal  development  of  his  in- 
telligence, is  a  thief  and  a  robber.  If  he  has  too  much,  it  means 
that  others  have  too  little.  I  low  often  have  we  smiled  sadly  to 
hear  tell  of  the  inexhaustible  wealth  of  France,  and  the  number 
of  great  fortunes,  we  workers,  and  toilers,  and  intellectuals,  and 
men  and  women  who  from  our  very  birth  have  been  given  up 
to  the  wearying  task  of  keeping  ourselves  from  dying  of  hunger, 
often  struggling  in  vain,  often  seeing  the  very  best  of  ivs  suc- 
cumbing to  the  pain  of  it  all, — we  who  are  the  moral  and  intel- 
lectual treasure  of  the  nation  !  You  who  have  more  than  vour 
share  of  the  wealth  of  the  world  are  rich  at  the  cost  of  our  suf- 
fering and  our  poverty.  That  troubles  you  not  at  all :  you  have 
sophistries  and  to  spare  to  reassure  you  :  the  sac-red  rights  of 
property,  the  fair  struggle  for  life,  the  supreme  interests  of  that 
Moloch,  the  State  and  Progress,  that  fabulous  monster,  that 
problematical  Better  to  which  men  sacrifice  the  Good, — the  Good 
of  other  men. — But  for  all  that,  the  fact  remains,  and  all  your 
sophistries  will  never  manage  to  deny  it  :  "  You  have  too  much 
to  live  on.  AYe  have  not  enough.  And  we  are  as  good  as  you. 
And  some  of  us  arc  better  than  the  whole  lot  of  you  put  to- 
gether." 

So  Christophe  was  affected  by  the  intoxication  of  the  passions 
with  which  lie  was  surrounded.  Then  he  was  astonished  at  his 
own  bursts  of  eloquence.  But  he  did  not  attach  anv  importance 


202         JEAN-CHRISTOPHE :    JOURNEY'S  END 

to  them.  He  was  amused  by  such  easily  roused  excitement, 
which  he  attributed  to  the  bottle.  His  only  regret  was  that  the 
wine  was  not  better,  and  he  would  belaud  the  wines  of  the  lihine. 
He  still  thought  that  he  was  detached  from  revolutionary  ideas. 
But  there  arose  the  singular  phenomenon  that  Christophe  brought 
into  the  discussion,  if  not  the  upholding  of  them,  a  steadily 
increasing  passion,  while  that  of  his  companions  seemed  in 
comparison  to  diminish. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  they  had  fe\ver  illusions  than  he.  Even, 
the  most  violent  leaders,  the  men  who  were  most  feared  by  the 
middle-classes,  were  at  heart  uncertain  and  horribly  middle-class. 
Coquard,  with  his  laugh  like  a  stallion's  neigh,  shouted  at  the 
top  of  his  voice  and  made  terrifying  gestures :  but  he  only 
half  believed  what  he  was  saying:  it  was  all  for  the  pleasure  of 
talking,  giving  orders,  being  active :  he  was  a  braggart  of  vio- 
lence. He  knew  the  cowardice  of  the  middle-classes  through 
and  through,  and  he  loved  terrorizing  them  by  showing  that  he 
was  stronger  than  they:  he  was  quite  ready  to  admit  as  much  to 
Christophe,  and  to  laugh  over  it.  Graillot  criticized  everything, 
and  everything  anybody  tried  to  do :  he  made  every  plan  come  to 
nothing.  Joussier  was  for  ever  affirming,  for  he  was  unwilling 
ever  to  be  in  the  wrong.  He  would  be  perfectly  aware  of  the 
inherent  weakness  of  his  line  of  argument,  but  that  would  make 
him  only  the  more  obstinate  in  sticking  to  it:  he  would  have 
sacrificed  the  victory  of  his  cause  to  his  pride  of  principle.  But 
lie  would  rush  from  extremes  of  bullet-headed  faith  to  extremes 
of  ironical  pessimism,  when  he  would  bitterly  condemn  the  lie 
of  all  systems  of  ideas  and  the  futility  of  all  efforts. 

The  majority  of  the  working-classes  were  just  the  same.  They 
would  suddenly  relapse  from  the  intoxication  of  words  in- 
to the  depths  of  discouragement.  They  had  immense  illusions : 
but  they  were  based  upon  nothing:  they  had  not  won  them  in 
pain  or  forged  them  for  themselves:  they  had  received  them 
ready-made,  by  that  law  of  the  smallest  effort  which  led  them 
for  their  amusements  to  the  slaughter-house  and  the  blatant 
show.  They  suffered  from  an  incurable  indolence  of  mind 
for  which  there  were  onlv  too  many  excuses:  they  were  like 
weary  beasts  asking  only  to  be  suffered  to  lie  down  and  in  peace 
to  ruminate  over  their  end  and  their  dreams.  But  once  they  had 


THE  BTJBNIXG  BUSH  203 

slept  off  their  dreams  there  was  nothing  left  but  an  even  greater 
weariness  and  the  doleful  dumps.  They  were  for  ever  flaring 
up  to  a  new  leader :  and  very  soon  they  became  suspicious  of  him 
and  spurned  him.  The  sad  part  of  it  all  was  that  they  were 
never  wrong:  one  after  another  their  leaders  were  dazzled  by  the 
bait  of  wealth,  success,  or  vanity :  for  one  Joussier,  who  was  kept 
from  temptation  by  the  consumption  under  which  he  was  wasting 
away,  a  brave  crumbling  to  death,  how  many  leaders  were  there 
who  betrayed  the  people  or  grew  weary  of  the  fight !  They  were 
victims  of  the  secret  sore  which  was  devouring  the  politicians  of 
every  party  in  those  da}7s :  demoralization  through  women  and 
money,  women  and  money, —  (the  two  scourges  are  one  and  the 
same). — In  the  Government  as  in  the  ministry  there  were  men 
of  first-rate  talent,  men  who  had  in  them  the  stuff  of  which  great 
statesmen  are  made — (they  might  have  been  great  statesmen  in 
the  days  of  Bichelieu,  perhaps)  ; — but  they  lacked  faith  and 
character :  the  need,  the  habit,  the  weariness  of  pleasure,  had 
sapped  them :  when  they  were  engaged  upon  vast  schemes  they 
fumbled  into  incoherent  action,  or  they  would  suddenly  fling 
up  the  whole  thing,  while  important  business  was  in  progress, 
desert  their  country  or  their  cause  for  rest  and  pleasure.  They, 
were  brave  enough  to  meet  death  in  battle :  but  very  few  of  the 
leaders  were  capable  of  dying  in  harness,  at  their  posts,  never 
budging,  with  their  hands  upon  the  rudder  and  their  eyes  un- 
swervingly fixed  upon  the  invisible  goal. 

The  revolution  was  hamstrung  by  the  consciousness  of  the 
fundamental  weakness.  The  leaders  of  the  working-classes  spent 
part  of  their  time  in  blaming  each  other.  Their  strikes  always 
failed  as  a  result  of  the  perpetual  dissensions  between  the  leaders 
and  the  trades-unions,  between  the  reformers  and  the  revolu- 
tionaries— and  of  the  profound  timidity  that  underlay  their 
blustering  threats — and  of  the  inherited  sheepishness  that  made 
the  rebels  creep  once  more  beneath  the  yoke  upon  the  first  legal 
sentence. — and  of  the  cowardly  egoism  and  the  baseness  of  those 
who  profited  by  the  revolt  of  others  to  creep  a  little  nearer  the 
masters,  to  curry  favor  and  win  a  rich  reward  for  their  disin- 
terested devotion.  Xot  to  speak  of  the  disorder  inherent  in  all 
crowds,  the  anarchy  of  the  people.  They  tried  hard  to  create 
corporate  strikes  which  should  assume  a  revolutionary  character; 


•204         JEAX-CHRISTOPHE:    .TOTTflXEY'S  END 

hut  they  were  not  willing  to  be  treated  as  revolutionaries.  rl'hev 
had  no  liking  for  bayonets.  They  fancied  that  it  was  possible 
to  make  an  omelette  without  eggs.  In  any  case,  they  preferred 
the  eggs  to  be  broken  by  other  people. 

Olivier  watched,  observed,  and  was  not  surprised.  From  tin- 
very  outset  he  had  recognized  the  great  inferiority  of  these  men 
to  the  work  which  they  were  supposed  to  be  accomplishing:  but 
lie  had  also  recognized  the  inevitable  force  that  swept  them  on: 
and  he  saw  that  (-hristopho,  unknown  to  himself,  was  being 
carried  on  by  the  stream.  But  the  current  would  have  nothing 
to  do  with  himself,  who  would  have  asked  nothing  better  than  to 
let  himself  be  carried  aw:ay. 

It  was  a  strong  current:  it  was  sweeping  along  an  enormous 
mass  of  passions,  interest,  and  faith,  all  jostling,  pushing,  merg- 
ing into  each  other,  boiling  and  frothing  and  eddving  this  wav 
and  that.  The  leaders  were  in  the  van;  they  were  the  least  free 
of  all,  for  they  were  pushed  forward,  and  perhaps  tliev  had  the 
least  faith  of  all  :  there  had  been  a  time  when  they  believed  :  they 
wenv  like  the  priests  against  whom  they  had  so  loudly  railed,  im- 
prisoned by  their  vows,  by  the  faith  they  once  had  had,  and  were 
forced  to  profess  to  the  bitter  end.  Behind  them  the  common 
herd  was  brutal,  vacillating,  and  short-sighted.  'Flic  great  ma- 
jority bad  a  sort  of  random  faith,  because  the  current  had  now 
set  in  the  direction  of  Utopia:  but  a  little  while,  and  thev  would 
cease  to  believe  because  the  current  had  changed.  Many  be- 
lieved from  a  need  of  action,  a  desire  for  adventure,  from  ro- 
mantic folly.  Others  believed  from  a  sort  of  impertinent  logic. 
which  was  stripped  of  all  common  sense.  Some  believed  from 
goodness  of  heart.  The  self-seeking  only  made  use  of  ideas  as 
weapons  for  the  light:  their  eve  was  for  the  main  chance:  they 
were  lighting  for  a  definite  sum  as  wages  for  a  definite  number 
of  hours'  work.  The  worst  of  all  were  nursing  a  secret  hope  of 
wreaking  a  brutal  revenue  for  the  wretched  lives  thev  had  led. 

But  the  current  which  bore  them  all  along  was  wiser  than 
they:  it  knew  where  it  was  going.  What  did  it  matter  that  at 
anv  moment  it  might  dash  up  against  the  dyke  of  the  Old 
World!  Olivier  foresaw  that  a  social  revolution  in  these  days 
would  be  squashed.  JUit  he  knew  also  that  revolution  would 
achieve  its  end  through  defeat  as  well  as  through  victorv  :  for 


THE  BUKXLNU  r.rsii  205 

the  oppressors  only  accede  to  the  demands  of  the  oppressed  when 
the  oppressed  inspire  them  with  fear.  And  so  the.  violence  of 
the  revolutionaries  was  of  no  less  service  to  their  cause  than  the 
justice'  of  that  cause.  Both  violence  and  justice  were  part  and 
parcel  of  the  plan  of  that  blind  and  certain  force  which  moves 
the  herd  of  human  kind.  .  .  . 

"For  consider  what  you  are,  you  whom  the  Master  has  sum- 
moned. If  the  boil  if  be  considered  there  are  not  many  among 
you  irlio  are  wise,  or  slrony.  or  noble.  J>ut  lie  Ints  chosen  the 
foolish  Ilii/if/s  of  the  iror/d  to  confound  (he  trise ;  and  lie  hns 
chosen  the  weak  tilings  nf  the  world  to  confound  the  strong: 
an/I  He  has  chosen  the  rile  thinos  of  the  world  and  the  despised 
fhinf/s,  and  the  tliint/s  that  are  not,  to  the  destruction  of  those 
th  iii(/s  that  are.  .  .  ." 

And  yet,  whatever  may  he  the  Master  who  orders  all  things.— 
(Ueason  or  Unreason), — and  although  the  social  organisation 
prepared  by  syndicalism  might  constitute  a  certain  com])arativc 
stage  in  progress  for  the  future1.  Olivier  did  not  think  it  worth 
while  for  Christophe  and  himself  to  scatter  the  whole  of  their 
power  of  illusion  and  sacrifice  in  this  earthy  combat  which  would 
open  no  new  world.  His  mystic  hopes  of  the  revolution  were 
dashed  to  the  ground.  The  people  seemed  to  him  no  better  and 
hardly  any  more  sincere  than  the  other  classes:  there  was  not- 
enough  difference  between  them  and  others.  In  the  midst  of 
the  torrent  of  interests  and  muddy  passions.  Olivier's  ga/.e  and 
heart  were  attracted  by  the  little  islands  of  independent  spirits, 
the  little  groups  of  true  believers  who  emerged  here  and  there 
like  flowers  on  the  face  of  the  waters.  In  vain  do  the  elect  seek 
to  mingle  with  the  mob:  the  elect  always  come  together. — the 
elect  of  all  classes  and  all  parties. — the  hearers  of  the  tire  of  the 
world.  And  it  is  their  sacred  duty  to  see  to  it  that  the  tire  in 
their  hands  shall  never  die  down. 

Olivier  had  already  made  his  choice. 

A  few  houses  away  from  that  in  which  he  lived  was  a  cobbler's 
booth,  standing  a  little  below  the  level  of  the  street. — a  few 
planks  nailed  together,  with  dirty  windows  and  panes  of  paper, 


206         JEAN-CHBISTOPHE :    JOURNEY'S  EXD 

It  was  entered  by  three  steps  down,  and  you  had  to  stoop  to 
stand  up  in  it.  There  was  just  room  for  a  shelf  of  old  shoes, 
and  two  stools.  All  day  long,  in  accordance  with  the  classic 
tradition  of  cobbling,  the  master  of  the  place  could  be  heard 
singing.  He  used  to  whistle,  drum  on  the  soles  of  the  boots,  and 
in  a  husky  voice  roar  out  coarse  ditties  and  revolutionary  songs, 
or  chaff  the  women  of  the  neighborhood  as  they  passed  by.  A 
magpie  with  a  broken  wing,  which  was  always  hopping  about  on 
the  pavement,  used  to  come  from  a  porter's  lodge  and  pay  him  a 
visit,  It  would  stand  on  the  first  step  at  the  entrance  to  the 
booth  and  look  at  the  cobbler.  He  would  stop  for  a  moment  to 
crack  a  dirty  joke  with  the  bird  in  a  piping  voice,  or  he  would 
insist  on  whistling  the  Jntcrnaiionale.  The  bird  would  stand 
with  its  beak  in  the  air,  listening  gravely :  every  now  and  then 
it  would  bob  with  its  beak  down  by  way  of  salutation,  and  it 
would  awkwardly  flap  its  wings  in  order  to  regain  its  balance: 
then  it  would  suddenly  turn  round,  leaving  the  cobbler  in  the 
middle  of  a  sentence,  and  fly  away  with  its  wing  and  a  bit  on  to 
the  back  of  a  bench,  from  whence  it  would  hurl  defiance  at  the 
dogs  of  the  quarter.  Then  the  cobbler  would  return  to  his 
leather,  and  the  flight  of  his  auditor  would  by  no  means  restrain 
him  from  going  through  with  his  harangue. 

He  was  fifty-six,  with  a  jovial  wayward  manner,  little  merry 
eyes  under  enormous  eyebrows,  with  a  bald  top  to  his  head  rising 
like  an  egg  out  of  the  nest  of  his  hair,  hairy  ears,  a  black  gap- 
toothed  mouth  that  gaped  like  a  well  when  he  roared  with 
laughter,  a  very  thick  dirty  beard,  at  which  he  used  to  pluck  in 
handfuls  with  his  long  nails  that  were  always  filthy  with  wax. 
He  was  known  in  the  district  as  Daddy  Fen il let,  or  Feuillette,  or 
Daddy  la  Feuillette — and  to  tease  him  they  used  to  call  him  La 
Fayette :  for  politically  the  old  fellow  was  one  of  the  reds:  as  a 
young  man  lie  had  been  mixed  up  in  the  Commune,  sentenced  to 
death,  and  finally  deported:  he  was  proud  of  his  memories,  and 
was  always  rancorously  inclined  to  lump  together  Badinguet, 
Uallifl'et.  and  Foutri<]uet.  lie  was  a  regular  attendant  at  the 
revolutionary  meetings,  and  an  ardent  admirer  of  Co<|uard  and 
the  vengeful  idea  that  he  was  always  prophesying  with  much 
beard-wagging  and  a  voice  of  thunder.  lie  never  missed  one 
of  his  speeches,  drank  in  his  words,  laughed  at  his  jokes  with 


THE  BURNING  BUSH  207 

head  thrown  back  and  gaping  mouth,  foamed  at  his  invective, 
and  rejoiced  in  the  fight  and  the  promised  paradise.  Xext  day, 
in  his  booth,  he  would  read  over  the  newspaper  report  of  the 
speeches:  lie  would  read  them  aloud  to  himself  and  his  appren- 
tice: and  to  taste  their  full  sweetness  he  would  have  them  read 
aloud  to  him,  and  used  to  box  his  apprentice's  ears  if  he  skipped 
a  line.  As  a  consequence  he  was  not  always  very  punctual  in 
the  delivery  of  his  work  when  he  had  promised  it :  on  the  other 
hand,  his  work  was  always  sound :  it  might  wear  out  the  user's 
feet,  but  there  was  no  wearing  out  his  leather.  .  .  . 

The  old  fellow  had  in  his  shop  a  grandson  of  thirteen,  a  hunch- 
back, a  sickly,  rickety  boy.  who  used  to  run  his  errands,  and  was 
a  sort  of  apprentice.  The  boy's  mother  had  left  her  family  when 
she  was  seventeen  to  elope  with  a  worthless  fellow  who  had  sunk 
into  hooliganism,  and  before  very  long  had  been  caught,  sen- 
tenced, and  so  disappeared  from  the  scene.  She  was  left  alone 
with  the  child,  deserted  by  her  family,  and  devoted  herself  to  the 
upbringing  of  the  boy  Emmanuel.  She  had  transferred  to  him 
all  the  love  and  hatred  she  had  had  for  her  lover.  She  was  a 
woman  of  a  violent  and  jealous  character,  morbid  to  a  degree. 
She  loved  her  child  to  distraction,  brutally  ill-treated  him.  and, 
when  he  was  ill,  was  craxed  with  despair.  When  she  was  in  a 
bad  temper  she  would  send  him  to  bed  without  anv  dinner,  with- 
out so  much  as  a  piece  of  bread.  When  slit1  was  dragging  him 
along  through  the  streets,  if  he  grew  tired  and  would  not  go 
on  and  slipped  down  to  the  ground,  she  would  kick  him  on  to  his 
feet  again.  She  was  amazingly  incoherent  in  her  use  of  words. 
and  she  used  to  pass  swiftlv  from  tears  to  a  hysterical  mood  of 
gaiety.  She  died.  The  cobbler  took  the  boy.  who  was  then  six 
years  old.  He  loved  him  dearly:  but  he  had  his  own  way  of 
showing  it,  which  consisted  in  bullying  the  boy.  battering  him 
with  a  large  assortment  of  insulting  names,  pulling  his  ears,  and 
clouting  him  over  the  head  from  morning  to  night  by  way  of 
teaching  him  bis  job:  and  at  the  same  time  he  grounded  him 
thoroughly  in  his  own  social  and  anti-clerical  catechism. 

Emmanuel  knew  that  his  grandfather  was  not  a  had  man:  but 
he  was  always  prepared  to  raise  his  arm  to  ward  oil'  his  blows: 
the  old  fellow  used  to  frighten  him.  especially  on  the  evenings 
when  he  got  drunk.  For  Daddy  la  Feuillette  had  not  come  by 


208         JEAN-CIIEISTOPHE :    JOURNEY'S  END 

his  nickname  for  nothing:  he  used  to  get  tipsy  twice  or  thrice 
a  month:  then  he  used  to  talk  all  over  the  place,  and  laugh,  and 
act  the  swell,  and  always  in  the  end  he  used  to  give  the  boy 
a  good  thrashing.  His  bark  was  worse  than  his  bite.  Hut 
the  boy  was  terrified:  his  ill-health  made  him  more  sensitive 
than  other  children:  he  was  precociously  intelligent,  and  lie 
had  inherited  a  fierce  and  unbalanced  capacity  for  feeling 
from  his  mother.  He  was  overwhelmed  by  his  grandfather's 
brutality,  and  also  by  his  revolutionary  harangues, —  (for  the 
two  things  went  together:  it  was  particularly  when  the  old 
man  was  drunk  that  he  was  inclined  to  hold  forth). — His 
whole  being  quivered  in  response  to  outside  impressions,  just 
as  the  booth  shook  with  the  passing  of  the  heavy  omnibuses.  In 
his  crazy  imagination  there  were  mingled,  like  the  humming 
vibrations  of  a  belfry,  his  day-to-day  sensations,  the  wretchedness 
of  his  childhood,  his  deplorable  memories  of  premature  experi- 
ence, stories  of  the  Commune,  scraps  of  evening  lectures  and 
newspaper  feuillctons.  speeches  at  meetings,  and  the  vague,  un- 
easy, and  violent  sexual  instincts  which  his  parents  had  trans- 
mitted to  him.  All  these  things  together  formed  a  monstrous 
grim  dream-world,  from  the  dense  night,  the  chaos  and  miasma 
of  which  there  darted  dazzling  rays  of  hope. 

The  cobbler  used  sometimes  to  drag  his  apprentice  with  him 
to  Amelie's  restaurant.  There  it  was  that  Olivier  noticed  the 
little  hunchback  with  the  voice  of  a  lark.  Sitting  and  never 
talking  to  the  \vorkpeople.  he  had  had  plenty  of  time  to  study 
the  hoy's  sickly  face,  with  its  jutting  brow  and  shy.  humiliated 
expression:  he  had  heard  the  coarse  jokes  that  had  been  thrown 
at  the  hoy.  jokes  which  were  met  with  silence  and  a  faint  shud- 
dering tremor.  During  certain  revolutionary  utterances  he  had 
seen  the  boy's  soft  brown  eyes  light  up  with  the  chimerical 
ecstasy  of  the  future  happiness. — a  happiness  which,  even  if  he 
were  ever  to  realize  it,  would  mala;  but  small  difference  in  his 
stunted  lift1.  At  such  moments  his  expression  would  illuminate 
his  uglv  face  in  surh  a  wav  as  !<>  make  its  ugliness  forgotten. 
Even  the  fair  Berthe  was  struck  by  it  :  one  dav  she  told  him  of 
it.  and.  without  a  word  of  warning,  kissed  him  on  the  lips.  The 
boy  started  back:  he  wen!  pale  and  shuddering,  and  thing  away 
in  disgust.  The  vounir  woman  had  no  time  to  notice  him:  she 


THE  BFKXIXO  BUSH  209 

was  already  quarreling  with  Joussier.  Only  Olivier  observed 
Einmanuers  uneasiness:  he  followed  the  hoy  with  his  eyes,  and 
saw  him  withdraw  into  the  shadow  with  his  hands  trembling, 
head  down,  looking  down  at  the  iloor,  and  darting  glances  of  de- 
sire and  irritation  at  the  girl.  Olivier  went  up  to  him,  spoke  to 
him  gently  and  politely  and  soothed  him.  .  .  .  \Vho  ean  tell  all 
that  gentleness  ean  bring  to  a  heart  deprived  of  all  considera- 
tion? It  is  like  a  drop  of  water  falling  upon  parched  earth, 
greedily  to  be  sucked  up.  It  needed  only  a  few  words,  a  smile, 
for  the  boy  Emmanuel  in  his  heart  of  hearts  to  surrender  to 
Olivier,  and  to  determine  to  have  Olivier  for  his  friend.  There- 
after, when  he  met  him  in  the  street  and  discovered  that  they 
were  neighbors,  it  seemed  to  him  to  be  a  mysterious  sign  from 
Fate  that  he  had  not  been  mistaken.  He  used  to  watch  for 
Olivier  to  pass  the  booth,  and  say  good-day  to  him:  and  if  ever 
Olivier  were  thinking  of  other  tilings  and  did  not  glance  in  his 
direction,  then  Emmanuel  would  be  hurt  and  sore. 

It  was  a  great  day  for  him  when  Olivier  came  into  Daddy 
Feuillette's  shop  to  leave  an  order.  When  the  work  was  done 
Emmanuel  took  it  to  Olivier's  rooms;  he  had  watched  for  him 
to  come  home  so  as  to  be  sure  of  iinding  him  in.  Olivier  was 
lost  in  thought,  hardlv  noticed  him.  paid  the  bill,  and  s:iid  noth- 
ing: the  boy  seemed  to  wait,  looked  from  right  to  left,  and  began 
reluctantly  to  move  away.  Olivier,  in  his  kindness,  guessed 
what  was  happening  inside  the  boy:  he  smiled  and  tried  to  talk 
to  him  in  spite  of  the  awkwardness  he  always  felt  in  talking  to 
any  of  the  people,  lint  now  he  was  able  to  find  words  simple 
and  direct.  An  intuitive  perception  of  sulVcring  made  him  see 
in  the  boy — (rather  too  simply) — a  little  bird  wounded  by  life. 
like  himself,  seeking  consolation  with  his  bead  under  bis  wing, 
sadly  huddled  up  on  bis  perch,  dreaming  of  wild  llighls  into 
the  light.  A  feeling  that  was  something  akin  to  instinctive  con- 
fidence brought  the  hov  closer  to  him:  he  felt  the  attraction  of 
the  silent  soul,  which  made  no  moan  and  used  no  har-h  word-. 
a  soul  wherein  he  could  take  shelter  from  the  brutalitv  of  the 
streets:  and  the  room,  thronged  with  books.  lill"d  \\ith  book- 
cases wherein  there  slumbered  the  dreams  of  the  ages,  tilled  him 
with  an  almost  religious  awe.  He  made  no  attempt  to  evade 
Olivier's  questions :.  he  replied  readily,  with  sudden  gasps  and 


210          JEAX-CHRISTOFHE:    JOURNEY'S  END 

starts  of  shyness  and  pride:  but  he  had  no  power  of  expression. 
Carefully,  patiently,  Olivier  unswathed  his  obscure  stammering 
soul:  little  by  little  he  was  able  to  read  his  hopes  and  his  ab- 
surdly touching  faith  in  the  new  birth  of  the  world.  He  had 
no  desire  to  laugh,  though  he  knew  that  the  dream  was  im- 
possible, and  would  never  change  human  nature.  The  Chris- 
tians also  have  dreamed  of  impossible  things,  and  they  have 
not  changed  human  nature.  From  the  time  of  Pericles  to  the 
time  of  M.  Fallieres  when  has  there  been  any  moral  prog- 
ress? .  .  .  But  all  faith  is  beautiful:  and  when  the  light  of 
an  old  faith  dies  down  it  is  meet  to  salute  the  kindling  of  the 
new:  there  will  never  be  too  many.  With  a  curious  tenderness 
Olivier  saw  the  uncertain  light  gleaming  in  the  boy's  mind. 
What  a  strange  mind  it  was !  .  .  .  Olivier  was  not  altogether 
able  to  follow  the  movement  of  his  thoughts,  which  were  incapa- 
ble of  any  sustained  effort  of  reason,  progressing  in  hops  and 
jerks,  and  lagging  behind  in  conversation,  unable  to  follow, 
clutching  in  some  strange  way  at  an  image  called  up  by  a  word 
spoken  some  time  before,  then  suddenly  catching  up,  rushing 
ahead,  weaving  a  commonplace  thought  or  an  ordinary  cautious 
phrase  into  an  enchanted  world,  a  crazy  and  heroic  creed.  The 
boy's  soul,  slumbering  and  waking  by  fits  and  starts,  had  a 
puerile  and  mighty  need  of  optimism:  to  every  idea  in  art  or 
science  thrown  out  to  it,  it  would  add  some  complacently  melo- 
dramatic tag,  which  would  link  it  up  with  and  satisfy  its  own 
chimerical  dreams. 

As  an  experiment  Olivier  tried  reading  aloud  to  the  boy  on 
Sundays.  Ife  thought  that  he  was  most  likely  to  be  interested 
by  realistic  and  familiar  stories:  he  read  him  Tolstoy's  Mem- 
ories of  Childhood.  They  made  no  impression  on  the  boy:  he 
said : 

"That's  quite  all  right.  Things  are  like  that.  One  knows 
that." 

And  he  could  not  understand  why  anybody  should  take  so 
much  trouble  to  write  about  real  things.  .  .  . 

"Tie's  just  a  boy,"  he  would  say  disdainfully,  "just  an  or- 
dinary little  boy." 

He  was  no  more  responsive  to  the  interest  of  history:  and 
science  bored  him:  it  was  to  him  no  more  than  a  tiresome  intro- 


THE  BURNING  BUSH  211 

duction  to  a  fairy-tale:  the  invisible  forces  brought  into  the  serv- 
ice of  man  were  like  terrible  genii  laid  low.  What  was  the  use 
of  so  much  explanation?  When  a  man  finds  something  it  is  no 
good  his  telling  how  he  found  it,  he  need  only  tell  what  it  is 
that  he  has  found.  The  analysis  of  thought  is  a  luxury  of  the 
upper-classes.  The  souls  of  the  people  demand  synthesis,  ideas 
ready-made,  well  or  ill,  or  rather  ill-made  than  well,  but  all 
tending  to  action,  and  composed  of  the  gross  realities  of  life, 
and  charged  with  electricity.  Of  all  the  literature  open  to  Em- 
manuel that  which  most  nearly  touched  him  was  the  epic  pathos 
of  certain  passages  in  Hugo  and  the  fuliginous  rhetoric  of  the 
revolutionary  orators,  whom  he  did  not  rightly  understand, 
characters  who  no  more  understood  themselves  than  Hugo  did. 
To  him  as  to  them  the  world  was  not  an  incoherent  collection  of 
reasons  or  facts,  but  an  infinite  space,  steeped  in  darkness  and 
quivering  with  light,  while  through  the  night  there  passed  the 
beating  of  mighty  wings  all  bathed  in  the  sunlight.  Olivier 
tried  in  vain  to  make  him  grasp  his  cultivated  logic.  The  boy's 
rebellious  and  weary  soul  slipped  through  his  fingers:  and  it 
sank  back  with  a  sigh  of  comfort  and  relief  into  the  indeter- 
minate haze  and  the  dialing  of  its  own  sensation  and  hallucina- 
tions, like  a  woman  in  love  giving  herself  with  eves  closed  to  her 
lover. 

Olivier  was  at  once  attracted  and  disconcerted  by  the  quali- 
ties in  the  child  so  much  akin  to  his  own: — loneliness,  proud 
weakness,  idealistic  ardor, — and  so  very  different, — the  unbal- 
anced mind,  the  blind  and  unbridled  desires,  the  savage  sensual- 
ity which  had  no  idea  of  good  and  evil,  as  they  are  defined  in 
ordinary  morality.  He  had  only  a  partial  glimpse  of  that  sen- 
suality which  would  have  terrified  him  had  he  known  its  full 
extent.  He  never  dreamed  of  the  existence  of  the  world  of  un- 
easy passions  stirring  and  seething  in  the  heart  and  mind  of  his 
little  friend.  Our  bourgeois  atavism  has  given  us  too  much  wis- 
dom. We  dan1  not  even  look  within  ourselves.  If  we  were 
to  tell  a  hundredth  part  of  the  dreams  that  come  to  an  ordi- 
nary honest  man.  or  of  the  desires  which  come  into  being  in  the 
body  of  a  chaste  woman,  there  would  be  a  scandal  and  an  out- 
cry. Silence  such  monsters!  Bolt  and  bar  their  cage!  But 
let  us  admit  that  they  exist,  and  that  in  the  souls  of  the  young 


213         JEAX-OHRISTOPHE:    JOURNEY'S  KXD 

they  are  insecurely  fettered. — The  boy  had  all  the  erotic  desires 
and  dreams  which  we  agree  among  ourselves  to  regard  as  per- 
verse: they  would  suddenly  rise  up  unawares  and  take  him  by 
the  throat:  they  would  come  in  gusts  and  squalls:  and  they  only 
gained  in  intensity  and  beat  through  the  irritation  set  up  by  the 
isolation  to  which  his  ugliness  condemned  him.  Olivier  knew 
nothing  oJ'  all  this.  Emmanuel  was  ashamed  in  his  presence. 
He  felt  the  contagion  of  such  peace  and  purity.  The  example 
of  such  a  life  was  a  taming  influence  upon  him.  The  boy  felt  a 
passionate  love  for  Olivier.  And  his  suppressed  passions  rushed 
headlong  into  tumultuous  dreams  of  human  happiness,  social 
brotherhood,  fantastic  aviation,  wild  barbaric  poetry — a  whole 
heroic,  erotic,  childish,  splendid,  vulgar  world  in  which  his  in- 
telligence and  his  will  were  tossed  hither  and  thither  in  mental 
loafing  and  fever. 

He  did  not  have  much  time  for  indulging  himself  in  this  way. 
especially  in  his  grandfather's  booth,  for  the  old  man  was  never 
silent  for  a  minute  on  end,  but  was  always  whistling,  hammer- 
ing, and  talking  from  morning  to  night;  but  there  is  always 
room  for  dreams.  How  many  voyages  of  the  mind  one  can  make 
standing  up  with  wide-open  eyes  in  the  space  of  a  second! — 
Manual  labor  is  fairly  well  suited  to  intermittent  thought.  The 
working-man's  mind  would  be  hard  put  to  it  without  an  ell'ort 
of  the  will  to  follow  a  closely  reasoned  chain  of  argument:  if  he 
does  manage  to  do  so  he  is  alwavs  certain  to  miss  a  link  here  and 
there:  but  in  the  intervals  of  rhvthmic  movement  ideas  crop  up 
and  mental  images  come  floating  to  the  surface  :  the  regular  move- 
ments of  the  body  send  them  living  upwards  like  sparks  under 
the  smith's  bellows.  The  thought  of  the  people!  It  is  just 
smoke  and  fire,  a  shower  of  glittering  sparks  fading  away,  glow- 
ing, then  fading  away  once  more!  'But  sometimes  a  spark  will 
be  carried  away  by  the  wind  to  set  (ire  to  the  dried  forests  and 
the  fat  ricks  of  the  upper-classes.  .  .  . 

Olivier  procured  Kmmanuel  a  place  in  a  printing  house.  It 
was  the  Imv's  wish,  and  his  grandfather  did  not  oppose  it:  he 
was  glad  to  so<>  his  grandson  better  educated  than  himself,  and 
he  had  a  great  respect  for  printer's  ink.  !n  his  now  trade  the 
boy  found  his  \vork  more  exhausting  than  in  the  old:  but 
he  felt  more  free  to  think  among  the  throng  of  workers  than 


THE  BTRXIXG  BFSH  21.1 

in  the  little  shop  where  he  used  to  sit  alone  with  his  grand- 
father. 

The  best  time  of  day  was  the  dinner  hour,  lie  would  escape 
and  get  right  away  from  the  horde  of  artisans  crowding  round 
the  little  tables  on  the  pavement  and  into  the  wineshops  of  the 
district,  and  limp  along  to  the  square  hard  by:  and  there  he 
would  sit  astride  a  bench  under  a  spreading  chestnut-tree,  near 
a  bronze  dancing  faun  with  grapes  in  his  hands,  and  untie  his 
brown-paper  parcel  of  bread  and  meal,  and  munch  it  slowly, 
surrounded  by  a  little  crowd  of  sparrows.  Over  the  green  turf 
little  fountains  spread  the  trickling  web  of  their  soft  rain. 
Round-eyed,  slate-blue  pigeons  cooed  in  a  sunlit  tree.  And  all 
about  him  was  the  perpetual  hum  of  "Paris,  the  roar  of  the  car- 
riages, the  surging  sea  of  footsteps,  the  familiar  street-cries,  the 
gay  distant  whistle  of  a  china-mender,  a  navvy's  hammer  ringing 
out  on  the  cobblestones,  the  noble  music  of  a  fountain — all  the 
fevered  golden  trappings  of  the  Parisian  dream. — And  the  lit- 
tle hunchback,  sitting  astride  his  bench,  with  his  mouth  full, 
never  troubling  to  swallow,  would  drowse1  olT  into  a  delicious 
torpor,  in  which  he  lost  all  consciousness  of  his  twisted  spine1  and 
his  craven  soul,  and  was  all  steeped  in  an  indeterminate  in- 
toxicating happiness. 

"...  Soft  warm  light,  sun  of  justice  that  art  to  shine1  for 
us  to-morrow,  art  thou  not  shining  now?  It  is  all  so  good,  so 
beautiful!  We  are  rich,  we  are  strong,  we  are  hale,  we  love  .  .  . 
I  love,  I  love1  all  men,  all  men  love  me.  .  .  .  Ah!  How  splendid 
it  all  is!  Jfow  splendid  it  will  be  to-morrow!  .  .  ." 

The  factory  hooters  would  sound  :  the  bov  would  come  to  his 
senses,  swallow  down  his  mouthful,  take  a  long  drink  at  the1 
Wallace  fountain  near  by.  slip  back  into  his  hunchbacked  shell, 
and  go  limping  and  hobbling  hack  to  his  pl;Uv  in  the  printing 
works  in  front  of  the  e-ases  of  magic  letter*  which  would  one 
day  write  the  Mmc.  Menr,  7Y/,v/.  {' /ilim;«in .  of  the  Revolution. 

Daddy  Feuillei  had  a  crony.  Trouillot.  the  stationer  on  the 
other  side  of  the  stre'et.  He  kept  a  stationery  and  haberdashery 
shop,  in  the  winelows  of  which  were  displayed  pink  ami  green 
bonbons  in  green  bottles,  and  pasteboard  dolls  without  arms  or 


214         JEAN-CHKISTOPHE :    JOURNEY'S  EXD 

logs.  From  either  side  of  the  street,  one  standing  on  his  door- 
step, the  other  in  his  shop,  the  two  old  men  used  to  exchange 
winks  and  nods  and  a  whole  elaborate  code  of  pantomimic  ges- 
ture. At  intervals,  when  the  eobbler  was  tired  of  hammering, 
and  had,,  as  he  used  to  say,  the  cramp  in  his  buttocks,  they 
would  hail  each  other,  La  Feuillette  in  his  shrill  treble,  Trouil- 
lot  with  a  mullled  roar,  like  a  husky  calf;  and  they  would  go  oil' 
together  and  take  a  nip  at  a  neighboring  bar.  They  were  never 
in  any  hurry  to  return.  They  were  both  infernally  loquacious. 
They  had  known  each  other  for  half  a  century.  The  stationer 
also  had  played  a  little  walking-on  part  in  the  great  melodrama 
of  1871.  To  see  the  fat  placid  creature  with  his  black  cap  on 
his  head  and  his  white  blouse,  and  his  gray,  heavy-dragoon 
mustache,  and  his  dull  light-blue  bloodshot  eyes  with  heavy 
pouches  under  the  lids,  and  his  flabby  shining  cheeks,  always  in 
a  perspiration,  slow-footed,  gouty,  out  of  breath,  heavy  of  speech, 
no  one  would  ever  have  thought  it.  But  he  had  lost  none  of  the 
illusions  of  the  old  days,  lie  had  spent  some  years  as  a  refugee 
in  Switzerland,  where  he  had  met  comrades  of  all  nations,  nota- 
bly many  Russians,  who  had  initiated  him  in  the  beauties  of  an- 
archic brotherhood.  On  that  point  he  disagreed  with  La  Feuil- 
lette, who  was  a  proper  Frenchman,  an  adherent  of  the  strong 
line  and  of  absolutism  in  freedom.  For  the  rest,  they  were 
equally  firm  in  their  belief  in  the  social  revolution  and  the  work- 
ing-class nalc.Hte  of  the  future.  Each  was  devoted  to  a  leader  in 
whose  person  he  saw  incarnate  the  ideal  man  that  each  would 
have  liked  to  be.  Trouillot  Avas  for  .loussier,  La  Feuillette  for 
Coquard.  They  used  to  engage  in  interminable  arguments  about 
the  points  on  which  they  were  divided,  being  quite  confident  that 
the  thoughts  upon  which  they  agreed  were  definitely  decided  : — 
(and  they  were  so  sure  of  their  common  ground  that,  they  were 
never  very  far  from  believing,  in  their  cups,  that  it  was  a  mat- 
ter of  hard  fact). — The  cobbler  was  the  more  argumentative  of 
tlic  two.  lie  believed  as  a  matter  of  reason:  or  at  least  he  flat- 
tered himself  that  he  did,  for.  Heaven  knows,  his  reason  was  of 
a  very  peculiar  kind,  and  could  have  fitted  the  foot  of  no  other 
man.  However,  though  he  was  less  skilled  in  argument  than  in 
cobbling,  he  was  always  insisting  that  other  minds  should  be 
shod  to  his  own  measure.  The  stationer  was  more  indolent  and 


THE  BURNING  BUSH  215 

less  combative,  and  never  worried  about  proving  his  faith.  A 
man  only  tries  to  prove  what  he  doubts  himself.  He  had  no 
doubt.  His  unfailing  optimism  always  made  him  see  things  as 
he  wanted  to  see  them,  and  not  see  things  or  forget  them  im- 
mediately when  they  were  otherwise.  Whether  he  did  so  wil- 
fully or  from  apathy  he  saved  himself  from  trouble  of  any  sort: 
experience  to  the  contrary  slipped  off  his  hide  without  leaving 
a  mark. — The  two  of  them  were  romantic  babies  with  no  sense 
of  reality,  and  the  revolution,  the  mere  sound  of  the  name  of 
which  was  enough  to  make  them  drunk,  was  only  a  jolly  story 
they  told  themselves,  and  never  knew  whether  it  would  ever  hap- 
pen, or  whether  it  had  actually  happened.  And  the  two  of  them 
firmly  believed  in  the  God  of  Humanity  merely  by  the  transpo- 
sition of  the  habits  they  had  inherited  from  their  forbears,  who 
for  centuries  had  bowed  before  the  Sou  of  Man. — It  goes  with- 
out saying  that  both  men  were  anti-clerical. 

The  amusing  part  of  it  was  that  the  honest  stationer  lived 
with  a  very  pious  niece  who  did  just  what  she  liked  with  him. 
She  was  a  very  dark  little  woman,  plump,  with  sharp  eyes  and 
a  gift  of  volubility  spiced  with  a  strong  Marseilles  accent,  and 
she  was  the  widow  of  a  clerk  in  the  Department  of  Commerce. 
When  she  was  left  alone  with  no  money,  with  a  little  girl,  and 
received  a  home  with  her  uncle,  the  common  little  creature  gave 
herself  airs,  and  was  more  than  a  little  inclined  to  think  that 
she  was  doing  her  shop-keeping  relation  a  great  favor  by  serv- 
ing in  his  shop:  she  reigned  there  with  the  airs  of  a  fallen 
queen,  though,  fortunately  for  her  uncle's  business  and  his  cus- 
tomers, her  arrogance  was  tempered  by  her  natural  exuberance 
and  her  need  of  talking.  As  befitted  a  person  of  her  distinc- 
tion, Madame  Alexandrine  was  royalist  and  clerical,  and  she 
used  to  parade  her  feelings  with  a  zeal  that  was  all  the  more 
indiscreet  as  she  took  a  malic-ions  delight  in  teasing  tin-  old  mis- 
creant in  whose  house  she  bad  taken  up  her  abode.  She  had  set 
herself  up  as  mistress  of  the  house,  and  regarded  herself  as  re- 
sponsible for  the  conscience  of  the  whole  household:  if  she  was 
unable  to  convert  her  uncle — (she  had  vowed  to  capture  him 
in  e.vtrennx), — she1  busied  herself  to  her  heart's  content  with 
sprinkling  the  devil  with  holy  water.  She  fixed  pictures  of  Our 
Lady  of  Lourdes  and  Saint  Anthony  of  Padua  on  the  walls:  she 


216         .TEAX-CHRISTOPHE :    JOURNEY'S  FAD 


decorated  the  mantelpiece  with  little  painted  images  in  glass 
cases:  and  in  the  proper  season  she  made  a  little  chapel  of  the 
months  of  Mary  with  little  bine  candles  in  her  daughter's- bed- 
room. It  was  impossible  to  tell  which  was  the  predominant  fac- 
tor in  her  aggressive  piety,  real  affection  for  the  uncle  she  de- 
sired to  convert  or  a  wicked  joy  in  worrying  the  old  man. 

He  put  up  with  it  apathetically  and  sleepily:  he  preferred  not 
to  run  the  risk  of  rousing  the  tempestuous  ire  of  his  terrible 
niece:  it  was  impossible  to  tight  against  such  a  wagging  tongue: 
he  desired  peace  above  all  things.  Only  once  did  he  lose  his 
temper,  and  that  was  when  a  little  Saint  Joseph  made  a  sur- 
reptitious attempt  to  creep  into  his  room  and  take  up  his  stand 
above  his  bed  :  on  this  point  he  gained  the  day:  for  he  came  very 
near  to  having  an  apoplectic-  fit,  and  his  niece  was  frightened: 
she  did  not  try  the  experiment  again.  For  the  rest  he  gave  in, 
and  pretended  not  to  see:  the  odor  of  sanctity  made  him  feel  very 
uncomfortable:  but  he  tried  not  to  think  of  it.  On  the  other 
hand  they  were  at  one  in  pampering  the  girl,  little  Heine,  or 
Rainette. 

She  was  twelve  or  thirteen,  and  was  always  ill.  For  some 
months  past  she  had  been  on  her  back  with  hip  disease,  with  the 
whole  of  one  side  of  her  body  done  up  in  plaster  of  Paris  like 
a  little  Daphne  in  her  shell.  She  had  eves  like;  a  hurt  dog's. 
and  her  skin  was  pallid  and  pale  like  a  plant  grown  out  of  the 
sun:  her  head  was  too  big  for  her  body,  and  her  fair  hair,  which 
was  very  soft  and  very  tightlv  drawn  hack,  made  it  appear  even 
bigger:  but  she  had  an  expressive  and  sweet  face,  a  sharp  little 
nose,  and  a  childlike  expression.  The  mother's  piety  had  as- 
sumed in  the  child,  in  hd-  sickness  and  lack  of  interest,  a  fervid 
character.  She  used  to  spend  hours  in  telling  her  beads,  a  string 
of  corals,  blessed  by  the  Pope:  and  siie  would  break  oil'  in  her 
prayers  to  kiss  it  passionately.  She  did  next  to  nothing  all  day 
long:  needlework  made  her  tired:  Madame  Alexandrine  had  not 
Lrixen  her  a  taste  for  it.  She  did  little  more  than  read  a  few 
insipid  tracts,  or  a  stupid  miraculous  story,  the  pretentious  and 
bald  style  of  which  seemed  to  her  the  verv  (lower  of  poetry. — or 
the  criminal  reports  illustrated  in  color  in  the  Sunday  papers 
which  her  stupid  mother  used  to  give  her.  She  would  perhaps 
do  a  little  crochet-work,  moving  her  lips,  and  paying  less  at  ten- 


THE  BURNING  BUSH  217 

tion  to  her  needle  than  to  the  conversation  she  \vould  hold  with 
some  favorite  saint  or  even  with  God  Himself.  For  it  is  use- 
less to  pretend  that  it  is  necessary  to  be  Joan  of  Arc  to  have 
such  visitations:  every  one  of  us  has  had  them.  Only,  as  a  rule, 
our  celestial  visitors  leave  the  talking  to  us  as  we  sit  by  the  lire- 
side  :  and  they  say  never  a  word.  Rainette  never  dreamed  of 
taking  exception  to  it:  silence  gives  consent.  Besides,  she  had  so 
much  to  tell  them  that  she  hardly  gave  them  time  to  reply:  she 
used  to  answer  for  them.  She  was  a  silent  chatterer:  she  had 
inherited  her  mother's  volubility:  but  her  fluency  was  drawn  olf 
in  inward  speeches  like  a  stream  disappearing  underground. — 
Of  course  she  was  a  party  to  the  conspiracy  against  her  uncle 
with  the  object  of  procuring  his  conversion:  she  rejoiced  over 
every  inch  of  the  house  wrested  by  the  spirit  of  light  from  the 
spirit  of  darkness:  and  on  more  than  one  occasion  she  had  sewn 
a  holy  medallion  on  to  the  inside  of  the  lining  of  the  old  man's 
coat  or  had  slipped  into  one  of  his  pockets  the  bead  of  a  rosary, 
which  her  uncle,  in  order  to  please  her.  had  pretended  not  to 
notice. — This  seizure  by  the  two  pious  women  of  the  bitter  foe 
of  the  priests  was  a  source  of  indignation  and  joy  to  the  cobbler. 
Me  had  an  inexhaustible  store  of  coarse  pleasantries  on  the  sub- 
ject of  women  who  wear  breeches:  and  he  used  to  jeer  at  his 
friend  for  letting  himself  be  under  their  thumb.  As  a  matter 
of  fact  he  had  no  right  to  scoiT :  for  he  had  himself  been  af- 
flicted for  twenty  years  with  a  shrewish  cross-grained  wife,  who 
had  always  regarded  him  as  an  old  scamp  and  had  taken  him 
down  a  peg  or  two.  But  he  was  always  careful  not  to  mention 
her.  The  stationer  was  a  little  ashamed,  and  used  to  defend 
himself  feebly,  and  in  a  mealy  voice  profess  a  Kropotkinesque 
gospel  of  tolerance. 

Rainette  and  Kmmanuel  were  friends.  They  bad  seen  each 
other  every  day  ever  since  they  were  children.  To  he  quite  ac- 
curate. Emmanuel  onlv  rarelv  ventured  to  enter  the  house. 
Madame  Alexandrine  used  to  regard  him  with  an  unfavorable 
eye  as  the  grandson  of  an  unbeliever  and  a  lion-id  little  dwarf. 
But  Rainette  used  to  spend  the  dav  on  a  sofa  near  the  window 
on  the  ground  iloor.  Kmmanuel  used  to  tap  at  the  window  as 
he  passed,  and,  flattening  his  nose  against  the  panes,  he  would 
make  a  face  bv  wav  of  greeting.  In  summer,  when  the  window 


218         JEAN-CHRISTOPHE :    JOURNEY'S  END 

was  left  open,  he  would  stop  and  loan  his  arms  on  the  window- 
sill,  which  was  a  little  high  for  him; — (he  fancied  that  this  at- 
titude was  flattering  to  himself  and  that,  his  shoulders  being 
shrugged  up  in  such  a  pose  of  intimacy,  it  might  serve  to  dis- 
guise his  actual  deformity)  ; — and  they  would  talk.  Rainette 
did  not  have  too  many  visitors,  and  she  never  noticed  that  Em- 
manuel was  hunchbacked.  Emmanuel,  who  was  afraid  and 
mortified  in  the  presence  of  girls,  made  an  exception  in  favor  of 
Kainctte.  The  little  invalid,  who  was  half  petrified,  was  to  him 
something  intangible  and  far  removed,  something  almost  outside 
existence.  Only  on  the  evening  when  the  fair  Berthe  kissed  him 
on  the  lips,  and  the  next  day  too,  he  avoided  Rainette  with  an 
instinctive  feeling  of  repulsion:  he  passed  the  house  without 
stopping  and  hung  his  head :  and  he  prowled  about  far  away, 
fearfully  and  suspiciously,  like  a  pariah  dog.  Then  he  returned. 
There  was  so  little  woman  in  her !  As  he  was  passing  on  his  way 
home  from  the  works,  trying  to  make  himself  as  small  as  possible 
among  the  bookbinders  in  their  long  working-blouses  like  night- 
gowns— bus}r  merry  young  women  whose  hungry  eyes  stripped 
him  as  he  passed, — how  eagerly  he  would  scamper  away  to 
Rainette's  window!  He  was  grateful  for  his  little  friend's  in- 
firmity: with  her  be  could  give  himself  airs  of  superiority  and 
even  be  a  little  patronizing.  With  a  little  swagger  be  would  tell 
her  about  the  things  that  happened  in  the  street  and  always  put 
himself  in  the  foreground.  Sometimes  in  gallant  mood  he  would 
bring  Hainette  a  little  present,  roast  chestnuts  in  winter,  a  hand- 
ful of  cherries  in  summer.  And  she  used  to  give  him  some  of 
the  multi-colored  sweets  that  filled  the  two  glass  jars  in  the  shop- 
window:  and  ihey  would  pore  over  picture  postcards  together. 
Those  were  happy  moments:  thev  could  both  forget  the  pitiful 
bodies  in  which  their  childish  souls  were  held  captive. 

But  sometimes  they  would  begin  to  talk,  like  their  elders,  of 
politics  and  religion.  Then  thev  would  become  as  stupid  as 
their  ciders.  It  put  an  end  to  their  sympathy  and  understand- 
ing. She  would  talk  of  miracles  and  the  nine  days'  devotion,  or 
of  pious  images  tricked  out  with  paper  lace,  and  of  days  of  in- 
dulgence. He  used  to  tell  her  that  it  was  all  folly  and  mum- 
mery, as  he  had  heard  his  grandfather  say.  But  when  he  in 
turn  tried  to  tell  her  about  the  public  meetings  to  which  the  old 


THE  BURNING  BUSH  219 

man  had  taken  him,  and  the  speeches  he  had  heard,  she  would 
stop  him  contemptuously  and  tell  him  that  all  such  folk  were 
drunken  sots.  Bitterness  would  creep  into  their  talk.  They 
would  get  talking  about  their  relations :  they  would  recount  the 
insulting  things  that  her  mother  and  his  grandfather  had  said 
of  each  other  respectively.  Then  they  would  talk  ahout  them- 
selves. They  tried  to  say  disagreeable  things  to  each  other. 
They  managed  that  without  much  difficulty.  They  indulged  in 
coarse  gibes.  But  she  was  always  the  more  malicious  of  the 
two.  Then  he  would  go  away:  and  when  he  returned  he  would 
tell  her  that  he  had  been  with  other  girls,  and  how  pretty  they 
were,  and  how  they  had  joked  and  laughed,  and  how  they  were 
going  to  meet  again  next  Sunday.  She  would  say  nothing  to 
that:  she  used  to  pretend  to  despise  what  he  said:  and  then, 
suddenly,  she  would  grow  angry,  and  throw  her  crochet-work 
at  his  head,  and  shout  at  him  to  go,  and  declare  that  she  loathed 
him :  and  she  would  hide  her  face  in  her  hands.  He  would  leave 
her  on  that,  not  at  all  proud  of  his  victory.  He  longed  to  pull 
her  thin  little  hands  away  from  her  face  and  to  tell  her  that 
it  was  not  true.  But  his  pride  would  not  suffer  him  to  return. 

One  day  Rainette  had  her  revenge. — He  was  with  some  of  the 
other  boys  at  the  works.  They  did  not  like  him  because  he  used 
to  hold  as  much  aloof  from  them  as  possible  and  never  spoke,  or 
talked  too  well,  in  a  naTvely  pretentious  way,  like  a  book,  or  rather 
like  a  newspaper  article1 — (he  was  stuffed  with  newspaper  ar- 
ticles).— That  day  they  bad  begun  to  talk  of  the  revolution  and 
the  days  to  come.  He  waxed  enthusiastic  and  made  a  fool  of 
himself.  One  of  his  comrades  brought  him  up  sharp  with  these 
brutal  words : 

"To  begin  with,  you  won't  be  wanted,  you're  too  ugly.  In 
the  society  of  the  future,  there  won't  be  any  hunchbacks.  They'll 
be  drowned  at  birth." 

That  brought  him  toppling,  down  from  his  lofty  eloquence. 
He  stopped  short,  dumfounded.  The  others  roared  with  laugh- 
ter. All  that  afternoon  he  went  about  with  clenched  teeth.  In 
the  evening  he  was  going  home,  hurrying  back  to  hide  away  in  a 
corner  alone  with  his  suffering.  Olivier  met  him  :  he  was  struck 
by  his  downcast  expression :  he  guessed  that  he  was  suffering. 

"  You  are  hurt.     Why  ?  " 


220         JEAN-CHRISTOPHE:    JOURNEY'S  END 

Emmanuel  refused  to  answer.  Olivior  pressed  him  kindly. 
The  hoy  persisted  in  his  silence:  hut  his  jaw  trembled  as  though 
he  were  on  the  point  of  weeping.  Olivier  took  his  arm  and  led 
him  hack  to  his  room--.  Although  he  too  had  the  eruel  and  in- 
stinctive feeling  of  repulsion  from  ugliness  and  disease  that  is  in 
all  who  are  not  horn  with  the  souls  of  sisters  of  charity,  he  did 
not  let  it  appear. 

"  Some  one  has  hurt  you?" 

«  Yes." 

"  What  did  they  do?" 

The  hoy  laid  hare  his  heart.  He  said  that  he  was  ugly.  He 
said  that  his  comrades  had  told  him  that  their  revolution  was 
not  for  him. 

u  It  is  not  for  them,  either,  my  hov,  nor  for  us.  It  is  not  a 
single  day's  atl'air.  It  is  all  for  those  v.'ho  will  come  after  us.'' 

The  boy  was  taken  aback  by  the  thought  that  it  would  be  so 
long  deferred. 

"  Don't  you  like  to  think  that  people  are  working  to  give  hap- 
piness to  thousands  of  bovs  like  yourself,  to  millions  of  human 
beings  ?  •'' 

Emmanuel  sighed  and  said  : 

"  l>ui   it  would  be  good  to  have  a  little  happiness  oneself." 

''  My  dear  boy.  you  mustn't  be  ungrateful.  You  live  in  the 
most  beautiful  city,  in  an  age  that  is  most  rich  in  marvels;  you 
are  not  a  fool,  ami  you  have  eyes  to  see.  Think  of  all  the  things 
there  are  to  be  seen  and  loved  all  around  you." 

I  Ie  pointed  out  a  few  things. 

The  boy  listened,  nodded  his  head,  and  said: 

"  Yes,  but  I've  got  to  face  the  fact  that  I  shall  always  have 
to  1  ive  in  this  hod  v  of  mine !  '' 

"  N'ot  at  all.      You  will  quit  it." 

"  And    that    will   be  the  end/' 

'•  !Iow  do  you  know  that?  '' 

The  boy  was  aghast.  Materialism  was  part  and  parcel  of  his 
Lira  nd  father's  creed:  lie  thought  that  it  was  onlv  the  priest-rid- 
den prigs  who  believed  in  an  eternal  life.  lie  knew  that  his 
friend  wa-  not  such  a  one:  and  he  wondered  if  Olivier  could  he 
speaking  seriously.  Hut  Olivier  held,  his  band  and  expounded 
:I'L  length  his  idealistic  faith,  and  the  unitv  of  boundless  life, 


THE  BT'KXING    BUSH  221 

that  has  neither  beginning  nor  end,  in  which  all  the  millions  of 
creatures  and  ad  the  million  million  moments  of  time  are  hut 
rays  of  the  sun,  the  .sole  source  of  it  all.  Hut  lie  did  not  put  it 
to  him  in  such  an  abstract  form.  Instinctively,  when  he  talked 
to  the  hoy,  he  adapted  himself  to  his  mode  of  thought; — ancient: 
legends,  the  material  and  profound  fancies  of  old  cosmogonies 
were  called  to  mind:  half  in  fun,  half  in  earnest,  he  spoke  of 
metempsychosis  and  the  succession  of  countless  J'orms  through 
which  the  soul  passes  and  (lows,  like  a  spring  passing  from  pool 
to  pool.  All  this  was  interspersed  with  reminiscences  of  Chris- 
tianity and  images  taken  from  the  summer  evening,  the  light  of 
which  was  cast  upon  them  hoth.  He  was  sitting  by  the  open 
window,  and  the  boy  was  standing  by  his  side,  and  their  hands 
were  clasped.  It  was  a  Saturday  evening.  The  bells  were  ring- 
ing. The  earliest  swallows,  only  just  returned,  were  skimming 
the  walls  of  the  houses.  The  dim  sky  was  smiling  above  the 
city,  which  was  wrapped  in  shadow.  The  boy  held  his  breath 
and  listened  to  the  fairy-talc  his  man  friend  was  telling  him. 
And  Olivier,  warmed  bv  the  eagerness  of  his  young  hearer,  was 
caught  up  by  the  interest  of  his  own  stones. 

There  are  decisive  inom-'nts  in  life  when,  just  as  the  electric 
lights  suddenly  Hash  out  in  the  darkness  of  a  great  city,  so  the 
eternal  fires  Hare  up  in  the  darkiics-  of  the  soul.  A  spark  dart- 
ing from  another  soul  is  enough  to  transmit  the  Promethean 
fire  to  the  waiting  soul.  On  that  spring  evening  Olivier's  calm 
words  kindled  the  light  that  never  dies  in  the  mind  bidden  in 
the  boy's  deformed  body,  as  in  a  battered  lantern,  lie  under- 
stood none  of  Olivier's  arguments:  he  hardlv  heard  them.  Hut. 
the  legends  and  images  which  were  onlv  beautiful  stories  and 
parables  to  Olivier,  took  living  shape  and  form  in  bis  mind,  and 
were  most  real.  The  fairy-tale  lived,  moved,  and  breathed  all 
around  him.  And  the  view  framed  in  Ihe  window  of  llio  room, 
the  people  passing  in  the  street,  rich  and  poor,  the  swallows 
skimming  the  walls,  the  jaded  horses  dragging  their  loads  along, 
the  stones  of  the  houses  drinking  in  the  cool  shadow  of  the  twi- 
light, and  the  pale  heavens  where  the  light  was  dving — all  the 
outside  world  was  softiv  imprinted  on  his  mind,  softlv  as  a  kiss. 
It  was  but  the  flash  of  a  moment.  Then  the  light  died  down. 
He  thought  of  Jlainette.  and  said: 


2.32          JEAX-CTIRISTOPHE:    JOURNEY'S  EXT) 

"  But  the  people  who  go  to  Mass,  the  people  who  believe  in 
God,  are  all  cracked,  aren't  they?" 

Olivier  smiled. 

'•  They  believe,"  he  said,  "as  we  do.  AVc  all  believe  the  same 
thing.  Only  their  belief  is  less  than  ours.  They  are  people 
who  have  to  shut  all  the  shutters  and  light  the  lamp  before  they 
ran  see  the  light.  They  see  God  in  the  shape  of  a  man.  We 
have  keener  eyes.  But  the  light  that  we  love  is  the  same." 

The  boy  went  home  through  the  dark  streets  in  which  the 
gas-lamps  were  not  yet  lit.  Oliviers  words  were  ringing  in  his 
head.  lie  thought  that  it  was  as  cruel  to  laugh  at  people  be- 
cause they  had  weak  eyes  as  because  they  were  hunchbacked. 
And  he  thought  that  Rainctte  had  very  pretty  eyes :  and  he 
thought  that  he  had  brought  tears  into  them.  lie  could  not  bear 
that.  He  turned  and  went  across  to  the  stationer's.  The  win- 
dow was  still  a  little  open:  and  he  thrust  his  head  inside  and 
called  in  a  whisper : 

"Rainette." 

She  did  not  reply. 

"  Rainette.     I   beg  your  pardon." 

From  the  darkness  came  Eainette's  voice,  saving: 

"  Beast !     T  hate  you." 

"  I'm  sorry,"  he  said. 

He  stopped.  Then,  on  a  sudden  impulse,  he  said  in  an  even 
softer  whisper,  uneasily,  rather  shamefacedly: 

"  You  know.  Rainette.  I  believe  in  God  just  as  you  do." 

"  Really?" 

"Really." 

lie  said  it  only  out  of  generosity.  But,  as  soon  as  he  had  said 
it,  he  began  to  believe  it. 

They  stayed  still  and  did  not  speak.  They  could  not  see  each 
other.  Outside  the  night  was  so  fair,  so  sweet!  .  .  .  The  little 
cripple  murmured  : 

"  How  good  it  will  lie  when  one  is  dead!" 

He  could   bear  Rainette's  soft  breathing. 

II.-  said: 

"  ( lood-night,  little  one." 

Tendorlv  came  Rainette's  voice: 


THE  BURXIXG  BUSH  223 

"  Good-night." 

He  wont  away  comforted.  He  was  glad  that  Eainette  had  for- 
given him.  And,  in  his  inmost  soul,  the  little  sufferer  was  not 
sorry  to  think  that  he  had  been  the  cause  of  suffering  to  the  girl. 

Olivier  had  gone  into  retirement  once  more.  It  was  not  long 
before  Christophc  rejoined  him.  It  was  very  certain  that  their 
place  was  not  with  the  syndicalist  movement:  Olivier  could  not 
throw  in  his  lot  with  such  people.  And  Christophe  would  not. 
Olivier  flung  away  from  them  in  the  name  of  the  weak  and  the 
oppressed;  Christophe  in  the  name  of  the  strong  and  the  inde- 
pendent. But  though  they  had  withdrawn,  one  to  the  hows,  the 
other  to  the  stern,  they  were  still  traveling  in  the  vessel  which 
was  carrying  the  army  of  the  working-classes  and  the  whole  of 
society.  Free  and  self-confident,  Christophe  watched  with  tin- 
gling interest  the  coalition  of  the  proletarians:  he  needed  even- 
now  and  then  to  plunge  into  the  vat  of  the  people :  it  relaxed 
him:  he  always  issued  from  it  fresher  and  jollier.  He  kept  up 
his  relation  with  Coquard,  and  he  went  on  taking  his  meals  from 
time  to  time  at  Amelie's.  When  he  was  there  he  lost  all  self- 
control,  and  would  whole-heartedly  indulge  his  fantastic  humor: 
he  was  not  afraid  of  paradox:  and  he  took  a  malicious  delight  in 
pushing  his  companions  to  the  extreme  consequences  of  their  ab- 
surd and  wild  principles.  They  never  knew  whether  he  was  speak- 
ing in  jest  or  in  earnest:  for  he  always  grew  warm  as  he  talked, 
and  always  in  the  end  lost  sight  of  the  paradoxical  point  of  view 
with  which  he  had  begun.  The  artist  in  him  was  carried  away 
by  the  intoxication  of  the  rest.  In  one  such  moment  of  esthetic 
emotion  in  Amelie's  back-shop,  he  improvised  a  revolutionary 
song,  which  was  at  once  tried,  repeated,  and  on  the  very  next 
day  spread  to  every  group  of  the  working-classes.  He  com- 
promised himself.  He  was  marked  by  the  police.  Manousse, 
who  was  in  touch  with  the  innermost  chambers  of  authority, 
was  warned  by  one  of  his  friends,  Xavier  Bernard,  a  young  of- 
ficial in  the  police  department,  who  dabbled  in  literature  and  ex- 
pressed a  violent  admiration  for  Christopho's  music: — (for  dilet- 
tantism and  the  spirit  of  anarchy  had  spread  even  to  the  watch- 
dogs of  the  Third  Republic). 

"  That  Krafft  of  yours  is  making  himself  a  nuisance,"  said 


224         JEAN-CHI?  I  STOPHE:    JOURNEY'S  END 

Bernard  to  Manousse.  "  lie's  playing  the  braggart.  Wo  Anow 
what  it  moans,:  but  T  toll  you  that  those  in  high  places  would 
ho  not  at  all  sorry  to  catch  a  foreigner  —  what's  more,  a  German 
—  in  a  revolutionary  "plot:  it  is  the  regular  method  of  discredit- 
ing the  party  and  casting  suspicion  upon  its  doings.  If  the 
idiot  doesn't  look  out  we  shall  be  obliged  to  arrest  him.  It's 
a  bore.  You'd  belter  warn  him." 

^lanousse  did  warn  Christophe:  Olivior  begged  him  to  be  care- 
ful. Christophe  did  not  take  their  advice  seriously. 

"  Bah  !  "  he  said.  "  Everybody  knows  there's  no  harm  in  me. 
I've  a  per  foot  right  to  amuse  myself.  I  like  these  people.  They 
work  as  I  do.  and  they  have  faith,  and  so  have1  I.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  it  isn't  the  same  faith;  we  don't  belong  to  the  same 
camp.  .  .  .  Very  well  !  We'll  fight.  Xot  that  I  don't  like  fight- 
ing. What  would  you?  I  can't  do  as  you  do.  and  stay  curled 
up  in  my  shell.  J  must  breathe.  I'm  stifled  by  the  comfortable 
classes.'" 

Olivier,  whose  lungs  were  not  so  exacting,  was  quite  at  his 
ease  in  his  small  rooms  with  the  tranquil  society  of  his  two 
women  friends,  though  one  of  them.  Madame  Arnaud.  had  thing 
herself  into  charitable  work',  and  the  other,  Coeilo.  was  entirely 
taken  up  with  looking  after  the  babv,  to  such  an  extent  that  she 
could  talk  of  nothing  else  and  to  nobodv  else,  in  that  twittering. 
beatific  tone  which  is  an  attempt  to  emulate  the  note  of  a  little 
bird,  and  to  mold  its  formless  song  into  human  speech. 

His  excursion  into  working-class  circles  had  left  him  with 
two  acquaintances.  Two  men  of  independent  views,  like  him- 
e of  them.  (Jiiorin.  was  an  upholsterer.  lie  worked 
fell  so  disposed,  capricious!  v.  though  lie  was  very  skil- 
loved his  trad'',  lie  had  a  natural  taste  for  artistic 
things,  and  had  developed  it  by  observation,  work,  and  visits  to 
museums.  Olivier  had  commissioned  him  jo  repair  an  old  piece 
of  Furniture:  it  \vas  a  difficult  job.  and  the  nphol-torer  had  done 
it  with  ::ival  skill:  he  had  taken  a  lot  of  lime  and  trouble  over 
it:  he  sent  in  a  very  modest  bill  to  Olivier  because  he  was  so 
di'lighfi-d  with  his  success.  Olivier  became  interested  in  him, 


thought  of  the  working-class,  movement,     Guerin  had  no  thought 


THE  BURNING  BUSH  2*5 

about  it:  lie  never  worried  about  it.  At  bottom  he  did  not  be- 
long to  the  working-class,  or  to  any  class.  He  read  very  little. 
All  Ills  intellectual  development  had  come  about  through  his 
senses,  eyes,  hands,  and  the  taste  innate  in  the  true  Parisian. 
He  was  a  happy  man.  The  type  is  by  no  means  rare  among 
the  working  people  of  the  lower  middle-class,  who  are  one  of 
the  most  intelligent  classes  in  the  nation:  for  they  realize  a  line 
balance  between  manual  labor  and  healthy  mental  activity. 

Olivier's  other  acquaintance  was  a  man  of  a  more  original 
kind.  He  was  a  postman,  named  Ilurtcloup.  Tie  was  a  tall, 
handsome  creature,  with  bright  eves,  a  little  fair  beard  and 
mustache,  and  an  open,  merry  expression.  One  day  he  came 
with  a  registered  letter,  and  walked  into  Olivier's  room.  While 
Olivier  was  signing  the  receipt,  he  wandered  round,  looking  at 
the  books,  with  his  nose  thrust  close  up  to  their  backs: 

"  Ha!  Ha!  "  he  said.     li  You  have  the  classics.  .  .  ." 

He  added  : 

"  I  collect  books  on  history.  Especially  books  about  Bur- 
gundy." 

"You  are  a  Burundian?  '''  asked  Olivier. 


mile, 
L'epi'e  au  cote, 
La  barbe  tut  incnton, 
Sa  n  te  Bourgu  iijnon  ," 

replied  the  postman  with  a  laugh.  "  F  come  from  the  Aval  Ion 
country.  I  have  family  papers  going  back  to  1*01)  and  some- 
thing.'. .  ." 

Olivier  was  intrigued,  and  tried  to  find  out  more  about  him. 
tlurteloup  asked  nothing  better  than  to  be  allowed  to  talk,  lie 
beloned,  in  fact,  to  one  of  the  oldest  families  in  Burundv. 


another  had  been  secretary  of  State  under  Henri  11.  The 
family  had  begun  to  decav  in  ;he  seventeenth  century.  At  the 
time  of  the  Revolution,  ruined  and  despairing,  thev  had  taken 
the  plunge  into  the  ocean  of  the  people.  Now  I  hey  were  com- 
ing to  the  surface  again  as  the  result  of  honest  work  and  the 
physical  and  moral  vigor  of  Hurteloup  the  postman,  and  his 
iidelilv  to  his  race.  His  uTeatesl  hobbv  had  been  collect  in;;-  his- 


226         JEAX-CH1USTOPHE :    JOURNEY'S  EXD 

torical  and  genealogical  documents  relating  to  his  family  and 
their  native  country.  In  oil'  hours  he  used  to  go  to  the  Archives 
and  copy  out  old  papers.  Whenever  he  did  not  understand  them 
he  would  go  and  ask  one  of  the  people  on  his  beat,  a  Chartist  or 
a  student  at  the  Sorbomie,  to  explain.  His  illustrious  ancestry 
did  not  turn  his  head:  he  would  speak  of  it  laughingly,  with 
never  a  shade  of  embarrassment  or  of  indignation  at  the  hard- 
ness of  fate.  His  careless  sturdy  gaiety  was  a  delightful  thing 
to  see.  And  when  Olivier  looked  at  him  he  thought  of  the  mys- 
terious ebb  and  flow  of  the  life  of  human  families,  which  for 
centuries  flows  burningly,  for  centuries  disappears  under  the 
ground,  and  then  comes  bubbling  forth  again,  having  gathered 
fresh  energy  from  the  depths  of  the  earth.  And  the  people 
seemed  to  him  to  be  an  immense  reservoir  into  which  the  rivers 
of  the  past  plunge,  while  the  rivers  of  the  future  spring  forth 
again,  and,  though  they  bear  a  new  name,  are  sometimes  the 
same  as  those  of  old. 

He  was  in  sympathy  with  both  Guerin  and  Hurteloup :  but  it 
is  obvious  that  they  could  not  be  company  for  him:  between  him 
and  them  there  was  no  great  possibility  of  conversation.  The 
boy  Emmanuel  took  up  more  of  his  time:  he  came  now  almost 
every  evening.  Since  their  magical  talk  together  a  revolution 
had  taken  place  in  the  boy.  He  had  plunged  into  reading  with 
a  fierce  desire  for  knowledge.  He  would  come  back  from  his 
books  bewildered  and  stupefied.  Sometimes  he  seemed  even  less 
intelligent  than  before:  he  would  hardly  speak:  Olivier  could 
only  get  him  to  answer  in  monosyllables:  the  boy  would  make 
fatuous  replies  to  his  questions.  Olivier  would  lose  heart:  he 
would  try  not  to  let  it  be  seen:  but  he  thought  he  had  made  a 
mistake,  and  that  the  boy  was  thoroughly  stupid.  lie  could  not 
see  the  frightful  fevered  travail  in  incubation  that  was  going  on 
in  the  inner  depths  of  the  boy's  soul.  Besides,  he  was  a  bad 
teacher,  and  was  more  fitted  to  sow  the  good  seed  at  random 
in  the  fields  than  to  weed  the  <oil  and  plow  the  furrows.  Chris- 
1o|>lie's  presence  only  served  to  increase  the  difficulty.  Olivier 
felt  a  certain  awkwardness  in  showing  his  young  protege  to 
his  friend:  lie  was  ashamed  of  lunmaniu'l's  stupidity,  which 
was  raised  to  alarming  proportions  when  Jean-Christophe  was 
in  the  room.  Then  the  bov  would  withdraw  into  bashful  sul- 


THE  BURNING  BUSH  227 

lenness.  He  hated  Christophe  because  Olivier  loved  him :  he 
could  not  bear  any  one  else  to  have  a  place  in  his  masters  heart. 
Neither  Christophe  nor  Olivier  had  any  idea  of  the  love  and 
jealousy  tugging  at  the  boy's  heart.  And  yet  Christophe  had 
been  through  it  himself  in  old  days.  But  he  was  unable  to  see 
himself  in  the  boy  who  was  fashioned  of  such  different  metal 
from  that  of  which  he  himself  was  made.  In  the  strange  obscure 
combination  of  inherited  taints,  everything,  love,  hate,  and  la- 
tent genius,  gave  out  an  entirely  different  sound. 

The  First  of  May  was  approaching.  A  sinister  rumor  ran 
through  Paris.  The  blustering  leaders  of  the  C.G.T.  were  do- 
ing their  best  to  spread  it.  Their  papers  were  announcing  the 
coming  of  the  great  day,  mobilizing  the  forces  of  the  working- 
classes,  and  directing  the  word  of  terror  upon  the  point  in  which 
the  comfortable  classes  were  mostly  sensitive — namely,  upon  the 
stomach.  .  .  .  Feri  vcntrcm.  .  .  .  They  were  threatening  them 
Avith  a  general  strike.  The  scared  Parisians  were 'leaving  for  the 
country  or  laying  in  provisions  as  against  a  siege.  I'hristophe 
had  met  Canet,  in  his  motor,  carrying  two  hams  and  a  sack  of 
potatoes:  he  was  beside  himself:  he  did  not  in  the  least  know 
to  which  party  he  belonged  :  he  was  in  turn  an  old  Republican,  a 
royalist,  and  a  revolutionary.  His  cult  of  violence  was  like  a 
compass  gone  wrong,  with  the  needle  darting  from  north  to 
south  and  from  south  to  north.  In  public  he  still  played  the 
part  of  chorus  to  the  wild  speeches  of  his  friends:  but  he  would 
have  taken  in  petto  the  first  dictator  who  came  along  and  swept 
away  the  red  spectre. 

('hristoj)he  was  tickled  to  death  by  such  universal  cowardice. 
He  was  convinced  that  nothing  would  come  of  it  all.  Olivier 
was  not  so  sure.  His  birth  into  the  burgess-class  had  given  him 
something  of  the  inevitable  and  everlasting  tremulation  which 
the  comfortable  classes  always  feel  upon  the  recollection  or  the 
expectation  of  Revolution. 

"That's  all  right!"  said  Christophe.  "You  can  sleep  in 
peace.  Your  Revolution  isn't  going  to  happen  to-morrow. 
You're  all  afraid.  Afraid  of  being  hurt.  That  sort  of  fear  is 
everywhere.  In  the  upper-classes,  in  the  people,  in  every  na- 
tion, in  all  the  nations  of  the  West.  There's  not  enough  blood 


JEAX-CHHISTOPHE:    JOUBNEY'S  EXD 

in  the  whole  lot  of  them  :  they're  afraid  of  spilling  a  little.  For 
the  last  forty  years  all  the  fighting  has  been  done  in  words,  in 
newspaper  articles.  Just  look  at  your  old  Dreyfus  Affair.  You 
shouted  loud  enough:  'Death!  Blood!  Slaughter!'.  .  .  Oh! 
you  Gascons !  Spittle  and  ink !  But  how  many  drops  of 
blood?" 

"  Don't  you  be  so  sure,"  said  Oliviei.  "The  fear  of  blood  is 
a  secret  instinctive  feeling  that  on  the  first  shedding  of  it  the 
beast  in  man  will  see  red.  and  the  brute  will  appear  again  under 
the  crust  of  civilization:  and  God  knows  how  it  will  ever  be 
muzzled  !  Everybody  hesitates  to  declare  war:  but  when  the  war 
does  come  it  will  be  a  frightful  thing." 

Christophe  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  said  that  it  was  not  for 
nothing  that  the  heroes  of  the  age  were  lying  heroes,  Cyrano  the 
braggart  and  the  swaggering  cock,  Chantecler. 

Olivier  nodded.  He  knew  that  in  France  bragging  is  the  be- 
ginning of  action.  However,  he  had  no  more  faith  than  Chris- 
tophe in  an  immediate  movement:  it  had  been  too  loudly  pro- 
claimed, and  the  Government  was  on  its  guard.  There  was  rea- 
son to  believe  that  the  syndicalist  strategists  would  postpone  the 
fight  for  a  more  favorable  opportunity. 

During  tiie  latter  half  of  April  Olivier  had  an  attack  of  in- 
fluenza :  he  used  to  get  it  every  winter  about  the  same  time,  and 
it  always  used  to  develop  into  his  old  enemv,  bronchitis.  Chris- 
tophe stayed  with  him  for  a  few  days.  The  attack  was  only  a 
slight  one.  and  soon  passed.  But,  as  usual,  it  left  Olivier  morally 
and  physically  worn  oul,  and  he  was  in  this  condition  for  some 
lime  after  the  fever  had  subsided.  Jle  stayed  in  bed.  lying  still 
for  hours  without  any  desire  to  get  up  or  oven  to  move:  he  lay 
there  watching  Christophe,  who  was  sitting  at  his  desk,  working, 
with  IPS  hack  towards  him. 

Christophe  was  absorbed  in  his  work.  Sometimes,  when  he 
\V;1S  tired  of  writing,  he  would  suddenlv  get  up  and  walk"  over  to 
the  piano;  he  would  play,  not  what  lie  hml  written,  but  jn<t 
whatever  came  into  his  mind.  Then  liiere  came  to  pass  a  very 
strange  thing.  While  the  music  he  had  written  was  conceived  in 
a  style  which  recalled  that  of  his  earlier  work,  what  he  played 
was  like  that  of  another  man.  It  was  music  of  a  world  raucous 


THE  BURNING  BUSH  229 

and  uncontrolled.  There  were  in  it  a  disorder  and  a  violence, 
and  incoherence  which  had  no  resemblance  at  all  to  the  powerful 
order  and  logic  which  were  everywhere  present  in  his  other  music. 
These  unconsidered  improvizations,  escaping  the  scrutiny  of  his 
artistic  conscience,  sprang,  like  the  cry  of  an  animal,  from  the 
flesh  rather  than  from  the  mind,  and  seemed  to  reveal  a  dis- 
turbance of  the  balance  of  his  soul,  a  storm  brewing  in  the 
depths  of  the  future.  Christophe  was  quite  unconscious  of  it : 
but  Olivier  would  listen,  look  at  Christophe,  and  feel  vaguely  un- 
easy. In  his  weak  condition  he  had  a  singular  power  of  pene- 
tration, a  far-seeing  eye :  he  saw  things  that  no  other  man  could 
perceive. 

Christophe  thumped  out  a  final  chord  and  stopped  all  in  a 
sweat,  and  looking  rather  haggard :  he  looked  at  Olivier,  and 
there  was  still  a  troubled  expression  in  his  eyes;  then  he  began 
to  laugh,  and  went  back  to  his  desk.  Olivier  asked  him: 

"What  was  that,  Christophe?" 

"  Nothing,"  replied  Christophe.  "  I'm  stirring  the  water  to 
attract  my  fish." 

"  Are  you  going  to  write  that  ?  " 

"  That?     What  do  you  mean ?  " 

"What  you've  just  said." 

"What  did  I  say?     I  don't  remember." 

"What  were  you  thinking  of?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Christophe,  drawing  his  hand  across  his 
forehead. 

He  went  on  writing.  Silence  once  more  filled  the  room.  Oli- 
vier went  on  looking  at  Christophe.  Christophe  felt  that  he  was 
looking,  and  turned.  Olivier's  eyes  were  upon  him  with  such  a 
hunger  of  affection ! 

"  Lazy  brute !  "  he  said  gaily. 

Olivier  sighed. 

"What's  the  matter?"  asked  Christophe. 

"  Oh  !  Christophe !  To  think  there  are  so  many  things  in  you, 
sitting  there,  close  at  hand,  treasures  that  you  will  give  to  others, 
and  I  shall  never  be  able  to  share !  .  .  ." 

"  Are  you  mad?     What's  come  to  you?  " 

"  I  wonder  what  your  life  will  be.  1  wonder  what  peril  and 
sorrow  you  have  still  to  go  through.  ...  1  would  like  to  follow 


230         JEAX-CH1USTOPHE :    JOURNEY'S  END 

voti.  I  \voul, 1  like  to  lie  with  you.  .  .  .  But  I  shan't  see  any- 
thing of  it  all.  I  shall  be  left  stuck  stupidly  by  the  wayside." 

"Stupid?  You  are  that.  Do  you  think  that  I  would  leave 
you  behind  even  if  you  wanted  to  be  left?" 

"  You  will  forget  ine,"  said  Olivier. 

I'hristophe  got  up  and  went  and  sat  on  the  bed  by  Olivier's 
sii'k1:  he  took  his  wrists,  which  were  wet  with  a  clammy  sweat 
of  weakness.  His  nightshirt  was  open  at  the  neck,  showing  his 
weak  chest,  his  too  transparent  skin,  which  was  stretched  and 
thin  like  a  sail  blown  out  by  a  puff  of  wind  to  rending  point. 
Christophe's  strong  fingers  fumbled  as  he  buttoned  the  neck- 
band of  Olivier's  nightshirt.  Olivier  suffered  him. 

"  Dear  Christophe!  "  he  said  tenderly.  "Yet  I  have  had  one 
great  happiness  in  my  life!  " 

"Oh!  what  on  earth  are  you  thinking  of?"  said  Christophe. 
"  You're  as  well  as  I  am." 

"  Yes/'  said  Olivier. 

"Then  why  talk  nonsense?" 

"  I  was  wrong."  said  Olivier,  ashamed  and  smiling.  "  Influ- 
enza is  so  depressing." 

"  Pull  yourself  together,  though!     Get  np." 

"  Not  now.     Later  on." 

He  stayed  in  bed,  dreaming.  Xext  day  he  got  np.  But  he 
was  only  able  to  sit  musing  by  the  fireside.  Tt  was  a  mild  and 
misty  April.  Through  the  soft  veil  of  silvery  mist  the  little 
given  leaves  were  unfolding  their  cocoons,  and  invisible  birds 
were  singing  the  song  of  the  hidden  sun.  Olivier  wound :  the 
skein  of  his  memories.  He  saw  himself  once  more  as  a  child,  in 
the  train  carrying  him  away  from  his  native  town,  through  the 
mist,  with  his  mother  weeping.  Antoinette  was  sitting  by  her- 
self at  the  oilier  end  of  the  carriage.  .  .  .  Delicate  shapes,  fine 
landscapes,  were  drawn  in  his  mind's  eve.  Lovclv  verses  came 
of  their  o\vn  accord,  with  every  syllable  and  charming  rhythm  in 
due  otder.  He  was  near  his  desk:  he  had  onlv  to  reach  out  his 
hand  to  take  his  [ten  and  write  down  his  poetic  visions.  But  his 
\v'l!  failed  him:  he  was  tired:  he  knew  that  the  perfume  of  his 
dreams  would  evaporate  so  soon  as  he  tried  to  catch  and  hold 
them.  It  was  always  so:  the  best  of  himself  could  never  find 
expression:  his  mind  \\as  like  a  little  vallev  full  of  flowers:  but 


THE  BURNING  BUSH  231 

hardly  a  soul  had  access  to  it :  and  as  soon  as  they  were  picked 
the  flowers  faded.  No  move  than  just  a  few  had  been  able 
languidly  to  survive,  a  few  delicate  little  tales,  a  few  pieces  of 
verse,  which  all  gave  out  a  fragrant,  fading  scent.  His  artistic 
impotence  had  for  a  long  time  been  one  of  Olivier's  greatest 
griefs.  It  was  so  hard  to  feel  so  much  life  in  himself  and  to 
be  able  to  save  none  of  it !  .  .  . — Xow  he  was  resigned.  Flowers 
do  not  need  to  be  seen  to  blossom.  They  are  only  the  more  beau- 
tiful in  the  fields  where  no  hand  can  pluck  them.  Happy,  happy 
fields  with  flowers  dreaming  in  the  sun ! — Here  in  the  little 
valley  there  was  hardly  any  sun;  but  Olivier's  dreams  flowered 
all  the  better  for  it.  What  stories  he  wove  for  his  own  delight 
in  those  days,  stories  sad  and  tender  and  fantastic !  They  came 
he  knew  not  whence,  sailing  like  white  clouds  in  a  summer  sky, 
melted  into  thin  air,  and  others  followed  them:  he  was  full  of 
them.  Sometimes  the  sky  was  clear:  in  the  light  of  it  Olivier 
would  sit  drowsily  until  once  more,  with  all  sail  set,  there  would 
come  gliding  the  silent  ships  of  dreams. 

In  the  evening  the  little  hunchback  would  come  in.  Olivier 
was  so  full  of  stories  that  he  told  him  one,  smiling,  eager  and 
engrossed  in  the  tale.  Often  he  would  go  on  talking  to  himself, 
with  the  boy  breathing  never  a  word.  In  the  end  he  would  al- 
together forget  his  presence.  .  .  .  (1hri^tophe  arrived  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  story,  and  was  struck  by  its  beauty,  and  asked  Olivier 
to  begin  all  over  again.  Olivier  refused  : 

"  I  am  in  the  same  position  as  yourself."  he  said.  "  I  don't 
know  anything  about  it." 

"  That  is  not  true,"  said  Christophe.  "  You're  a  regular 
Frenchman,  and  von  always  know  exaetlv  what  you  are  doing 

>  ,'  »•  ^ 

and  saying.     You  never  forget  anything." 

"Alas!"  said  Olivier. 

"  Begin  again,  then." 

"I'm  too  tired.     What's  the  good?" 

Christophe  was  annoyed. 

"That's  all  wrong."  he  said.  "What's  the  good  of  your  hav- 
ing ideas?  You  throv  away  what  yon  have.  It's  an  utter 
waste." 

"  Nothing  is  ever  lost,"  said  Olivier. 

The  little  hunchback  started  from  the  stillness  he  had  main- 


232         JEAN-CHRISTOPHE :    JOURNEY'S  END 

tained  (luring  Olivier's  story — sitting  with  his  face  towards  the 
window,  with  eyes  blankly  staring,  and  a  frown  on  his  face  and  a 
fierce  expression  so  that  it  was  impossible  to  tell  what  he  was 
thinking,  lie  got  up  and  said: 

"  It  will  be  fine  to-morrow." 

"1  bet,"  said  Christophe  to  Olivier,  "that  he  didn't  even 
listen." 

"  To-morrow,  the  First  of  May,"  Emmanuel  went  on,  while 
his  morose  expression  lighted  up. 

"  That  is  his  story,"  said  Olivier.  "  You  shall  tell  it  me  to- 
morrow." 

"Nonsense!"  said  Christophe. 

Xext  day  Christophe  called  for  Olivier  to  take  him  for  a  walk 
in  Paris.  Olivier  was  better:  but  he  still  had  the  same  strange 
feeling  of  exhaustion:  he  did  not  want  to  go  out,  he  had  a  vague 
fear,  he  did  not  like  mixing  with  the  crowd.  His  heart  and 
mind  were  bravo:  but  the  flesh  was  weak.  He  was  afraid  of 
a  crush,  an  affray,  brutality  of  all  sorts:  he  knew  only  too  well 
that  he  was  fated  to  be  a  victim,  that  he  could  not.  even  would 
not,  defend  himself:  for  he  had  as  great  a  horror  of  giving  pain 
as  of  suffering  it  himself.  Men  who  are  sick  in  body  shudder  away 
from  physical  suffering  more  readily  than  others,  because  they 
are  more  familiar  with  it,  because  they  have  less  power  to  resist, 
and  because  it  is  presented  more  immediately  and  more  poign- 
antly to  their  heated  imagination.  Olivier  was  ashamed  of 
this  physical  cowardice  of  his  which  was  in  entire  contradiction 
to  the  stoicism  of  his  will :  and  lie  tried  hard  to  fight  it  down. 
But  this  morning  the  thought  of  human  contact  of  any  sort  was 
painful  to  him.  and  he  would  gladly  have  remained  indoors' 
long.  Christophe  scolded  him,  rallied  him,  absolutely 
I  on  bis  going  out  and  throwing  off  his  stupor:  for  quite 
"s  lie  had  not  had  a  breath  of  air.  Olivier  pretended  not 
o  pay  any  attention.  Christophe  said: 

\  cry  well.     I'll  go  without  you.      I  want  to  see  their  First 
May.      If   I   don't  come  back  to-night,  you  will  know  that   L 
have  lircn  locked  up." 

\v»'iit    out.     Olivier    caught   him    up    on    the    stairs.     He 
\vuuld  not  leave  Christophe  to  go  alone. 


THE  BURXTXO  BUSH  233 

There  were  very  few  people  in  the  streets.  A  few  little  work- 
girls  wearing  sprays  of  lily-of-the-valley.  \Yorking-people  in 
their  Sunday  clothes  were  walking  about  rather  listlessly.  At 
ihe  street  corners,  and  near  the  Metro  stations  were  groups  of 
policemen  in  plain  clothes.  The  gates  of  the  Luxembourg  were 
closed.  The  weather  was  still  foggy  and  damp.  It  was  a  long, 
long  time  since  the  sun  had  shown  himself !  .  .  .  The  friends 
walked  arm  in  arm.  They  spoke  but  little,  but  they  were  very 
glad  of  each  other.  A  few  words  were  enough  to  call  up  all 
their  tender  memories  of  the  intimate  past.  They  stopped  in 
front  of  a  mairie  to  look  at  the  barometer,  which  had  an  upward 
tendency. 

"  To-morrow,"  said  Olivier,  "  I  shall  see  the  sun." 

They  were  quite  near  the  house  where  Cecile  lived.  They 
thought  of  going  in  and  giving  the  baby  a  hug. 

"  Xo.     We  can  do  it  when  we  come  back." 

On  the  other  side  of  the  river  they  began  to  fall  in  with  more 
people.  Just  ordinary  peaceful  people  taking  a  walk,  wearing 
their  Sunday  clothes  and  faces;  poor  people  with  their  babies: 
workmen  loafing.  A  few  here  and  there  wore  the  red  eglantine 
in  their  buttonhole? :  they  looked  quite  inoffensive :  they  were 
revolutionaries  by  dint  of  self-persuasion:  they  were  obviously 
quite  benevolent  and  optimistic  at  heart,  well  satisfied  with  the 
smallest  opportunities  for  happiness :  whether  it  were  fine  or 
merely  passable  for  their  holiday,  they  were  grateful  for  it  ... 
they  did  not  know  exactly  to  whom  ...  to  everything  and  every- 
body about  them.  They  walked  along  without  any  hurry,  ex- 
pansively admiring  the  new  leaves  of  the  trees  and  the  pretty 
dresses  of  the  little  girls  who  went  by:  they  said  proudly: 

"  Only  in  Paris  can  you  see  children  so  well  dressed  as  that." 

Christophe  made  fun  of  the  famous  upheaval  that  had  been 
predicted.  .  .  .  Such  nice  people !  .  .  .  He  was  quite  fond  of 
them,  although  a  little  contemptuous. 

As  they  got  farther  along  the  crowd  thickened.  Men  with 
pale  hangdog  faces  and  horrible  mouths  slipped  into  the  stream 
of  people,  all  on  the  alert,  waiting  for  the  time  to  pounce  on 
their  prey.  The  mud  was  stirred  up.  With  every  inch  the 
river  grew  more  and  more  turbid.  Now  it  flowed  slowly  thick, 
opaque,  and  heavy.  Like  air-bubbles  rising  from  the  depths  to 


231         JEAN-CHRISTOPHE :    JOU'RXEY'S  EXD 

the  greasy  surface,  there  came  up  calling  voices,  shrill  whistles, 
the  cries  of  the  newsboys,  piercing  the  dull  roar  of  the  multitude, 
and  made  it  possible  to  take  the  measure  of  its  strata.  At  the 
end  of  a  street,  near  Amelic's  restaurant,  there  was  a  noise  like 
that  of  a  mill-race.  The  crowd  was  stemmed  up  against  sev- 
eral ranks  of  police  and  soldiers.  In  front  of  the  obstacles  a 
serried  mass  was  formed,  howling,  whistling,  singing,  laughing, 
and  eddying  this  way  and  that.  .  .  .  The  laughter  of  the  peo- 
ple is  the  only  means  they  have  of  expressing  a  thousand  obscure 
and  yet  deep  feelings  which  cannot  find  an  outlet  in  words !  .  .  . 

The  multitude  was  not  hostile.  The  people  did  not  know 
what  they  wanted.  Until  they  did  know  they  were  content  to 
amuse  themselves — after  their  own  nervous,  brutal  fashion,  still 
without  malice — to  amuse  themselves  with  pushing  and  being 
pushed,  insulting  the  police  and  each  other.  But  little  by  little, 
they  lost  their  ardor.  Those  who  came  up  from  behind  got  tired 
of  being  able  to  see  nothing,  and  were  the  more  provocative  in- 
asmuch as  they  ran  little  risk  behind  the  shelter  of  the  human 
barricade  in  front  of  them.  Those  in  front,  being  crushed  be- 
tween those  who  were  pushing  and  those  who  were  offering  re- 
sistance, grew  more  and  more  exasperated  as  their  position  be- 
came more  and  more  intolerable:  the  force  of  the  current  push- 
ing them  on  increased  their  own  force  an  hundredfold.  And 
all  of  them,  as  they  were  squeezed  closer  and  closer  together,  like 
cattle,  felt  the  warmth  of  the  whole  herd  creeping  through  their 
breasts  and  their  loins:  and  it  seemed  to  them  then  that  they 
formed  a  solid  block:  and  each  was  all.  each  was  a  giant  with  the 
arms  of  Briareus.  Every  now  and  then  a  wave  of  blood  would 
surge  to  the  heart  o-f  the  thousand-headed  monster:  eyes  would 
dart  hatred,  murderous  cries  would  go  up.  Men  cowering  away 
in  the  third  and  fourth  row  began  to  throw  stones.  Whole  fam- 
ilies were  looking  down  from  the  windows  of  the  houses:  it 
was  like  being  at  the  play:  they  excited  the  mob  and  waited 
with  a  little  thrill  of  agonixed  impatience  for  the  troops  to 
charge. 

Christophe  forced  his  way  through  the  dense,1  throng  with  el- 
bows and  knees,  like  a  wedge.  Olivier  followed  him.  The  liv- 
ing mass  parted  for  a  moment  to  let  them  pass  and  closed  again 
at  once  behind  them.  Christophe  was  in  tine  fettle.  He  had 


THE  BURNING  BUSH  235 

entirely  forgotten  that  only  five  minute?  ago  he  had  denied  the 
possibility  of  an  upheaval  of  the  people.  Hardly  had  he  set  foot 
inside  the  stream  than  he  was  swept  along:  though  he  was  a  for- 
eigner in  this  crowd  of  Frenchmen  and  a  stranger  to  their  de- 
mands, yet  he  was  suddenly  engulfed  by  them:  little  he  cared 
what  they  wanted:  he  wanted  it  too:  little  he  cared  whither  they 
were  going:  he  was  going  too,  drinking  in  the  breath  of  their 
madness. 

Olivier  was  dragged  along  after  him.  but  it  was  no  joy  to  him ; 
he  saw  clearly,  he  never  lost  his  self-consciousness,  and  was  a 
thousand  times  more  a  stranger  to  the  passions  of  these  people 
who  were  his  people  than  Christophe,  and  yet  he  was  carried 
away  by  them  like  a  piece  of  wreckage.  His  illness,  which  had 
weakened  him.  had  also  relaxed  everything  that  bound  him  to 
life.  How  far  removed  he  felt  from  these  people!  .  .  .  Being 
free  from  the  delirium  that  was  in  them  and  having  all  his  wits 
at  liberty,  his  mind  took  in  the  minutest  details.  It  gave  him 
pleasure  to  gaze  at  the  bust  of  a  girl  standing  in  front  of  him 
and  at  her  pretty,  white  neck.  And  at  the  same  time  he  was 
disgusted  by  the  sickly,  thick  smell  that  was  given  oif  from  the 
close-packed  heap  of  bodies. 

"•  Christophe  !  "  he  begged. 

Christophe  did  not  hear  him. 

"  Christophe!  " 

"  Eh  ? " 

"  Let's  go  home." 

"  You're  afraid  ?  "  said  Christophe. 

He  pushed  on.     Olivier  followed  him  with  a  sad  smile. 

A  few  rows  in  front  of  them,  in  the  danger  /one  where  the 
people  were  so  huddled  together  as  to  form  a  solid  barricade,  he 
saw  his  friend  the  little  hunchback  perched  on  the  roof  of  a 
newspaper  kiosk.  He  was  clinging  with  both  hands,  and  crouch- 
ing in  a  most  uncomfortable  position,  and  laughing  as  he  looked 
over  the  wall  of  soldiers:  and  then  he  would  turn  again  and  look 
back  at  the1  crowd  with  an  air  of  triumph.  He  saw  Olivier  and 
beamed  at  him  :  then  once  more  he  began  to  peer  across  the 
soldiers,  over  the  square,  with  his  eyes  wide  staring  in  hope  and 
expectation  ...  of  what? — Of  the  thing  which  was  to  come  to 
pass.  .  .  .  He  was  not  alone.  There  were  many,  many  others 


236         JEAN-CHRISTOPHE :    JOURNEY'S  END 

all  around  him  waiting  for  the  miracle!  And  Olivier,  looking 
at  Christophe,  saw  that  he  too  was  expecting  it. 

He  called  to  the  boy  and  shouted  to  him  to  come  down.  Em- 
manuel pretended  not  to  hear  and  looked  away.  He  had  seen 
Christophe.  He  was  glad  to  be  in  a  position  of  peril  in  the  tur- 
moil, partly  to  show  his  courage  to  Olivier,  partly  to  punish  him 
for  being  with  Christophe. 

Meanwhile  they  had  come  across  some  of  their  friends  in  the 
crowd. — Coquard,  with  his  golden  beard,  who  expected  nothing 
more  than  a  little  jostling  and  crushing,  and  with  the  eye  of  an 
expert  was  watching  for  the  moment  when  the  vessel  would  over- 
flow. Farther  on  they  met  the  fair  Berthe,  who  was  slanging  the 
people  about  her  and  getting  roughly  mauled.  She  had  suc- 
ceeded in  wriggling  through  to  the  front  row,  and  she  was 
hurling  insults  at  the  police.  Coquard  came  up  to  Christophe. 
When  Christophe  saw  him  be  began  to  chaff  him: 

"  What  did  I  tell  you?     Nothing  is  going  to  happen." 

"  That  remains  to  be  seen !  "  said  Coquard.  "  Don't  you  be 
too  sure.  Tt  won't  be  long  before  the  fun  begins." 

"Rot!"  said  Christophe. 

At  that  very  moment  the  cuirassiers,  getting  tired  of  having 
stones  flung  at  them,  marched  forward  to  clear  the  entrances  to 
the  square:  the  central  body  came  forward  at  a  double.  Im- 
mediately the  stampede  began.  As  the  Gospel  has  it,  the  first 
were  last.  But  they  took  good  care  not  to  be  last  for  long.  By 
way  of  covering  their  confusion  the  runaways  yelled  at  the 
soldiers  following  them  and  screamed  :  "  Assassins  !  "  long  before 
a  single  blow  had  been  struck.  Berthe  wriggled  through  the 
crowd  like  an  eel,  shrieking  at  the  top  of  her  voice.  She  re- 
joined her  friends;  and  taking  shelter  behind  Coquard's  broad 
back,  she  recovered  her  breath,  pressed  close  up  against  Chris- 
tophe, gripped  his  arm,  in  fear  or  for  some  other  reason,  ogled 
Olivier,  and  shook  her  fist  at  the  enemy,  and  screeched.  Co- 
quard took  Christophe's  arm  and  said: 

"  Let's  go  to  Amelie's." 

They  had  very  little  way  to  go.  Berthe  had  preceded  them 
with  (iraillot  and  a  few  workmen.  Christophe  was  on  the  point 
of  entering  followed  by  Olivier.  The  street  had  a  shelving  ridge. 
The  pavement,  by  the  creamery,  was  five  or  six  steps  higher  than 


THE  BURNING  BUSH  237 

the  roadway.  Olivier  stopped  to  take  a  long  breath  after  his 
escape  from  the  crowd.  He  disliked  the  idea  of  being  in  the 
poisoned  air  of  the  restaurant  and  the  clamorous  voices  of  these 
fanatics.  He  said  to  Christophe : 

"  I'm  going  home." 

"  Very  well,  then,  old  fellow,"  said  Christophe.  "  I'll  rejoin 
you  in  an  hour  from  now." 

"  Don't  run  any  risks,  Christophe !  " 

"  Coward  !  "  said  Christophe,  laughing. 

He  turned  into  the  creamery. 

Olivier  walked  along  to  the  corner  of  the  shop.  A  few  steps 
more  and  he  would  be  in  a  little  by-street  which  would  take  him 
out  of  the  uproar.  The  thought  of  his  little  protege  crossed  his 
mind.  He  turned  to  look  for  him.  He  saw  him  at  the  very 
moment  when  Emmanuel  had  slipped  down  from  his  coign  of 
vantage  and  was  rolling  on  the  ground  being  trampled  underfoot 
by  the  rabble:  the  fugitives  were  running  over  his  body:  the 
police  were  just  reaching  the  spot.  Olivier  did  not  stop  to  think  : 
he  rushed  down  the  steps  and  ran  to  his  aid.  A  navvy  saw  tbe 
danger,  the  soldiers  with  drawn  sabers.  Olivier  holding  out  his 
hand  to  the  boy  to  help  him  up,  the  savage  rush  of  the  police 
knocked  them  both  over.  He  shouted  out,  and  in  his  turn  rushed 
in.  Some  of  his  comrades  followed  at  a  run.  Others  rushed 
down  from  the  threshold  of  the  restaurant,  and,  on  their  cries, 
came  those  who  had  already  entered.  The  two  bodies  of  men 
hurled  themselves  at  each  other's  throats  like  dogs.  And  the 
women,  standing  at  the  top  of  the  steps,  screamed  and  yelled. — 
So  Olivier,  the  aristocrat,  the  essentially  middle-class  nature,  re- 
leased the  spring  of  the  battle,  which  no  man  desired  less  tlnn  lie. 

Christophe  was  swept  along  by  the  workmen  and  plunged  into 
the  fray  without  knowing  who  had  been  the  cause  of  it.  Noth- 
ing was  farther  from  his  thoughts  than  that  Olivier  had  taken 
part  in  it.  He  thought  him  far  away  in  safety.  It  was  impos- 
sible to  see  anything  of  the  fight.  Evcrv  man  had  enough  to  do 
in  keeping  an  eye  on  his  opponent.  Olivier  had  disappeared  in 
the  whirlpool  like  a  foundered  ship,  lie  had  rei-eived  a  jab 
from  a  bayonet,  meant  for  some  one  rise,  in  his  left  breast:  he 
fell:  the  crowd  trampled  him  underfoot.  Christophe  had  been 
swept  away  by  an  eddy  to  the  farthest  extremity  of  the  field  of 


238          JEAN-CHIUSTOPJIK:    JOFUXEY'S  END 

battle.  He  did  not  light  with  any  animosity:  lie  jostled  and 
was  jostled  witli  a  fierce  zest  as  though  he  was  in  the  throng  at 
a  village  fair.  So  little  did  he  think  of  the  serious  nature  of 
the  all'air  that  when  he  was  gripped  by  a  huge,  broad-shouldered 
policeman  and  elosed  with  him,  he  saw  the  thing  in  grotesque 
and  said : 

"  My  waltz,,  I  think." 

But  when  another  policeman  pounced  on  to  his  back,  he  shook 
himself  like  a  wild  boar,  and  hammered  away  with  his  lists  at 
the  two  of  them  :  he  had  no  intention  of  being  taken  prisoner. 
One  of  his  adversaries,  the  man  who  had  seized  him  from  behind, 
rolled  down  on  the  ground.  The  other  lost  his  head  and  drew 
his  sword.  Christophe  saw  the  point  of  the  saber  come  within 
a  hand's  breadth  of  his  chest:  he  dodged,  and  twisted  the  man's 
wrist  and  tried  to  wrench  his  weapon  from  him.  lie  could  not 
understand  it:  till  then  it  had  seemed  to  him  just  a  game.  They 
went  on  struggling  and  battering  at  each  other's  faces,  lie  had 
no  time  to  stop  to  think,  lie  saw  murder  in  the  other  man's 
eyes:  and  murderous  desire  awoke  in  him.  He  saw  that  the  man 
would  slit  him  up  like  a  sheep.  With  a  sudden  movement  he 
turned  the  man's  hand  and  sword  against  himself:  lie  plunged 
the  sword  into  his  breast,  felt  that  he  was  killing  him,  and  killed 
him.  And  suddenly  the  whole  thing  was  changed  :  he  was  mad. 
intoxicated,  and  he  roared  aloud. 

His  yells  produced  an  indescribable  ell'eet.  The  crowd  had 
smelt  blood.  In  a  moment  it  became  a  savage  pack.  On  all 
sides  swords  were  drawn.  The  red  flag  appeared  in  the  win- 
dows of  the  houses.  And  old  memories  of  Parisian  revolutions 
prompted  them  to  build  a  barricade.  The  stones  were  torn  up 
from  the  street,  tin1  gas  lamps  were  wrenched  awav.  trees  were 
pulled  up.  an  omnibus  was  overturned.  A  trench  that  had  been 
left  open  for  months  in  connection  with  work  on  the  31ctropoli- 
laiii.  was  turned  to  account.  The  cast-iron  railings  round  the 
trees  were  broken  up  and  used  as  missiles.  Weapons  we're 
brought  out  of  pockets  and  from  the  houses.  In  less  than  an 
hour  the  scuffle  had  grown  into  an  insurrection:  the  whole  dis- 
trict was  in  a  state  of  siege.  And.  on  the  barricade,  was  Chris- 
tophe,  unrecognizable,  shouting  his  revolutionary  song,  which 
was  taken  up  by  a  score  of  voices. 


THE  Bl'HNINU   HUSH  239 

Olivier  had  been  carried  to  Amelie's.  He  was  unconscious. 
He  had  been  laid  on  a  bed  in  the  dark  back-shop.  At  the  foot  of 
the  bed  stood  the  hunchback,  numbed  and  distraught.  At  first 
T>erthc  had  been  overcome  with  emotion:  at  a  distance  she  had 
thought  it  was  (Iraillot  who  had  been  wounded,  and,  when  she 
recognized  Olivier,  her  first  exclamation  had  been: 

''What  a  good  thing!      I  thought  it  was  Leopold." 

But  now  she  was  full  of  pitv.  And  she  kissed  Olivier  and 
held  his  head  on  the  pillow.  With  her  usual  calmness  Amelie 
had  undone  his  clothes  and  dressed  his  wound.  Manou-se  Hei- 
niann  was  there,  fortunately,  with  his  inseparable  Canet.  Like 
Ohristophe  they  had  come  out  of  curiosity  to  see  the  demonstra- 
tion: they  had  been  present  at  the  affray  and  seen  Olivier  fall. 
Canet  was  blubbering  like  a  child:  and  at  the  same  time  he  was 
thinking : 

"What  on  earth  am   I  doing  here?" 

Manousse  examined  Olivier:  at  once  he  saw  that  it  was  all 
over.  He  had  a  great  feeling  for  Olivier:  but  he  was  no!  a 
inan  to  worry  about  what  can't  be  helped  :  and  he  turned  his 
thoughts  to  Christophe.  lie  admired  Christophe  though  he 
regarded  him  as  a  pathological  case.  He  knew  his  ideas  about 
the  Revolution:  and  he  wanted  to  deliver  him  from  the  idiotic 
danger  he  was  running  in  a  cause  that  was  not  his  own.  The 
risk  of  a  broken  head  in  the  scullle  wa>  not  the  only  one:  if 
Christophe  were  taken,  everything  pointed  to  his  being  used 
as  an  example  and  getting  more  than  he  bargained  for. 
Manousse  had  long  ago  been  warned  that  the  polite  had  their 
eve  on  Christophe :  they  would  saddle  him  not  only  with  his 
own  follies  but  with  those  of  others.  Xavier  Bernard,  whom 
Manousse  had  just  encountered,  prowling  through  the  croud, 
for  his  own  amusement  as  well  as  in  pursuit  of  duty,  had  nodded 
to  him  as  he  passed  and  said  : 

"That  Krall't  of  yours  is  an  idiot.  Would  you  believe  that 
lie's  putting  himself  up  as  a  mark  on  the  barricade!  \\  e 
shan't  miss  him  this  time.  You'd  better  get  him  out  of  harm's 
way." 

That  was  easier  said  than  done.  If  Christophe  were  to  find 
out  that  Olivier  was  dying  he  would  become  a  raging  madman, 


240         JEAX-CHKISTOPHE :    JOUKXEY'S  END 

he  would  go  out  to  kill,  lie  would  be  killed.  Manousse  said 
to  Bernard: 

"  If  he  doesn't  go  at  once,  lie's  done  for.  I'll  try  and  take 
him  away." 

"  How  ?  " 

"  In  Canefs  motor.  It's  over  there  at  the  corner  of  the 
street," 

"Please,  please   ..."  gulped  Canet. 

"You  must  take  him  to  Laroehe,"  Manousse  went  on.  "You 
will  get  there  in  time  to  catch  the  Pontarlier  express.  You 
must  pack  him  off  to  Switzerland." 

"  He  won't  go." 

"He  will.  I'll  tell  him  that  Jeannin  will  follow  him,  or 
has  already  gone." 

Without  paying  any  attention  to  Canet's  objections  Manousse 
set  out  to  find  Christophc  on  the  barricade.  He  was  not  very 
courageous,  he  started  every  time  he  heard  a  shot:  and  he 
counted  the  cobble-stones  over  which  he  stepped — (odd  or 
even),  to  make  out  his  chances  of  being  killed.  He  did  not 
stop,  but  went  through  with  it.  When  he  reached  the  barricade 
he  found  Christophe,  perched  on  a  wheel  of  the  overturned 
omnibus,  amusing  himself  by  firing  pistol-shots  into  the  air. 
Round  the  barricade  the  riff-raff  of  Paris,  spewed  up  from  the 
gutters,  had  swollen  up  like  the  dirty  water  from  a  sewer 
after  heavy  rain.  The  original  combatants  were  drowned  by 
it.  Manousse  shouted  to  Christophe,  whose  back  was  turned 
to  him.  Christophe  did  not  hear  him.  Manousse  climbed  up 
to  him  and  plucked  at  his  sleeve.  Christophe  pushed  him  away 
and  almost  knocked  him  down.  Manousse  stuck  to  it,  climbed 
up  again,  and  shouted : 

"Jeannin    ..." 

In  the  uproar  the  rest  of  the  sentence  was  lost.  Christophe 
stopped  short,  dropped  his  revolver,  and.  slipping  down  from 
his  scaffolding,  he  rejoined  Manousse,  who  started  pulling  him 
away. 

"  You  must  clear  out,"  said  Manousse. 

"Where  is  Olivier?" 

"  You  must  clear  out."  repeated  Manousse. 

"Why?"  said  Christophe. 


THE  BURNING  BUSH  211 

"The  barricade  will  be  captured  in  an  hour.  You  will  be 
arrested  to-night." 

"What  have  1  done?" 

"Look  at  your  hands.  .  .  .  Come!  .  .  .  There's  no 
room  for  doubt,  they  won't  spare  you.  Everybody  recognized 
you.  You've  not  got  a  moment  to  lose." 

"Where  is  Olivier?" 

"  At  home." 

"  I'll  go  and  join  him." 

"  You  can't  do  that.  The  police  are  waiting  for  you  at  the 
door.  He  sent  me  to  warn  you.  You  must  cut  and  run." 

"Where  do  you  want  me  to  go?" 

"  To  Switzerland.     Canet  will  take  you  out  of  this  in  his  car." 

"And  Olivier?" 

"There's  no  time  to  talk.    ..." 

"  I  won't  go  without  seeing  him." 

"  You'll  see  him  there.  He'll  join  you  to-morrow.  He'll 
go  by  the  first  train.  Quick !  I'll  explain." 

He  caught  hold  of  Christophe.  Christophe  was  dazed  by 
the  noise  and  the  wave  of  madness  that  had  rushed  through 
him,  could  not  understand  what  he  had  done  and  what  he  was 
being  asked  to  do,  and  let  himself  be  dragged  away.  Manousse 
took  his  arm,  and  with  his  other  hand  caught  hold  of  Canet, 
who  was  not  at  all  pleased  with  the  part  allotted  to  him  in  the 
affair:  and  he  packed  the  two  of  them  into  the  car.  The  worthy 
Canet  would  have  been  hitterlv  sorrv  if  Christophe  had  been 
caught,  but  he  would  have  much  preferred  some  one  else  to 
help  him  to  escape.  Manousse  knew  his  man.  And  as  he  had 
some  qualms  about  Canet's  cowardice,  he  changed  his  mind 
just  as  he  was  leaving  them  and  the  car  was  getting  into  its 
stride  and  climbed  up  and  sat  with  them. 

Olivier  did  not  recover  consciousness.  Aim-lie  and  the  little 
hunchback  were  left  alone  in  the  room.  Such  a  sad  room  it  was, 
airless  and  gloomy!  It  was  almost  dark.  .  .  .  For  one 
instant  Olivier  emerged  from  the  abyss,  lie  felt  Emmanuel's 
tears  and  kisses  on  his  hand.  He  smiled  faintly,  and  painfullv 
laid  his  hand  on  the  boy's  head.  Such  a  heavy  hand  it 
was !  .  Then  he  sank  back  once  more. 


243         JEAN-CHEISTOPHE :    -JOFHNFY'S  EXD 

By  the  dying  man's  head,  on  the  pillow,  Amelie  had  laid  a 
First  of  May  nosegay,  a  few  sprays  of  lily-of-the-valley.  A 
leaky  tap  in  the  courtyard  dripped,  dripped  into  a  bucket.  For 
a  second  mental  images  hovered  tremblingly  at  the  back  of 
his  mind,  like  a  light  flickering  and  dying  down  ...  a  house 
in  the  country  with  glycinc  on  the  walls:  a  garden  where  a  child 
was  playing:  a  boy  lying  on  the  turf:  a  little  fountain  plashing 
in  its  stone  basin:  a  little  sirl  laughing. 


II 

THEY  drove  out  of  Paris.  They  crossed  the  vast  plains  of 
France  shrouded  in  mist.  Tt  was  an  evening  like  that  on  which 
Ohristophe  had  arrived  in  Paris  ten  years  before,  lie  was  a 
fugitive  then,  as  now.  But  then  his  friend,  the  man  who  loved 
him,  was  alive:  and  Ohristophe  was  fleeing  towards  him.  .  .  . 

During  the  first  hour  Ohristophe  was  still  under  the  excite- 
ment of  the  fight:  he  talked  volubly  in  a  loud  voice:  in  a 
breathless,  jerky  fashion  he  kept  on  telling  what  he  had  seen 
and  heard:  he  was  proud  of  his  achievement  and  felt  no  re- 
morse. Manousse  and  Canet  talked  too,  by  way  of  making  him 
forget.  Gradually  his  feverish  excitement  subsided,  and  Chris- 
tophe  stopped  talking:  his  two  companions  went  on  making  con- 
versation alone.  He  was  a  little  bewildered  by  the  afternoon's 
adventures,  but  in  no  way  abashed.  lie  recollected  the  time 
when  lie  had  come  to  France,  a  fugitive  then,  always  a  fugitive. 
It  made  him  laugh.  No  doubt  he  was  fated  to  be  so.  It  gave 
him  no  pain  to  be  leaving  Paris:  the  world  is  wide:  men  are 
the  same  everywhere.  It  mattered  little  to  him  where  he  might 
be  so  long  as  he  was  with  his  friend,  lie  was  counting  on 
seeing  him  again  next  day.  They  had  promised  him  that. 

They  reached  Laroche.  Manousse  and  Canet  did  not  leave 
him  until  thev  had  seen  him  into  the  train.  Christophe  made 
them  say  over  the  name  of  the  place  where  he  was  to  get  out. 
and  the  name  of  the  hotel,  and  the  posf-ollice  where  he  would 
find  his  letters.  In  spite  of  themselves,  as  they  left  him.  they 
both  looked  utterly  dejected.  C'hristophe  wrung  their  hands 
•railv. 


THE  BT7KXIXG  BUSH  243 

"Come!"  he  shouted,  "don't  look  so  like  a  funeral,  (rood 
Lord,  we  shall  meet  again!  Nothing  easier!  We'll  write  to 
each  other  to-morrow." 

The  train  started.     They  watched  it  disappear. 

"  Poor  devil !  "  said  Manousse. 

They  got  back  into  the  car.  They  were  silent.  After  a 
short  time  Canet  said  to  Manousse: 

"  Bah !  the  dead  are  dead.     We  must  help  the  living." 

As  night  fell  Christophe's  excitement  subsided  altogether. 
He  sat  huddled  in  a  corner  of  the  carriage,  and  pondered.  He 
was  sobered  and  icy  cold.  He  looked  down  at  his  hands  and 
saw  blood  on  them  that  was  not  his  own.  lie  gave  a  shiver  of 
disgust.  The  scene  of  the  murder  came  before  him  once  more. 
He  remembered  that  he  had  killed  a  man  :  and  now  he  knew 
not  why.  lie  began  to  go  over  the  whole  battle  from  the  very 
beginning;  but  now  he  saw  it  in  a  very  different  light.  He 
could  not  understand  how  he  had  got  mixed  up  in  it.  He  went 
back  over  every  incident  of  the  day  from  the  moment  when  he 
had  left  the  house  with  Olivier:  he  saw  the  two  of  them  walking 
through  Paris  until  the  moment  when  he  had  been  caught  up 
by  the  whirlwind.  There  he  lost  the  thread:  the  chain  of  his 
thoughts  was  snapped  :  how  could  he  have  shouted  and  struck 
out  and  moved  with  those  men  with  whose  beliefs  he  disagreed? 
It  was  not  he.  it  was  not  he!  ...  It  was  a  total  eclipse  of 
bis  will !  .  .  .  He  was  dazed  by  it  and  ashamed.  He  was 
not  his  own  master  then?  Who  was  his  master?  ...  He 
was  being  carried  by  the  express  through  the  night :  and  the 
inward  night  through  which  he  was  being  carried  was  no  less 
dark,  nor  was  the  unknown  force  less  swift  and  di/./y.  .  .  . 
lie  tried  hard  to  shake  off  his  unease:  but  one  anxiety  was  fol- 
lowed by  another.  The  nearer  he  came  to  his  destination,  the 
more  he  thought  of  Olivier:  and  he  was  oppressed  by  an  un- 
reasoning fear. 

As  he  arrived  he  looked  through  the  window  across  the  plat- 
form for  the  familiar  face  of  his  friend.  .  .  .  There  was  no 
one.  He  got  out  and  still  went  on  looking  about  him.  Once 
or  twice  he  thought  he  saw  .  .  .  No.  it  was  not  "he."  He 
went  to  the  appointed  hotel.  Olivier  was  not  there.  There  was 
no  reason  for  Christopln-  to  be  surprised :  how  could  Olivier 


244         JEAN-CHKISTOPHE :    JOURNEY'S  END 

have  preceded  him?  .  .  .  But  from  that  moment  on  he  was 
in  an  agony  of  suspense. 

It  was  morning.  Christopho  went  up  to  his  room.  Then 
he  came  down  again,  had  breakfast,  sauntered  through  the 
streets.  He  pretended  to  he  free  of  anxiety  and  looked  at  the 
lake  and  the  shop-windows,  chaffed  the  girl  in  the  restaurant, 
and  turned  over  the  illustrated  papers.  .  .  .  Nothing  inter- 
ested him.  The  day  dragged  through,  slowly  and  heavily.  Ahout 
seven  o'clock  in  the  evening,  Christophe  having,  for  want  of 
anything  else  to  do,  dined  early  and  eaten  nothing,  went  up  to 
his  room,  and  asked  that  as  soon  as  the  friend  he  was  expecting 
arrived,  he  should  be  brought  up  to  him.  He  sat  down  at  the 
desk  with  his  back  turned  to  the  door.  He  had  nothing  to  busy 
himself  with,  no  baggage,  no  books :  only  a  paper  that  he  had 
just  bought:  he  forced  himself  to  read  it:  but  his  mind  was 
wandering:  he  was  listening  for  footsteps  in  the  corridor.  All 
his  nerves  were  on  edge  with  the  exhaustion  of  a  day's  anxious 
waiting  and  a  sleepless  night. 

Suddenly  he  heard  some  one  open  the  door.  Some  indefinable 
feeling  made  him  not  turn  around  at  once.  He  felt  a  hand  on 
his  shoulder.  Then  he  turned  and  saw  Olivier  smiling  at  him. 
He  was  not  surprised,  and  said : 

"  Ah,  here  you  are  at  last !  " 

The  illusion  vanished. 

Christophe  got  up  suddenly,  knocking  over  chair  and  table. 
His  hair  stood  on  end.  He  stood  still  for  a  moment,  livid,  with 
his  teeth  chattering. 

At  the  end  of  that  moment — (in  vain  did  he  shut  his  eyes 
to  it  and  tell  himself:  "I  know  nothing") — he  knew  every- 
thing: he  was  sure  of  what  he  was  going  to  hear. 

He  could  not  stay  in  his  room.  He  went  down  into  the  street 
and  walked  about  for  an  hour.  When  he  returned  the  porter 
met  him  in  the  hall  of  the  hotel  and  gave  him  a  letter.  The 
letter,  lie  was  quite  sure  it  would  be  there.  His  hand  trembled 
as  he  took  it.  He  opened  it.  saw  that  Olivier  was  dead,  and 
fainted. 

The  letter  was  from  Manousse.  It  said  that  in  concealing  the 
disaster  from  him  the  day  before,  and  hurrying  him  off,  they 
had  only  been  obeying  Olivier'?  wishes,  who  had  desired  to 


THE  BURNING  BUSH  245 

insure  his  friend's  escape. — that  it  was  useless  for  Christophe 
to  stay,  as  it  would  mean  the  end  of  him  also. — that  it  was  his 
duty  to  seek  safety  for  the  sake  of  his  friend's  memory,  and  for 
his  other  friends,  and  for  the  sake  of  his  own  fame,  etc., 
etc.  .  .  .  Amelie  had  added  three  lines  in  her  big,  scrawling 
handwriting,  to  say  that  she  would  take  every  care  of  the  poor 
little  gentleman.  .  .  . 

When  Christophe  came  back  to  himself  he  was  furiously 
angry.  He  wanted  to  kill  Manousse.  He  ran  to  the  station. 
The  hall  of  the  hotel  was  empty,  the  streets  were  deserted : 
in  the  darkness  the  few  belated  passers-by  did  not  notice  his 
wildly  staring  eyes  or  his  furious  breathing.  His  mind  had 
fastened  as  firmly  as  a  bulldog  with  its  fangs  on  to  the  one 
fixed  idea:  "Kill  Manousse!  Kill!  ..."  He  wanted  to  re- 
turn to  Paris.  The  night  express  had  gone  an  hour  before. 
He  had  to  wait  until  the  next  morning,  lie  could  not  wait. 
He  took  the  first  train  that  went  in  the  direction  of  Paris,  a 
train  which  stopped  at  every  station.  When  he  was  left  alone 
in  the  carriage  Christophe  cried  over  and  over  again: 

"It  is  not  true!     It  is  not  true!" 

At  the  second  station  across  the  French  frontier  the  train 
stopped  altogether:  it  did  not  go  any  farther.  Shaking  with 
fury,  Christophe  got  out  and  asked  for  another  train,  battering 
the  sleepy  officials  with  questions,  and  only  knocking  up  against, 
indifference.  Whatever  he  did  he  would  arrive  too  late.  Too 
late  for  Olivier.  He  could  not  even  manage  to  catch  Manousse. 
He  would  be  arrested  first.  What  was  he  to  do?  Which  way 
to  turn?  To  go  on?  To  go  back?  What  was  the  use?  What 
was  the  use?  .  .  .  He  thought  of  giving  himself  up  to  a 
gendarme  who  went  past  him.  He  was  held  back  by  an  obscure 
instinct  for  life  which  bade  him  return  to  Switzerland.  There 
was  no  train  in  either  direction  for  a  few  hours.  Christophe 
sat  down  in  the  waiting-room,  could  not  keep  still,  left  the  sta- 
tion, and  blindly  followed  the  road  on  through  the  night,  lie 
found  himself  in  the  middle  of  a  bare  countryside — fields,  broken 
here  and  there  with  clumps  of  pines,  the  vanguard  of  a  forest. 
He  plunged  into  it.  He  had  hardly  gone  more  than  a  few  steps 
when  he  flung  himself  down  on  the  ground  and  cried: 


24i>         JEAN  CKRISTOPHE :    JOURNEY'S  EXD 

"  Olivier !  " 

He  lay  across  the  path  and  sobbed. 

A  long  tirno  afterwards  a  train  whistling  in  the  distance 
roused  him  and  made  him  get  up.  Tic  tried  to  go  back  to  the 
station,  but  took  the  wrong  road.  Me  walked  on  all  through 
the  night.  What  did  it  matter  to  him  where  he  went?  Me 
went  on  walking  to  keep  from  thinking,  walking,  walking,  until 
he  could  not  think,  walking  on  in  the  hope  that  he  might  fall 
dead.  Ah !  if  only  he  might  die !  .  .  . 

At  dawn  he  found  himself  in  a  French  village  a  long  way 
from  the  frontier.  All  night  he  had  been  walking  away  from 
it.  He  went  into  an  inn,  ate  a  huge  meal,  set  out  once  more, 
and  walked  on  and  on.  During  the  day  he  sank  down  in  the 
middle  of  a  field  and  lay  there  asleep  until  the  evening.  When 
he  woke  up  it  was  to  face  another  night.  His  fury  had  abated. 
He  was  left  only  with  frightful  grief  that  choked  him.  He 
dragged  himself  to  a  farmhouse,  and  asked  for  a  piece  of  bread 
and  a  truss  of  straw  for  a  bed.  The  farmer  stared  hard  at  him, 
cut  him  a  slice  of  bread,  led  him  into  the  stable,  and  locked  it. 
Christophe  lay  in  the  straw  near  the  thickly-smelling  cows,  and 
devoured  his  bread.  Tears  were  streaming  down  his  face. 
Xeither  his  hunger  nor  his  sorrow  could  be  appeased.  During 
the  night  sleep  once  more  delivered  him  from  his  agony  for  a 
few  hours,  lit1  woke  up  next  day  on  the  sound  of  the  door 
opening.  Me  lay  still  and  did  not  move.  He  did  not  want  to 
come  back  to  life.  The  farmer  stopped  and  looked  down  at  him 
for  a  long  time:  he  was  holding  in  his  hand  a  paper,  at  which 
he  glanced  from  time  to  time.  At  last  he  moved  forward  and 
thrust  liis  newspaper  in  front  of  Christophc.  His  portrait  was 
on  the  front  page. 

"  It  is  I."  said  Christophe.     ''You'd  better  give  me  up.'' 

"  Get  up,"  said  the  farmer. 

Christophc  got  up.  The  man  motioned  to  him  to  follow. 
Thev  went  behind  the  barn  and  walked  along  a  winding  path 
through  an  orchard.  They  came  to  a  cross,  and  then  the 
farmer  pointed  along  a  road  and  said  to  Christophe: 

"  The  frontier  is  over  there." 

Christophe  walked  on  mechanically.  He  did  not  know  why 
he  should  go  on.  He  was  so  tired,  so  broken  in  body  and  soul, 


THE  BURNING  BUSH  247 

that  he  longed  to  stop  with  every  stride.  Hut  lie  felt  that  if 
lie  were  to  stop  he  would  never  be  able  to  go  on  again,  never 
budge  from  the  spot  where  he  fell.  He  walked  on  right  through 
the  day.  lie  had  not  a  penny  to  buy  bread.  Besides,  he  avoided 
the  villages,  lie  had  a  queer  feeling  which  entirely  bullied  his 
reason,  that,  though  he  wished  to  die.  he  was  afraid  of  bein<$ 
taken  prisoner:  his  body  was  like  a  limited  animal  fleeing  before 
its  captors.  His  physical  wretchedness,  exhaustion,  hunger,  an 
obscure  feeling  of  terror  which  was  augmented  by  his  worn-out 
condition,  for  the  time  being  smothered  his  moral  distress.  His 
one  thought  was  to  find  a  refuge  where  he  could  in  safety  be 
alone  with  his  distress  and  feed  on  it. 

He  crossed  the  frontier.  In  the  distance  he  saw  a  town 
surmounted  with  towers  and  steeples  and  factory  chimneys,  from 
which  the  thick  smoke  streamed  like  black  rivers,  monotonously, 
all  in  the  same  direction  across  the  gray  sky  under  the  rain. 
He  was  very  near  a  collapse.  Just  then  lie  remembered  that  he 
knew  a  (Jerman  doctor,  one  Erich  Braun,  who  lived  in  the  town, 
and  had  written  to  him  the  year  before,  after  one  of  his  suc- 
cesses, to  remind  him  of  their  old  acquaintance.  Dull  though 
Braun  might  be,  little  though  he  might  enter  into  his  life,  yet, 
like  a  wounded  animal,  C.'hristojvlie  made  a  supreme  ell'ort  before 
he  gave  in  to  reach  the  house  of  some  one  who  was  not  altogether 
a  stranger. 

Under  the  cloud  of  smoke  and  rain,  he  entered  the  grav  and 
red  city.  He  walked  through  it.  seeing  nothing,  asking  his  way. 
losing  himself,  going  back,  wandering  aimlessly,  lie  was  at 
the  end  o-f  his  tether.  For  the  last  time  he  screwed  up  his  will 
that  was  so  near  to  breaking-point  to  climb  up  the  steep  alleys, 
and  the  stairs  which  went  to  the  top  of  a  still'  little  hill,  closely 
overbuilt  with  houses  round  a  gloomy  church.  There  were  sixty 
red  stone  steps  in  threes  and  sixes.  Between  each  little  tlight 
of  steps  was  a  narrow  platform  for  the  door  of  a  house.  On 
each  platform  Christophe  stopped  swaving  to  lake  breath.  Far 
over  his  head,  above  the  church  tower,  crows  were  whirling. 

At  last  he  came  upon  the  name  he  was  looking  for.  He 
knocked. — 'The  alley  was  in  darkness.  In  utter  weariness  he 
closed  his  eves.  All  was  dark  within  him.  .  Ages  passed. 


248         JEAX-CHRISTOPHE:    JOUfiXEY'S  EXD 

The  narrow  door  was  opened.  A  woman  appeared  on  the 
threshold.  Her  face  was  in  darkness:  but  her  outline  was 
sharply  shown  against  the  background  of  a  little  garden  which 
could  be  clearly  seen  at  the  end  of  a  long  passage,  in  the  light 
of  the.  setting  sun.  She  was  tall,  and  stood  very  erect,  without 
11  word,  waiting  for  him  to  speak.  He  could  not  see  her  eyes: 
but  he  felt  them  taking  him  in.  He  asked  for  Doctor  Erich 
Braun  and  gave  his  name.  He  had  great  difficulty  in  getting 
the  words  out.  He  was  worn  out  with  fatigue,  hunger,  and 
thirst.  ^ Without  a  word  the  woman  went  away,  and  Christophe 
followed  her  into  a  room  with  closed  shutters.  In  the  darkness 
he  bumped  into  her:  his  knees  and  body  brushed  against  her. 
She  went  out  again  and  closed  the  door  of  the  room  and  left 
him  in  the  dark.  He  stayed  quite  still,  for  fear  of  knocking 
something  over,  leaning  against  the  wall  with  his  forehead 
against  the  soft  hangings:  his  ears  buzzed:  the  darkness  seemed 
alive  and  throbbing  to  his  eyes. 

Overhead  he  heard  a  chair  being  moved,  an  exclamation  of 
surprise,  a  door  slammed.  Then  came  heavy  footsteps  down 
the  stairs. 

"Where  is  he?"  asked  a  voice  that  he  knew. 

The  door  of  the  room  was  opened  once  more. 

"  What !  You  left  him  in  the  dark !  Anna  !  Good  gracious  ! 
A  light !  " 

Christophe  was  so  weak,  he  was  so  utterly  wretched,  that 
the  sound  of  the  man's  loud  voice,  cordial  as  it  was,  brought 
him  comfort  in  his  misery.  He  gripped  the  hand  that  was  held 
out  to  him.  The.  two  men  looked  at  each  other.  Braun  was  a 
little  man  :  he  had  a  red  face  with  a  black,  scrubby  and  untidy 
beard,  kind  eyes  twinkling  behind  spectacles,  a  broad,  bumpy, 
wrinkled,  worried,  inexpressive  brow,  hair  carefully  plastered 
down  and  parted  right  down  to  his  neck.  He  was  very  ugly: 
but  Christophe  was  very  glad  to  see  him  and  to  be  shaking 
hands  with  him.  Braun  made  no  effort  to  conceal  his  sur- 
prise. 

"  Good  Heavens !  How  changed  he  is !  What  a  state  he  is 
in !  " 

"  I'm  just  come  from  Paris,"  said  Christophe.  "  I'm  a  fugi- 
tive" 


THE  BURNING  BUSH  249 

"  I  know,  I  know.  We  saw  the  papers.  They  said  you  were 
caught.  Thank  God !  You've  been  much  in  our  thoughts,  mine 
and  Anna's." 

He  stopped  and  made  Christophe  known  to  the  silent  creature 
who  had  admitted  him : 

"My  wife." 

She  had  stayed  in  the  doorway  of  the  room  with  a  lamp  in 
her  hand.  She  had  a  taciturn  face  with  a  firm  chin.  The 
light  fell  on  her  brown  hair  with  its  reddish  shades  of  color, 
and  on  her  pallid  cheeks.  She  held  out  her  hand  to  Christophe 
stiffly  with  the  elbow  close  against  her  side :  he  took  it  without 
looking  at  her.  He  was  almost  done. 

"I  came  ..."  he  tried  to  explain.  "I  thought  you  would 
be  so  kind  .  .  .  if  it  isn't  putting  you  out  too  much  .  .  . 
as  to  put  me  up  for  a  day — 

Braun  did  not  let  him  finish. 

"  A  day !  .  .  .  Twenty  days,  fift}r,  a*  long  as  you  like. 
As  long  as  you  are  in  this  country  you  shall  stay  in  our  house : 
and  I  hope  you  will  stay  for  a  long  time.  It  is  an  honor  and 
a  great  happiness  for  us." 

Christophe  was  overwhelmed  by  his  kind  words.  He  flung 
himself  into  Braun's  arms. 

"  My  dear  Christophe,  my  dear  Christophe  !  "  said  Braun.  .  .  . 
"He  is  weeping.  .  .  .  Well,  well  what  is  it?  .  .  .  Anna! 
Anna!  .  .  .  Quick,  he  has  fainted.  ..." 

Christophe  had  collapsed  in  his  host's  arms.  He  had  suc- 
cumbed to  the  fainting  fit  which  had  been  imminent  for  several 
hours. 

When  he  opened  his  eyes  again  he  was  lying  in  a  great  bed. 
A  smell  of  wet  earth  came  up  through  the  open  window.  Braun 
was  bending  over  him. 

"  Forgive  me,"  murmured  Christophe,  trying  to  get  up. 

"  He  is  dying  of  hunger !  "  cried  Braun. 

The  woman  went  out  and  returned  with  a  cup  and  gave  him 
to  drink.  Braun  held  his  head.  Christophe  was  restored  to 
life:  but  his  exhaustion  was  stronger  than  his  hunger:  hardly 
was  his  head  laid  back  on  the  pillow  than  he  went  to  sleep. 
Braun  and  his  wife  watched  over  him :  then,  seeing  that  he 
only  needed  rest,  they  left  him. 


250         JEAK-CHRISTOPHE:    JOURNEY'S  END 

He  fell  into  the  sort  of  sleep  that  seems  to  last  for  years,  a 
heavy  crushing  sleep,  dropping  like  a  piece  of  lead  to  the  bottom 
of  a  lake.  In  such  a  sleep  a  man  is  a  prey  to  his  accumulated 
weariness  and  the  monstrous  hallucinations  which  are  forever 
prowling  at  the  gates  of  his  will,  lie  tried  to  wake  up,  burning, 
broken,  lost  in  the  impenetrable  darkness:  he  heard  the  clocks 
striking  the  half  hours:  "lie  could  not  breathe,  or  think,  or  move: 
he  was  bound  and  gagged  like  a  man  flung  into  water  to  drown: 
lie  tried  to  struggle,  but  only  sank  down  again. — Dawn  came  at 
length,  the  tardy  gray  dawn  of  a  rainv  dav.  The  intolerable 
heat  that  consumed  him  grew  less:  but  his  body  was  pinned 
under  the  weight  of  a  mountain.  He  woke  up.  It  was  a 
terrible  awakening. 

''Why  open  my  eyes?  Why  wake  up?  Rather  stay,  like  my 
poor  friend,  who  is  lying  under  the  earth.  .  .  ." 

He  lay  on  his  back  and  never  moved,  although  he  was  cramped 
bv  his  position  in  the  bed:  his  legs  and  arms  were  heavv  as 
stone.  He  was  in  a  grave.  A  dim  pale  light.  A  few  drops 
of  rain  dashed  against  the  windows.  A  bird  in  the  garden  was 
uttering  a  little  plaintive  cry.  Oh!  the  misery  of  life!  The 
cruel  futility  of  it  all !  .  .  . 

The  hours  crept  by.  l>raun  came  in.  Christophe  did  not 
turn  his  bead.  Seeing  his  eyes  open,  Braun  greeted  him  jov- 
fully :  and  as  Christophe  went  on  grimly  staring  at  the  ceiling 
he  tried  to  make  him  shake  oft'  his  melancholy:  lie  sat  down 
on  the  bed  and  chattered  noisily.  Christophe  could  not  bear 
the  noise.  He  made  an  effort,  superhuman  it  seemed  to  him, 
and  said  : 

"  Please  leave  me  alone." 

The  good   little  man  changed   bis  (one  at   once. 

"You  want  to  be  alone?  \Vliv.  of  course.  Keep  quiet. 
Rest,  don't  talk,  we'll  bring  you  up  something  to  eat.  and  no 
one  shall  say  a  word."' 

But  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  bo  brief.  After  endless 
explanations  he  tiptoed  from  the  room  with  his  huge  slippers 
creaking  on  the  floor.  (1hristophe  was  lef!  alone  once  more, 
and  sank  back  into  his  mortal  weariness.  His  thoughts  were 
-veiled  by  the  mist  of  suffering.  He  wore  himself  out  in  trying 
to  understand.  .  .  .  "'Why  had  he  known  him?  Why-  had 


THE  BUHN1NG  BUSH  251 

he  loved  him?  What  good  had  Antoinette's  devotion  been? 
What  was  the  meaning  of  all  the  lives  and  generations. — so 
much  experience  and  hope — ending  in  that  life,  dragged  down 
with  it  into  the  void?"  .  .  .  Life  was  meaningless.  Death 
was  meaningless.  A  man  was  blotted  out,  sliutlled  out  of  ex- 
istence, a  whole  family  disappeared  from  the  face  of  the  earth, 
leaving  no  trace.  Impossible  to  tell  whether  it  is  more  odious 
or  more  grotesque.  He  burst  into  a  fit  of  angry  laughter, 
laughter  of  hatred  and  despair.  His  impotence  in  the  face  of 
such  sorrow,  his  sorrow  in  the  face  of  such  impotence,  were 
dragging  him  down  to  death.  His  heart  was  broken.  .  .  . 

There  was  not  a  sound  in  the  house,  save  the  doctor's  foot- 
steps as  he  went  out  on  his  rounds.  Christophe  had  lost  all 
idea  of  the  time,  when  Anna  appeared.  She  brought  him  some 
dinner  on  a  tray.  He  watched  her  without  stirring,  without 
even  moving  his  lips  to  thank  her:  but  in  his  staring  eyes, 
which  seemed  to  see  nothing,  the  image  of  the  young  woman 
was  graven  with  photographic  clarity.  Long  afterwards,  when 
he  knew  her  better,  it  was  always  thus  that  he  saw  her:  later 
impressions  were  never  able  to  efface  that  first  memory  of  her. 
She  had  thick  hair  done  up  in  a  heavy  knob,  a  bulging  fore- 
head, wide  cheeks,  a  short,  straight  nose,  eyes  perpetually  cast 
down,  and  when  they  met  the  eyes  of  another,  they  would  turn 
away  with  an  expression  in  which  there  was  little  frankness  and 
small  kindness:  her  lips  were  a  trifle  thick,  and  closely  pressed 
together,  and  she  had  a  stubborn,  rather  hard  expression.  She 
was  tall,  apparently  big  and  well  made,  but  her  clothes  were 
very  stiff  and  tight,  and  she  was  cramped  in  her  movements. 
She  came  silently  and  noiselessly  and  laid  the  tray  on  the  table 
by  the  bed  and  went  out  again  with  her  arms  close  to  her  sides 
and  her  head  down.  Christophe  felt  no  surprise  at  her  strange 
and  rather  absurd  appearance:  he  did  not  touch  his  food  and 
relapsed  into  his  silent  suffering. 

The  day  passed.  "Evening  came  and  once  more  Anna  with 
more  food.  She  found  the  meal  she  had  brought  in  tl\e  morn- 
ing still  untouched:  and  she  took  it  away  \vitliout  a  remark. 
She  had  none  of  those  fond  observations  which  all  women  seem 
instinctively  to  produce  for  the  benefit  of  an  invalid.  It  was 
as  though  Christophe  did  not  exist  for  her,  as  though  she 


252         JEAN-CHRISTOPHE:    JOURNEY'S  END 

herself  hardly  existed.  This  time  Christophe  felt  a  sort  of 
dumb  hostility  as  impatiently  he  followed  her  awkward  hasty 
movements.  However,  he  was  grateful  to  her  for  not  trying 
to  talk. — He  was  even  more  grateful  to  her  when,  after  she  had 
gone,  he  had  to  put  up  with  the  doctor's  protestations,  when 
he  observed  that  Christophe  had  not  touched  the  earlier  meal. 
He  was  angry  with  his  wife  for  not  having  forced  Christophe 
to  eat,  and  now  tried  to  compel  him  to  do  so.  For  the  sake  of 
peace,  Christophe  had  to  gulp  down  a  little  milk.  After  that 
he  turned  his  back  on  him. 

The  next  night  was  more  tranquil.  Heavy  sleep  once  more 
drew  Christophe  into  its  state  of  nothingness.  Not  a  trace  of 
hateful  life  was  left. — But  waking  up  was  even  more  suffocating 
than  before.  He  went  on  turning  over  and  over  all  the  details 
of  the  fateful  day,  Olivier's  reluctance  to  leave  the  house,  his 
urgent  desire  to  go  home,  and  he  said  to  himself  in  despair : 

"It  was  I  who  killed  him.    ..." 

He  could  not  bear  to  stay  there  any  longer,  shut  up  in  that 
room,  lying  motionless  beneath  the  claws  of  the  fierce-eyed 
sphinx  that  went  on  battering  him  with  its  dizzy  rain  of  ques- 
tions and  its  deathlike  breath.  He  got  up  all  in  a  fever:  he 
dragged  himself  out  of  the  room  and  went  downstairs :  in  his 
instinctive  fear  he  was  driven  to  cling  to  other  human  creatures. 
And  as  soon  as  he  heard  another  voice  he  felt  a  longing  to 
rush  away. 

Braun  was  in  the  dining-room.  He  received  Christophe  with 
his  usual  demonstrations  of  friendship  and  at  once  began  to 
ply  him  with  questions  as  to  what  had  happened  in  Paris. 
Christophe  seized  him  by  tlie  arm: 

"No,"  he  said.  "Don't  ask  me.  Later  on.  .  .  .  You 
mustn't  mind.  I  can't,  now.  I'm  dead  tired,  worn  out.  ..." 

"  I  know,  I  know,"  said  Braun  kindly.  "  Your  nerves  are 
shaken.  The  emotions  of  the  last  few  days.  Don't  talk.  Don't 
put  yourself  out  in  any  way.  You  are  free,  you  are  at  home 
here.  No  one  will  worry  about  you." 

He  kept  his  word.  By  way  of  sparing  his  guest  he  went  to 
the  opposite  extreme:  be  dared  not  even  talk  to  his  wife  in 
Christophe's  presence:  he  talked  in  whispers  and  walked  about 
on  tiptoe:  the  house  became  still  and  silent.  Exasperated  by 


THE  BURNING  BUSH  253 

the  whispering  and  the  silence  and  the  affectation  of  it  all, 
Christophe  had  to  beg  Braun  to  go  on  living  just  as  he  usually 
did. 

For  some  days  no  one  paid  an)'  attention  to  Christophe.  He 
would  sit  for  hours  together  in  the  corner  of  a  room,  or  he 
would  wander  through  the  house  like  a  man  in  a  dream.  What 
were  his  thoughts?  He  hardly  knew.  He  hardly  had  even 
strength  enough  to  suffer.  He  was  crushed.  The  dry  ness  of 
his  heart  was  a  horror  to  him.  lie  had  only  one  desire:  to 
be  buried  with  "  him  "  and  to  make  an  end. — One  day  lie  found 
the  garden-door  open  and  went  out.  But  it  hurt  him  so  much 
to  be  in  the  light  of  day  that  he  returned  hurriedly  and  shut 
himself  up  in  his  room  with  all  the  shutters  closed.  Fine  days 
were  torture  to  him.  He  hated  the  sun.  The  brutal  serenity 
of  Nature  overwhelmed  him.  At  meals  he  would  eat  in  silence 
the  food  that  Braun  laid  before  him.  and  lie  would  sit  with 
never  a  word  staring  down  at  the  table.  One  day  Braun  pointed 
to  the  piano  in  the  drawing-room :  Christophe  turned  from  it 
in  terror.  Noise  of  any  sort  was  detestable  to  him.  Silence, 
silence,  and  the  night!  .  .  .  There  was  nothing  in  him  save 
an  aching  void,  and  a  need  of  emptiness.  (Jone  was  his  joy 
in  life,  gone  the  splendid  bird  of  joy  tbai  once  used  to  soar 
blithely,  ecstatically  upwards,  pouring  out  song.  There  were 
days  when,  sitting  in  his  room,  he  had  no  more  feeling  of  life 
than  the  halting  tic-tac  of  the  clock  in  the  next  room,  that 
seemed  to  be  beating  in  his  own  brain.  And  yet.  the  wild  bird 
of  joy  was  still  in  him,  it  would  suddenly  take  flight,  and  flutter 
against  the  bars  of  its  cage:  and  in  the  depths  of  his  soul  there 
was  a  frightful  tumult  of  sorrow — ''  the  bitter  cry  of  one  living 
in  the  wilderness.  .  .  ." 

The  world's  misery  lies  in  this,  that  a  man  hardlv  ever  has 
a  companion.  Women  perhaps,  and  chance  friendships.  We 
are  reckless  in  our  use  of  the  lovelv  word,  friend.  In  reality 
we  hardly  have  a  single  friend  all  through  our  lives.  Hare,  very 
rare,  are  those  men  who  have  real  friends.  But  the  happiness 
of  it  is  so  great  that  it  is  impossible  to  live  when  they  are  gone. 
The  friend  filled  the  life  of  his  friend,  unbeknown  to  him, 
unmarked.  The  friend  goes:  and  life  is  empty.  Not  only  the 
beloved  is  lost,  but  even-  reason  for  loving,  every  reason  for 


254         JEAN-CHRISTOPHE :    JOUftXEY'S  EXD 

having  loved.  Why  had  lie  lived?  Why  had  either  lived? 
The  blow  of  Olivier's  death  was  the  more  terrible  to  Chris- 
topho  in  that  it  fell  just  at  a  time  when  his  whole  nature  was 
in  a  state  of  upheaval.  There  are  in  life  certain  ages  when  there 
takes  plaee  a  silently  working  organic  change  in  a  man:  then 
body  and  soul  are  more  susceptible  to  attack  from  without;  the 
mind  is  weakened,  its  power  is  sapped  bv  a  vague  sadness,  a 
feeling  of  satiety,  a  sort  of  detachment  from  what  it  is  doing, 
an  incapacity  for  seeing  any  other  course  of  action.  At  such 
periods  of  their  lives  when  these  crises  occur,  the  majority  of 
men  are  bound  by  domestic  ties,  forming  a  safeguard  for  them, 
which,  it  is  true,  deprives  them  of  the  freedom  of  mind  necessary 
for  self-judgment,  for  discovering  where  they  stand,  and  for 
beginning  to  build  up  a  healthy  new  life.  For  them  so  many 
sorrows,  so  much  bitterness  and  disgust  remain  concealed  !  .  .  . 
Onward!  Onward!  A  man  must  ever  be  pressing  on.  .  .  . 
The  common  round,  anxiety  and  care  for  the  family  for  which 
he  is  responsible,  keep  a  man  like  a  jaded  horse,  sleeping  be- 
tween the  shafts,  and  trotting  on  and  on. —  But  a  free  man  has 
nothing  to  support  him  in  his  hours  of  negation,  nothing  to 
force  him  to  go  on.  He  goes  on  as  a  matter  of  habit:  he  know^ 
not  whither  he  is  going.  His  powers  are  scattered,  his  con- 
sciousness is  obscured.  It  is  an  awful  thing  for  him  if.  just 
at  the  moment  when  he  is  most  asleep,  there  comes  a  thunder- 
clap to  break  in  upon  his  somnambulism  !  Then  he  comes  very 
nigh  to  destruction. 

A  few  letters  from  Paris,  which  at  last  reached  him.  plucked 
Christopbe  for  a  moment  out  of  his  despairing  apathy.  They 
were  from  Cecile  and  Madame  Arnaud.  They  brought  him 
messages  of  comfort.  Cold  comfort.  Futile  condolence.  Those 
who  talk  about  suffering  know  it  not.  The  letters  only  brought 
him  an  echo  of  the  voice  that  was  gone.  ...  lie  bad  not 
the  heart  to  reply:  and  the  letters  ceased.  In  his  despondency 
he  tried  to  blot  out  his  tracks.  To  disappear.  .  .  .  Suffering 
is  unjust:  all  those  who  had  loved  him  dropped  out  of  his 
existence.  Onlv  one  creature1  still  existed:  the  man  who  was 
dead.  For  many  weeks  be  strove  to  bring  him  to  life  again: 
he  used  to  talk  to  him,  write  to  him: 


THE  BURNING  BUSH  255 

"My  dear,  I  had  no  letter  from  you  to-day.  Where  are  you? 
Come  back,  come  back,  speak  to  me,  write  to  me!  .  .  .'*' 

But  at  night,  hard  though  lie  tried,  he  could  never  succeed 
in  seeing  him  in  his  dreams.  We  rarely  dream  oL'  those  we 
have  lost,  while  their  loss  is  still  a  pain.  They  come  back  to 
us  later  on  when  we  are  beginning  to  forget. 

However,  the  outside  world  began  gradually  to  penetrate 
to  the  sepulcher  of  Christophers  soul.  At  first  he  became  dimly 
conscious  of  the  different  noises  in  the  house  and  to  take  an 
unwitting  interest  in  them,  lie  marked  the  time  of  day  when 
the  front  door  opened  and  shut,  and  how  often  during  the  day. 
and  the  different  ways  in  which  it  was  opened  for  the  various 
visitors.  He  knew  Braun's  step:  he  used  to  visualize  the  doctor 
coming  back  from  his  rounds,  stopping  in  the  hall,  hanging  up 
his  hat  and  cloak,  always  with  the  same  meticulous  fussy  way. 
And  when  the  accustomed  noises  came  up  to  him  out  of  the 
order  in  which  he  had  come  to  look  for  them,  he  could  not  help 
trying  to  discover  the  reason  for  the  change.  At  meals  lie  began 
mechanically  to  listen  to  the  conversation,  lie  saw  that  Braun 
almost  always  talked  single-handed.  II  is  wife  used  only  to  give 
him  a  curt  reply.  Braun  was  never  put  out  bv  the  want  of 
anybody  to  talk  to:  he  used  to  (-hat  pleasantly  and  verbosely 
about  the  houses  he  had  visited  and  the  gossip  he  had  picked  up. 
At  last,  one  day,  Christophe  looked  at  Braun  while  he  was 
speaking:  Braun  was  delighted,  and  laid  himself  out  to  keep 
him  interested. 

Christophe  tried  to  pick  up  the  threads  of  life  again.  .  .  . 
It  was  utterlv  exhausting!  He  felt  old.  as  old  as  the  world  !  .  .  . 
In  the  morning  when  he  got  up  and  saw  himself  in  the  mirror 
he  was  disgusted  with  his  body,  his  gestures,  his  idiotic  figure. 
(Jet  up.  dress,  to  what  end?  ...  lie  tried  drsperatelv  to 
work:  it  made  him  sick.  What  was  the  good  of  ovation,  when 
everything  ends  in  nothing?  Music  had  become  impossible  for 
him.  Art — (and  everything  else") — can  only  be  rightly  judged 
in  unhappiness.  Unhappiness  is  the  touchstone.  Only  then  do 
we  know  those  who  can  stride  across  the  a^es.  those  who  are 
stronger  than  death.  Very  few  hear  the  test.  In  unhappiness 
we  are  struck  by  the  mediocrity  of  i-orlain  souls  upon  whom  we 
had  counted- — (and  of  the  artists  we  had  loved,  who  had  been 


256         JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  :    JOURNEY'S  EKD 

like  friends  to  our  lives). — Who  survives?  How  hollow  does 
the  beauty  of  the  world  ring  under  the  touch  of  sorrow ! 

But  sorrow  grows  weary,  the  force  goes  from  its  grip.  Chris- 
tophe's  nerves  were  relaxed.  He  slept,  slept  unceasingly.  It 
seemed  that  he  would  never  succeed  in  satisfying  his  hunger 
for  sleep. 

At  last  one  night  he  slept  so  profoundly  that  he  did  not  wake 
up  until  well  on  into  the  afternoon  of  the  next  day.  The  house 
was  empty.  Braun  and  his  wife  had  gone  out.  The  window 
was  open,  and  the  smiling  air  was  quivering  with  light.  Chris- 
tophe  felt  that  a  crushing  weight  had  been  lifted  from  him. 
He  got  up  and  went  down  into  the  garden.  It  was  a  narrow 
rectangle,  inclosed  within  high  walls,  like  those  of  a  convent. 
There  were  gravel  paths  between  grass-plots  and  humble  flowers ; 
and  an  arbor  of  grape-vines  and  climbing  roses.  A  tiny  foun- 
tain trickled  from  a  grotto  built  of  stones:  an  acacia  against  the 
wall  hung  its  sweet-scented  branches  over  the  next  garden. 
Above  stood  the  old  tower  of  the  church,  of  red  sandstone.  It 
was  four  o'clock  in  the  evening.  The  garden  was  already  in 
shadow.  The  sun  was  still  shining  on  the  top  of  the  tree  and 
the  red  belfry.  Christophc  sat  in  the  arbor,  with  his  back  to 
the  wall,  and  his  head  thrown  back,  looking  at  the  limpid  sky 
through  the  interlacing  tendrils  of  the  vine  and  the  roses.  It 
was  like  waking  from  a  nightmare.  Everywhere  was  stillness 
and  silence.  Above  his  head  nodded  a  cluster  of  roses  languor- 
ously. Suddenly  the  most  lovely  rose  of  all  shod  its  petals  and 
died:  the  snow  of  the  rose-leaves  was  scattered  on  the  air.  It 
was  like  the  passing  of  a  lovely  innocent  life.  So  simply!  .  .  . 
In  Christophe's  mind  it  took  on  a  significance  of  a  rending 
sweetness.  He  choked :  he  hid  his  face  in  his  hands,  and 
sobbed.  .  .  . 

The  bells  in  the  church  tower  rang  out.  From  one  church 
to  another  called  answering  voices.  .  .  .  Christophe  lost  all 
consciousness  of  the  passage  of  time.  When  he  raised  his  head, 
the  bells  were  silent  and  the  sun  had  disappeared.  Christophe 
was  comforted  by  his  tears:  they  had  washed  away  the  stains 
from  his  mind.  Within  himself  he  heard  a  little  stream  of 
music  well  forth  and  he  saw  the  little  crescent  moon  glide  into 
the  evening  sky.  He  was  called  to  himself  by  the  sound  of 


THE  BURNING  BUSH  ?57 

footsteps  entering  the  house.  He  went  up  to  his  room,  locked 
the  door,  and  let  the  fountain  of  music  gusli  forth.  Braun 
summoned  him  to  dinner,  knocked  at  the  door,  and  tried  to 
open  it:  Christophe  made  no  reply.  Anxiously  Braun  looked 
through  the  keyhole  and  was  reassured  when  he  saw  Christophe 
lying  half  over  the  table  surrounded  with  paper  which  he  was 
blackening  with  ink. 

A  few  hours  later,  worn  out.  Christophe  went  downstairs 
and  found  the  doctor  reading,  impatiently  waiting  for  him  in 
the  drawing-room.  He  embraced  the  little  man,  asked  him  to 
forgive  him  for  his  strange  conduct  since  his  arrival,  and,  without 
waiting  to  he  asked,  he  began  to  tell  Braun  about  the  dramatic 
events  of  the  past  weeks.  It  was  the  only  time  he  ever  talked 
to  him  about  it:  he  was  never  sure  that  Braun  had  understood 
him,  for  he  talked  disconnectedly,  and  it  was  very  late,  and,  in 
spite  of  his  eager  interest,  Braun  was  nearly  dead  with  sleep. 
At  last — (the  clock  struck  two) — Christophe  saw  it  and  they 
said  good-night. 

From  that  time  on  Christophers  existence  was  reconstituted. 
He  did  not  maintain  his  condition  of  transitory  excitement: 
he  came  back  to  his  sorrow,  but  it  was  normal  sorrow  which 
did  not  interfere  with  his  life.  He  could  not  help  returning 
to  life!  Though  he  had  just  lost  his  dearest  friend  in  the 
world,  though  his  grief  had  undermined  him  and  Death  had 
been  his  most  intimate  companion,  there  was  in  him  such  an 
abundant,  such  a  tyrannical  force  of  life,  that  it  burst  forth 
even  in  his  elegies,  shining  forth  from  his  eyes,  his  lips,  his 
gestures.  But  a  gnawing  canker  had  crept  into  the  heart  of  his 
force.  Christophe  had  (its  of  despair,  transports  rather.  He 
would  be  quite  calm,  trying  to  read,  or  walking:  suddenly  lu> 
would  see  Olivier's  smile,  his  tired,  gentle  face.  .  .  .  It  would 
tug  at  his  heart.  ...  He  would  falter,  lay  his  hand  on  his 
breast,  and  moan.  One  dav  hi'  was  at  the  piano  playing  a 
passage  from  Beethoven  with  his  old  zest.  .  .  .  Suddenly  he 
stopped,  flung  himself  on  the  ground,  buried  his  face  in  the 
cushions  of  a  chair,  and  cried: 

"My  boy.    ..." 

Worst  of  all  was  the  sensation  of  having  "  already  lived " 


253         JEAN-CHRISTOPHE:    JOUBNEY'S  EXD 

that  was  constantly  with  him.  Ho  was  continually  corning  across 
familiar  gestures,  familiar  words,  the  perpetual  recurrence  of 
the  same  experiences.  He  knew  everything,  had  foreseen  every- 
thing. One  face  would  remind  him  of  a  face  he  had  known 
and  the  lips  would  say — (as  he  was  quite  sure  they  would)  — 
exactly  the  same  things  as  he  had  heard  from  the  original: 
beings  similar  to  each  other  would  pass  through  similar  phases, 
knock  up  against  the  same  obstacles,  suffer  from  them  in  exactly 
the  same  way.  If  it  is  true  that  "nothing  so  much  brings 
weariness  of  life  as  the  new  beginning  of  love,"  how  much  more 
then  the  new  beginning  of  everything!  Tt  was  elusive  and 
delusive. — Christophe  tried  not  to  think  of  it,  since  it  was  nec- 
essary to  do  so.  if  he  were  to  live,  and  since  he  wished  to  live. 
Tt  is  the  saddest  hypocrisy,  such  rejection  of  self-knowledge,  in 
shame  or  piety,  it  is  the  invincible  imperative  need  of  living- 
hiding  away  from  itself!  Knowing  that  no  consolation  is  possi- 
ble, a  man  invents  consolations.  Being  convinced  that  life  has 
no  reason,  he  forges  reasons  for  living.  He  persuades  himself 
that  he  must  live,  even  when  no  one  outside  himself  is  con- 
cerned. If  need  be  he  will  go  so  far  as  to  pretend  that  the  dead 
man  encourages  him  to  live.  And  he  knows  that  he  is  putting 
into  the  dead  man's  mouth  the  words  that  he  wishes  him  to  say. 
0  misery!  .  .  . 

Christophe  set  out  on  the  road  once  more:  his  step  seemed 
to  have  regained  its  old  assurance:  the  gates  of  his  heart  were 
closed  upon  his  sorrow:  he  never  spoke  of  it  to  others:  he 
avoided  being  left  alone  with  it  himself:  outwardly  he  seemed 
calm. 

"lien!  torrou's."  says  Balzac,  "arc  apparently  at  peace  in  tJic 
deep  bed  Hint  they  hare  -made  far  tl/einsclvcs,  irliere  they  seem- 
to  sleep,  1h  on  all  oil  (lie  vlii/c  ilteij  nerer  cease  to  fret  and  cat 
away  the  soul." 

Any  one  knowing  Christophe  and  watching  him  closely,  seeing 
him  coining  and  going,  talking,  composing,  even  laughing — (he 
could  lauu'h  now!) — would  have  felt  that  for  all  his  vigor  and 
the  radiance  of  life  in  his  eyes,  something  had  been  destroyed 
in  him,  in  the  inmost  depths  of  his  life. 

As   soon    as    he   had    regained   his   hold    on   life    he   had   to 


THE  BURNING  BUSH  259 

look  about  him  for  a  means  of  living.  There  could  he  no 
question  of  his  leaving  the  town.  Switzerland  was  the  safest 
shelter  for  him:  and  where  else  could  he  have  found  more  de- 
voted hospitality? — But  his  pride  could  not  suffer  the  idea  of 
his  being  any  further  a  burden  upon  his  friend.  In  spite  of 
Braun's  protestations,  and  his  refusal  to  accept  any  payment, 
he  could  not  rest  until  he  had  found  enough  pupils  to  permit 
of  his  paying  his  hosts  for  his  board  and  lodging.  It  was  not 
an  easy  matter.  The  story  of  his  revolutionary  escapade  had 
been  widely  circulated:  and  the  worthy  families  of  the  place 
were  reluctant  to  admit  a  man  who  was  regarded  as  dangerous, 
or  at  any  rate  extraordinary,  and,  in  consequence,  not  quite 
"  respectable,''  to  their  midst.  However,  his  fame  as  a  musician 
and  Braun's  good  oflices  gained  him  access  to  four  or  five  of 
the  less  timorous  or  more  curious  families.  H'ho  were  perhaps 
artistically  snobbish  enough  to  desire  to  gain,  particularity.  They 
were  none  the  less  careful  to  keep  an  eye  on  him.  and  to  main- 
tain a  respectable  distance  between  master  and  pupils. 

The  Braun  household  fell  into  a  methodically  ordered  ex- 
istence. In  the  morning  each  member  of  it  went  about  his 
business:  the  doctor  on  his  rounds.  Christophe  to  his  pupils, 
Madame  Braun  to  the  market  and  about  her  charitable  works. 
Christophe  used  to  return  about  one,  a  little  before  Braun, 
who  would  not  allow  them  to  wait  for  him;  and  he  used  to  sit 
down  to  dinner  alone  with  the  wife.  He  did  not  like  that  at 
all:  for  she  was  not  sympathetic  to  him,  and  he  could  never 
find  anything  to  say  to  her.  She  took  no  trouble  to  remove 
his  impression,  though  it  was  impossible  for  her  not  to  be  aware 
of  it:  she  never  bothered  to  put  herself  out  in  dress  or  in  mind 
to  please  him  :  she  never  spoke  to  Christophe  first :  her  notable 
lack  of  charm  in  movement  and  dress,  her  awkwardness,  her 
coldness,  would  have  repelled  any  man  who  was  as  sensitive 
as  Christophe  to  the  charm  of  women.  When  he  remembered 
the  sparkling  elegance  of  the  Parisian  women,  he  could  not  help 
thinking,  as  he  looked  at  Anna  : 

"  How  ugly  she  is  !  " 

Yet  that  was  unjust :  and  he  was  not  slow  to  notice  the  beauty 
of  her  hair,  her  hands,  her  mouth,  her  eyes. — on  the  rare 
occasions  when  he  chanced  to  meet  her  ijaze,  which  she  alwavs 


260         JEAX-CIIRISTOPHE:    JOURNEY'S  EXD 

averted  at  once.  But  his  opinion  was  never  modified.  As  a 
matter  of  politeness  he  forced  himself  to  speak  to  her :  he  labored 
to  find  subjects  of  conversation:  she  never  gave  him  the  smallest 
assistance.  Several  times  he  tried  to  ask  her  about  the  town, 
her  husband,  herself:  he  could  get  nothing  out  of  her.  She 
would  make  the  most  trivial  answers :  she  would  make  an  effort 
to  smile :  but  the  effort  was  painfully  evident ;  her  smile  was 
forced,  her  voice  was  hollow :  she  drawled  and  dragged  every 
word:  her  every  sentence  was  followed  by  a  painful  silence. 
At  last  Christophe  only  spoke  to  her  as  little  as  possible;  and 
she  was  grateful  to  him  for  it.  It  was  a  great  relief  to  both 
of  them  when  the  doctor  came  in.  He  was  always  in  a  good 
humor,  talkative,  busy,  vulgar,  worthy.  He  ate,  drank,  talked, 
laughed,  plentifully.  Anna  used  to  talk  to  him  a  little:  but 
they  hardly  ever  touched  on  anything  but  the  food  in  front 
of  them  or  the  price  of  things.  Sometimes  Braun  would  jok- 
ingly tease  her  about  her  pious  works  and  the  minister's  sermons. 
Then  she  would  stiffen  herself,  and  relapse  into  an  offended 
silence  until  the  end  of  the  meal.  More  often  the  doctor  would 
talk  about  his  patients:  he  would  delight  in  describing  repulsive 
cases,  with  a  pleasant  elaboration  of  detail  which  used  to  ex- 
asperate Christophe.  Then  he  would  throw  his  napkin  on  the 
table  and  get  up,  making  faces  of  disgust  which  simply  delighted 
the  teller.  Braun  would  stop  at  once,  and  soothe  his  friend 
and  laugh.  At  the  next  meal  he  would  begin  again.  His  hos- 
pital pleasantries  seemed  to  have  the  power  to  enliven  the 
impassive  Anna.  She  would  break  her  silence  with  a  sudden 
nervous  laugh,  which  was  something  animal  in  quality.  Perhaps 
she  felt  no  less  disgust  than  Christophe  at  the  things  that  made 
her  laugh. 

In  the  afternoon  Christophe  had  very  few  pupils.  Then,  as 
a  rule,  he  would  stay  at  home  with  Anna,  while  the  doctor 
went  out.  They  never  saw  each  other.  They  used  to  go  about 
their  separate  business.  At  first  Braun  had  begged  Christophe 
to  give  his  wife  a  few  lessons  on  the  piano:  she  was,  he  said, 
an  excellent  musician.  Christophe  asked  Anna  to  play  him 
something.  She  did  not  need  to  be  pressed,  although  she  dis- 
liked doing  it:  but  she  did  it  with  her  usual  ungraciousness: 
she  played  mechanically,  with  an  incredible  lack  of  sensibility: 


THE  BURNING  BUSH  261 

each  note  was  like  another:  there  was  no  sort  of  rhythm  or 
expression :  when  she  had  to  turn  the  page  she  stopped  short 
in  the  middle  of  a  bar,  made  no  haste  about  it,  and  went  on 
with  the  next  note.  Christophe  was  so  exasperated  by  it  that 
he  was  hard  put  to  it  to  keep  himself  from  making  an  insulting 
remark:  he  could  not  help  going  out  of  the  room  before  she 
had  finished.  She  was  not  put  out,  but  went  on  imperturbably 
to  the  very  last  note,  and  seemed  to  be  neither  hurt  nor  in- 
dignant at  his  rudeness:  she  hardly  seemed  to  have  noticed  it. 
But  the  matter  of  music  was  never  again  mentioned  between 
them.  Sometimes  in  the  afternoons  when  Christophe  was  out 
and  returned  unexpectedly,  he  would  find  Anna  practising  the 
piano,  with  icy,  dull  tenacity,  going  over  and  over  one  passage 
fifty  times,  and  never  by  any  chance  showing  the  least  anima- 
tion. She  never  played  when  she  knew  that  Christophe  was 
at  home.  She  devoted  all  The  time  that  was  not  consecrated 
to  her  religious  duties  to  her  household  work.  She  used  to 
sew,  and  mend,  and  darn,  and  look  after  the  servant:  she  had 
a  mania  for  tidiness  and  cleanliness.  Her  husband  thought  her 
a  fine  woman,  a  little  odd — "  like  all  women."  he  used  to  say — 
but  "like  all  women,"  devoted.  On  that  last  point  Christophe 
made  certain  reservations  /"//  pel  to:  such  psychology  seemed  to 
him  too  simple:  but  he  told  himself  that,  after  all.  it  was 
Braun's  affair:  and  he  gave  no  further  thought  to  the  matter. 

They  used  to  sit  together  after  dinner  in  the  evening.  Braun 
and  Christophe  would  talk.  Anna  would  sit  working.  On 
Braun's  entreaty.  Christophe  had  consented  to  play  the  piano 
sometimes:  and  he  would  occasionally  play  on  to  a  very  late 
hour  in  the  big  gloomv  room  looking  out  on  to  the  garden. 
Braun  would  go  into  ecstasies.  .  .  .  Who  is  there  lhat  does 
not  know  the  type  that  has  a  passionate  love  for  filings  thev 
do  not  understand,' or  understand  all  wrong! — (which  is  why 
they  love  them!) — Christophe  did  not  mind:  he  had  met  so 
many  idiots  in  the  course  of  his  life!  But  when  Braun  gave 
vent  to  certain  mawkish  expressions  of  enthusiasm,  lie  would 
stop  playing,  and  go  up  to  his  room  without  a  word.  Braun 
grasped  the  truth  at  last,  and  put  a  stopper  on  his  reflections. 
Besides,  his  love  for  music  was  quicklv  sated  :  he  could  never 
listen  with  any  attention  for  more  than  a  quarter  of  an  hour 


262         JEAN-CHRISTOPHE :    JOURNEY'S  END 

on  end  :  he  would  pick  up  his  paper,  or  doze  off,  and  leave 
Christophe  in  peace.  Anna  would  sit  back  in  her  chair  and 
say  nothing:  she  would  have  her  work  in  her  lap  and  seem 
to  be  working:  but  her  eyes  were  always  staring  and  her  hands 
never  moved.  Sometimes  she  would  go  out  without  a  sound 
in  the  middle  of  a  piece,  and  be  seen  no  more. 

So  the  days  passed.  Christophe  regained  his  strength. 
Braun's  heavy  but  kindly  attentions,  the  tranquillity  of  the 
household,  the  restful  regularity  of  such  a  domestic  life,  the 
extremely  nourishing  German  food,  restored  him  to  his  old 
robustness.  His  physical  health  was  repaired :  but  his  moral 
machinery  was  still  out  of  gear.  His  new  vigor  only  served 
to  accentuate  the  disorder  of  his  mind,  which  could  not  recover 
its  balance,  like  a  badly  ballasted  ship  which  will  turn  turtle 
on  the  smallest  shock. 

He  was  profoundly  lonely.  He  could  have  no  intellectual 
intimacy  with  Braun.  His  relations  with  Anna  were  reduced, 
with  a  few  exceptions,  to  saying  good-morning  and  good-night. 
His  dealings  with  his  pupils  were  rather  bostile  than  otherwise: 
for  he  hardly  hid  from  them  his  opinion  that  the  best  thing 
for  them  to  do  was  to  give  up  music  altogether.  He  knew 
nobody.  It  was  not  only  his  fault,  though  he  had  hidden  himself 
away  since  his  loss.  People  held  aloof  from  him. 

He  was  living  in  an  old  town,  full  of  intelligence  and  vitality, 
but  also  full  of  patrician  pride,  self-contained,  and  self-satisfied. 
There  was  a  bourgeois  aristocracy  with  a  taste  for  work  and  the 
higher  culture,  but  narrow  and  pietistic,  who  were  calmly  con- 
vinced of  their  own  superiority  and  the  superiority  of  their 
city,  and  quite  content  to  live  in  family  isolation.  There  were 
enormous  families  with  vast  ramifications.  Each  family  had 
its  day  for  a  general  gathering  of  the  clan.  They  were  hardly 
at  all  open  to  the  outside  world.  All  these  great  houses,  witli 
fortunes  generations  old.  felt  no  need  of  showing  their  wealth. 
They  knew  each  other,  and  that  was  enough :  the  opinion  of 
others  was  a  thing  of  no  consequence.  There  were  millionaires 
dressed  like  humble  shopkeepers,  talking  their  raucous  dialect 
with  its  pungent  expressions,  going  conscientiously  to  their 
offices,  every  day  of  their  lives,  even  at  an  age  when  the  most 


THE  BURNING  BUSH  263 

industrious  of  men  will  grant  themselves  the  right  to  rest. 
Their  wives  prided  themselves  on  their  domestic  skill.  Xo 
dowry  was  given  to  the  daughters.  Rich  men  let  their  sons 
in  their  turn  go  through  the  same  hard  apprenticeship  that  they 
themselves  had  served.  They  practised  strict  economy  in  their 
daily  lives.  But  they  made  a  noble  use  of  their  fortune  in 
collecting  works  of  art,  picture  galleries,  and  in  social  work: 
they  were  forever  giving  enormous  sums,  nearly  always  anony- 
mously, to  found  charities  and  to  enrich  the  museums.  They 
were  a  mixture  of  greatness  and  absurdity,  both  of  another  age. 
This  little  world,  for  which  the  rest  of  the  world  seemed  not 
to  exist — (although  its  members  knew  it  thoroughly  through 
their  business,  and  their  distant  relationships,  and  the  long  and 
extended  voyages  which  they  forced  their  sons  to  take.) — this 
little  world,  for  which  fame  and  celebrity  in  another  land  only 
were  esteemed  from  the  moment  when  they  were  welcomed  and 
recognized  by  itself, — practised  the  severest  discipline  upon  itself. 
Every  member  of  it  kept  a  watch  upon  himself  and  upon  the 
rest.  The  result  of  all  this  was  a  collective  conscience  which 
masked  all  individual  differences  (more  marked  than  elsewhere 
among  the  robust  personalities  of  the  place)  under  the  veil  of 
religious  and  moral  uniformity.  Everybody  practised  it.  every- 
body believed  in  it.  Xot  a  single  soul  doubted  it  or  would 
admit  of  doubt.  It  were  impossible  to  know  what  took  place 
in  the  depths  of  souls  which  were  the  more  hermetically  sealed 
against  prying  eyes  inasmuch  as  they  knew  that  they  were 
surrounded  by  a  narrow  scrutiny,  and  that  every  man  took 
"upon  himself  the  right  to  examine  into  the  conscience  of  other 
men.  It  was  said  that  even  those  who  had  left  the  country 
and  thought  themselves  emancipated — as  soon  as  thev  set  foot 
in  it  again  were  dominated  by  the  traditions,  the  habits,  the 
atmosphere  of  the  town:  oven  the  most  skeptical  were  at  once 
forced  to  practise  and  to  believe.  Xot  to  believe  would  have 
seemed  to  them  an  offense  against  Nature.  Not  to  believe  was 
the  mark  of  an  inferior  caste,  a  sign  of  had  breeding.  It  was 
never  admitted  that  a  man  of  their  world  could  possibly  In- 
absolved  of  his  religious  duties.  If  a  man  did  not  practise  their 
religion,  he  was  at  once  unclassed.  and  all  doors  were  closed 
to  him. 


264         JEAN-CHRISTOPHE :    JOUKXEY'S  END 

Even  the  weight  of  such  discipline  was  apparently  not  enough 

for  them.  The  men  of  this  little  world  were  not  closely  bound 
enough  within  their  caste.  Within  the  great  Vcreiii  they  had 
formed  a  number  of  smaller  Vcreine  by  way  of  binding  their 
fetters  fast.  There  were  several  hundred  of  them:  and  they 
were  increasing  every  year.  There  were  V  ere  inn  for  everything: 
for  philanthropy,  charitable  work,  Commercial  work,  work  that 
\vas  both  charitable  and  commercial,  for  the  arts,  for  the 
sciences,  for  singing,  music,  spiritual  exercises,  physical  exercises, 
merely  to  provide  excuses  for  meeting  and  taking  their  amuse- 
ment collectively:  there  were  Vfreinc  for  the  various  districts 
and  the  various  corporations:  there  were  Vcrcinc  for  men  of  the 
same  position  in  the  world,  the  saint1  degree  of  wealth,  men 
of  the  same  social  weight,  who  wore  the  same  handle  to  their 
names.  It  was  even  said  that  an  attempt  had  been  made  to 
form  a  Vcrcin  for  the  Vereinlosen  (those  who  did  not  belong 
to  any  Vert1  in-}  :  though  not  twelve  such  people  had  been  forth- 
coming. 

Within  this  triple  bandage  of  town,  caste,  and  union,  the 
soul  was  cramped  and  bound.  Character  was  suppressed  by  a 
secret  constraint.  The  majority  were1  brought  up  to  it  from 
childhood — had  been  for  centuries:  and  thev  found  it  good: 
they  would  have  thought  it  improper  and  unhealthy  to  go  with- 
out these  bandages.  Their  satisfied  smiles  gave  no  indication 
of  the  discomfort  thev  might  be  feeling.  But  Xature  alwavs 
took  her  revenge.  Everv  now  and  then  there  would  arise  some 
individual  in  revolt,  some  vigorous  artist  or  unbridled  thinker 
who  would  brutally  break  his  bonds  and  set  the  city  fathers  by 
the  ears.  They  were  so  clever  that,  if  the  rebel  had  not  been 
stifled  in  the  embryo,  and  became  the  stronger,  they  never 
troubled  to  tight  him — (a  tight  migbt  have  produced  all  sorts 
of  scandalous  outbreaks): — thev  bought  him  up.  If  he  were 
a  painter,  they  sent  him  to  the  museum  :  if  he  were  a  thinker,  to 
the  libraries.  It  was  <|iiii"  useless  for  him  to  roar  out  all  sorts 
of  outrageous  things:  thev  pretended  not  to  hear  him.  It  was 
in  vain  for  him  to  protest  his  independence:  they  incorporated 
him  as  one  of  themselves.  So  the  elV»ct  of  the  poison  was 
neutralized:  it  was  the  homeopathic  treatment. — But  such  cases 
were  rare,  most  of  the  rebellions  never  reached  the  light  of  day. 


THE  BURNING  BUSH  265 

Their  peaceful  houses  concealed  unsuspected  tragedies.  The 
master  of  a  great  house  would  go  quietly  and  throw  himself 
into  the  river,  and  leave  no  explanation.  Sometimes  a  man 
would  go  into  retirement  for  six  months,  sometimes  he  would 
send  his  wife  to  an  asylum  to  restore  her  mind.  Such  things 
were  spoken  of  quite  openly,  as  though  they  were  quite  natural, 
with  that  placidity  which  is  one  of  the  great  features  of  the 
town,  the  inhabitants  of  which  are  able  to  maintain  it  in  the 
face  of  suffering  and  death. 

These  solid  burgesses,  who  were  hard  upon  themselves  be- 
cause they  knew  their  own  worth,  were  much  less  hard  on  others 
because  they  esteemed  them  less.  They  were  quite  liberal  to- 
wards the  foreigners  dwelling  in  the  town  like  Christophe, 
German  professors,  and  political  refugees,  because  they  had  no 
sort  of  feeling  about  them.  And.  besides,  they  loved  intelli- 
gence. Advanced  ideas  had  no  terrors  for  them :  they  knew 
that  their  sons  were  impervious  to  their  influence.  They  were 
coldly  cordial  to  their  guests,  and  kept  them  at  a  distance. 

Christophe  did  not  need  to  have  these  things  underlined. 
He  was  in  a  state  of  raw  sensitiveness  which  left  his  feelings 
absolutely  unprotected :  he  was  only  too  ready  to  see  egoism 
and  indifference  everywhere,  and  to  withdraw  into  himself. 

To  make  matters  worse.  Braun's  patient?,  and  the  very  limited 
circle  to  which  his  wife  belonged,  all  moved  in  a  little  Protestant 
societv  which  was  particularly  strict.  Christophe  was  ill- 
regarded  by  them  both  as  a  Papist  by  origin  and  a  heretic  in 
fact.  For  his  part,  he  found  many  things  which  shocked  him. 
Although  he  no  longer  believed,  yet  he  bore  the  marks  of  his 
inherited  Catholicism,  which  was  more  poetic  than  a  matter  of 
reason,  more  indulgent  towards  Nature,  and  never  suffered  ihe 
self-torment  of  trying  to  explain  and  understand  what  to  love 
and  what  not  to  love:  and  also  he  had  the  habits  of  intellectual 
and  moral  freedom  which  he  had  unwittingly  come  by  in  Paris. 
It  was  inevitable  that  he  should  come  into  collision  with  the 
little  pious  groups  of  people  in  whom  all  the  defects  of  the 
Calvinistic  spirit  were  marked  and  exaggerated  :  a  rationalistic 
religion,  which  clipped  the  wings  of  faith  and  left  it  damrlinji 
over  the  abyss:  for  it  started  with  an  a  priori  reason  which  was 
open  to  discussion  like  all  mysticism  :  it  was  no  longer  poetry, 


266         JEAN-CHRISTOPHE :    JOURNEY'S  END 

nor  was  it  prose,  it  was  poetry  translated  into  prose.  They 
had  pride  of  intellect,  an  absolute,  dangerous  faith  in  reason — 
in  their  reason.  They  could  not  believe  in  God  or  in  immor- 
tality: but  they  believed  in  reason  as  a  Catholic  believes  in  the 
Pope,  or  as  a  fetish-worshiper  believes  in  his  idol.  They  never 
even  dreamed  of  discussing  the  matter.  In  vain  did  life  con- 
tradict it;  they  would  rather  have  denied  life.  They  had  no 
psychology,  no  understanding  of  Nature,  or  of  the  hidden  forces, 
the  roots  of  humanity,  the  "  Spirit  of  the  Earth."  They 
fashioned  a  scheme  of  life  and  nature  that  were  childish,  silly, 
arbitrary  figments.  Some  of  them  were  cultured  and  practical 
people  who  had  seen  and  read  much.  But  they  never  saw  or 
read  anything  as  it  actually  was :  they  always  reduced  it  to  an 
abstraction.  They  were  poor-blooded :  they  had  high  moral 
qualities:  but  they  were  not  human  enough:  and  that  is  the 
cardinal  sin.  Their  purity  of  heart,  which  was  often  very  real, 
noble,  and  naive,  sometimes  comic,  unfortunately,  in  certain 
cases,  became  tragic:  it  made  them  hard  in  their  dealings  with 
others,  and  produced  in  them  a  tranquil  inhumanity,  s"ll'- 
confident  and  free  from  anger,  which  was  quite  appalling. 
How  should  they  hesitate?  Had  they  not  truth,  right,  virtue, 
on  their  side?  Did  they  not  receive  revelation  direct  from 
their  hallowed  reason  ?  Keason  is  a  hard  sun :  it  gives  light, 
but  it  blinds.  In  that  withering  light,  without  shade  or  mist, 
human  beings  grow  pallid,  the  blood  is  sucked  up  from  their 
hearts. 

Now,  if  there  was  one  thing  in  the  world  that  was  utterly 
meaningless  to  Christophe  at  that  time  it  was  reason.  To  his 
eyes  its  sun  only  lit  up  the  walls  of  the  abyss,  and  neither 
showed  him  the  means  of  escape  nor  even  enabled  him  to  sound 
its  depths. 

As  for  the  artistic  world,  Christophe  had  little  opportunity 
and  less  desire  to  mix  with  it.  The  musicians  were  for  the 
most  part  worthy  conservatives  of  the  neo-Schumann  period 
and  "Brahmins"  of  the  typo  against  which  Christophe  had 
formerly  broken  many  a  lance.  There  were  t\vo  exceptions : 
Krebs,  the  organist,  who  kept  a  famous  confectioner's  shop,  an 
honest  man  and  a  good  musician,  who  would  have  been  an 
even  better  one  if,  to  adapt  the  quip  of  one  of  his  fellow- 


THE  BURNING  BUSH  207 

countrymen,  "he  had  not  heen  seated  on  a  Pegasus  which  he 
overfed  with  hay," — and' a  young  Jewish  composer  of  an  original 
talent,  a  man  full  of  a  vigorous  and  turbid  sap,  who  had  a 
business  in  the  Swiss  trade :  wood  carvings,  chalets,  and  Berne 
bears.  They  were  more  independent  than  the  others,  no  doubt 
because  they  did  not  make  a  trade  of  their  art,  and  they  would 
have  been  very  glad  to  come  in  touch  with  Christophe :  and  at 
any  other  time  Christophe  would  have  been  interested  to  know 
them:  but  at  this  period  of  his  life,  all  artistic  and  human 
curiosity  was  blunted  in  him:  lie  was  more  conscious  of  the 
division  between  himself  and  other  men  than  of  the  bond  of 
union. 

His  only  friend,  the  confidant  of  his  thoughts,  was  the  river 
that  ran  through  the  city — the  same  mighty  fatherly  river  that 
washed  the  walls  of  his  native  town  up  north.  In  the  river 
Cbristophe  could  recover  the  memory  of  his  childish  dreams.  .  .  . 
But  in  his  sorrow  they  took  on.  like  the  Rhine  itself,  a  darkling 
hue.  In  the  dying  day  ho  would  lean  against  the  parapet  of 
the  embankment  and  look  down  at  the  rushing  river,  the  fused 
and  fusing,  heavy,  opaque,  and  hurrying  mass,  which  was  always 
like  a  dream  of  the  past,  wherein  nothing  could  be  clearly  seen 
but  great  moving  veils,  thousands  of  streams,  currents,  eddies 
twisting  into  form,  then  fading  away:  it  was  like  the  blurred 
procession  of  mental  images  in  a  fevered  mind:  forever  taking 
shape,  forever  melting  away.  Over  this  twilight  dream  there 
skimmed  phantom  ferry-boats,  like  coffins,  with  never  a  human 
form  in  them.  Darker  grew  the  night.  The  river  became 
bronze.  The  lights  upon  its  banks  made  its  armor  shine  with 
an  inky  blackness,  casting  dim  reflections,  the  coppery  reflections 
of  the  gas  lamps,  the  moon-like  reflections  of  the  electric  lights, 
the  blood-red  reflections  of  the  candles  in  the  windows  of  the 
houses.  The  river's  murmur  filled  the  darkness  with  its  eternal 
muttering  that  was  far  more  sad  than  the  monotony  of  the 
sea.  .  .  . 

For  hours  together  Christophe  would  stand  drinking  in  the 
song  of  death  and  weariness  of  life.  Only  with  difficulty  could 
he  tear  himself  away:  then  he  would  climb  up  to  the  house 
again,  up  the  steep  alleys  with  their  red  steps,  which  were  worn 
away  in  the  middle:  broken  in  soul  and  body  he  would  cling 


268         JEAN-CHRISTOPHE :    JOURNEY'S  EXD 

to  the  iron  hand-rail  fastened  to  the  walls,  which  gleamed  under 
the  light  thrown  down  from  the  empty  square  on  the  hilltop  in 
front  of  the  church  that  was  shrouded  in  darkness.  .  .  . 

He  could  not  understand  why  men  went  on  living.  When 
he  remembered  the  struggles  he  had  seen,  he  felt  a  bitter  ad- 
miration for  the  undying  faith  of  humanity.  Ideas  succeeded 
the  ideas  most  directly  opposed  to  them,  reaction  followed  action: 
— democracy,  aristocracy:  socialism,  individualism:  romanticism, 
classicism:  progress,  tradition: — and  so  on  to  the  end  of  time. 
Each  new  generation,  consumed  in  its  own  heat  in  less  than 
ten  years,  believed  steadfastly  that  it  alone  had  reached  the 
zenith,  and  hurled  its  predecessors  down  and  stoned  them: 
each  new  generation  bestirred  itself,  and  shouted,  and  took  to 
itself  the  power  and  the  glory,  only  to  be  hurled  down  and 
stoned  in  turn  by  its  successors  and  so  to  disappear.  Whose 
turn  next?  .  .  . 

The  composition  of  music  was  no  longer  a  refuge  for  Chris- 
tophe:  it  was  intermittent,  irregular,  aimless.  Write?  For 
whom?  For  men?  He  was  passing  through  an  acute  phase 
of  misanthropy.  For  himself?  lie  was  only  too  conscious  of 
the  vanity  of  art  with  its  impotence  to  top  the  void  of  death. 
Only  now  and  then  the  blind  force  that  was  in  him  would 
raise  him  on  its  mighty  boating  wing  and  then  fall  back,  worn 
out  by  the  elf'ort.  lie  was  like  a  storm  cloud  rumbling  in  the 
darkness.  With  Olivier  gone,  he  had  nothing  left.  He  hurled 
himself  against  everything  that  had  filled  his  life,  against  the 
feelings  that  he  had  thought  to  share  with  others,  against  the 
thoughts  which  he  had  in  imagination  had  in  common  with 
the  rest  of  humanity.  It  seemed  to  him  now  that  he  had  been 
the  plaything  of  an  illusion:  tin1  whole  life  of  society  was  based 
upon  a  colossal  misunderstanding  originating  in  speech.  We 
imagine  that  one  man's  thought  can  communicate  with  the 
thought  of  oilier  men.  In  reality  the  connection  lies  only  in 
words.  We  say  and  hear  words:  mil  one  word  has  the  same 
meaning  in  the  mouths  of  two  different  men.  Words  outrun 
the  reality  of  life.  AVe  speak  of  love  and  hatred.  There  is 
neither  love  nor  hatred,  friends  nor  enemies,  no  faith,  no 
passion,  neither  good  nor  evil.  There  are  only  cold  reflection^ 
of  the  lights  falling  from  vanished  suns,  stars  that  have  been 


THE  BURNING  BUSH  269 

dead  for  ages.  .  .  .  Friends?  There  is  no  lack  of  people  to 
claim  that  name.  But  what  a  stale  reality  is  represented  by 
their  friendship!  What  is  friendship  in  the  sense  of  the  every- 
day world?  How  many  minutes  of  his  life  does  he  who  thinks 
himself  a  friend  give  to  the  pale  memory  of  his  friend  ?  What 
would  he  sacrifice  to  him,  not  of  the  things  that  are  necessary, 
but  of  his  superfluity,  his  leisure,  his  waste  time?  What  had 
Christophe  sacrificed  for  Olivier? — (For  he  made  no  exception 
in  his  own  case:  he  excepted  only  Olivier  from  the  state  of 
nothingness  into  which  he  cast  all  human  beings). — Art  is  no 
more  true  than  love.  What  room  does  it  really  occupy  in  life? 
With  what  sort  of  love  do  they  love  it,  they  who  declare  their 
devotion  to  it?  .  .  .  The  poverty  of  human  feeling  is  in- 
conceivable. Outside  the  instincts  of  species,  the  cosmic  force 
which  is  the  lever  of  the  world,  nothing  exists  save  a  scattered 
dust  of  emotion.  The  majority  of  men  have  not  vitality  enough 
to  give  themselves  wholly  to  any  passion.  They  spare  themselves 
and  save  their  force  with  cowardly  prudence.  They  are  a  little 
of  everything  and  nothing  absolutely.  A  man  who  gives  him- 
self without  counting  the  cost,  to  everything  that  he  does,  every- 
thing that  he  suffers,  everything  that  he  loves,  everything  that 
he  hates,  is  a  prodigy,  the  greatest  that  is  granted  to  us  here 
on  earth.  Passion  is  like  genius:  a  miracle,  which  is  as  much 
as  to  say  that  it  does  not  exist. 

So  thought  Christophe:  and  life  was  on  the  verge  of  giving 
him  the  lie  in  a  terrible  fashion.  The  miracle  is  everywhere, 
like  fin»  in  stone:  friction  brings  it  forth.  We  have  little  notion 
of  the  demons  who  lie  slumbering  within  ourselves.  .  .  . 

.    .    .   I'cro  non.  mi  dcxtar,  deli!  purla  buwo!   .    .    . 

One  evening  when  he  was  improvising  at  the  piano.  Anna 
got  up  and  went  out.  as  she  often  did  when  (Miristophe  was 
playing.  Apparently  his  music  bored  her.  Christophe  had 
ceased  to  notice  it:  he  was  indifferent  to  anything  she  might 
think,  lie  went  on  playing:  then  lie  had  an  idea  which  he 
wished  to  write  down,  and  stopped  short  and  hurried  up  to 
his  room  for  the  necessary  paper.  As  he  opened  the  door  into 
the  next  room  and,  with  head  down,  rushed  into  the  darkness, 


270          JE A \T-CIimSTOPHE:    JOURNEY'S  END 

he  bumped  violently  against  a  figure  standing  motionless  just 
inside.  Anna.  .  .  .  The  shock  and  the  surprise  made  her 
cry  out.  Christophe  was  anxious  to  know  if  he  had  hurt  her, 
and  took  her  hands  in  his.  Her  hands  were  frozen.  She  seemed 
to  shiver, — no  doubt  from  the  shock.  She  muttered  a  vague 
explanation  of  her  presence  there : 

"I  was  looking  in  the  dining-room.    ..." 

He  did  not  hear  what  she  was  looking  for :  and  perhaps  she 
did  not  say  what  it  was.  It  seemed  to  him  odd  that  she  should 
go  about  looking  for  something  without  a  light.  But  he  was 
used  to  Anna's  singular  ways  and  paid  no  attention  to  it. 

An  hour  later  he  returned  to  the  little  parlor  where  he  used 
to  spend  the  evening  with  Braun  and  Anna.  He  sat  at  the 
table  near  the  lamp,  writing.  Anna  was  on  his  right  at  the 
table,  sewing,  with  her  head  bent  over  her  work.  Behind  them, 
in  an  armchair,  near  the  fire,  Braun  was  reading  a  magazine. 
They  were  all  three  silent.  At  intervals  they  could  hear  the 
pattering  of  the  rain  on  the  gravel  in  the  garden.  To  get  away 
from  her  Christophe  sat  with  his  back  turned  to  Anna.  Opposite 
him  on  the  wall  was  a  mirror  which  reflected  the  table,  the  lamp, 
the  two  faces  bending  over  their  work.  It  seemed  to  Christophe 
that  Anna  was  looking  at  him.  At  first  lie  did  not  pay  much 
attention  to  it;  then,  as  he  could  not  shake  off  the  idea,  he  began 
to  feel  uneasy  and  he  looked  up  at  the  mirror  and  saw.  .  .  . 
She  was  looking  at  him.  And  in  such  a  way!  He  was  petrified 
with  amazement,  held  his  breath,  watched  her.  She  did  not 
know  that  he  was  watching  her.  The  light  of  the  lamp  was 
cast  upon  her  pale  face,  the  silent  solemnity  of  which  seemed 
now  to  be  fiercely  concentrated.  Her  eyes — those  strange  eyes 
that  he  had  never  been  able  squarely  to  see — were  fixed  upon  him  : 
they  were  dark  blue,  with  large  pupils,  and  the  expression  in 
them  was  burning  and  hard  :  they  were  fastened  upon  him.  search- 
ing through  him  with  dumb  insistent  ardor.  Her  eyes?  Could 
they  be  her  eyes?  He  saw  them  and  could  not  believe  it.  Did 
he  really  see  them  ?  He  turned  suddenly.  .  .  .  Her  eyes  were 
lowered.  He  tried  to  talk  to  her,  to  force  her  to  look  up  at 
him.  Impassively  she  replied  without  raising  her  eyes  from  her 
work  or  from  their  refuge  behind  the  impenetrable  shadow  of 
her  bluish  eyelids  with  their  short  thick  lashes.  If  Christophe 


THE  BURNING  BUSH  271 

had  not  been  quite  positive  of  what  he  had  seen,  he  would  have 
believed  that  he  had  been  the  victim  of  an  illusion.  But  he 
knew  what  he  had  seen,  and  he  could  not  explain  it  away. 

However,  as  his  mind  was  engrossed  in  his  work  and  he  found 
Anna  very  uninteresting,  the  strange  impression  made  on  him 
did  not  occupy  him  for  long. 

A  week  later  Christophe  was  trying  over  a  song  he  had  just 
composed,  on  the  piano.  Braun,  who  had  a  mania,  due  partly 
to  marital  vanity  and  partly  to  love  of  teasing,  for  worrying  his 
wife  to  sing  and  play,  had  been  particularly  insistent  that  oven- 
ing.  As  a  rule  Anna  only  replied  with  a  curt  "No";  after 
which  she  would  not  even  trouble  to  reply  to  his  requests,  en- 
treaties, and  pleasantries:  she  would  press  her  lips  together  and 
seem  not  to  hear.  On  this  occasion,  to  Braun's  and  Christophe's 
astonishment,  she  folded  up  her  work,  got  up.  and  went  to  the 
piano.  She  sang  the  song  which  she  had  never  even  read.  It 
was  a  sort  of  miracle: — the  miracle.  The  deep  tones  of  her 
voice  bore  not  the  faintest  resemblance  to  the  rather  raucous 
and  husky  voice  in  which  she  spoke.  With  absolute  sureness 
from  the  very  first  note,  without  a  shade  of  difficulty,  without  the 
smallest  effort,  she  endued  the  melody  with  a  grandeur  that  was 
both  moving  and  pure:  and  she  rose  to  an  intensity  of  passion 
which  made  Christophe  shiver:  for  it  seemed  to  him  to  be  the 
very  voice  of  his  own  heart.  He  looked  at  her  in  amazement 
while  she  was  singing,  and  at  last,  for  the  first  time,  he  saw 
her  as  she  was.  lie  saw  her  dark  eyes  in  which  there  was 
kindled  a  light  of  wildness,  lie  saw  her  wide,  passionate  mouth 
with  its  clear-cut  lips,  the  voluptuous,  rather  heavy  and  cruel 
smile,  her  strong  white  teeth,  her  beautiful  strong  bands,  one 
of  which  was  laid  on  the  rack  of  the  piano,  and  the  sturdy  frame 
of  her  body  cramped  by  her  clothes,  emaciated  by  a  life  of 
economy  and  poverty,  though  it  was  easv  to  divine  the  youth, 
the  vigor,  and  the  harmony,  that  were  concealed  by  her  gown. 

She  stopped  singing,  and  went  and  sat  down  with  her  bands 
folded  in  her  lap.  Braun  complimented  her:  but  to  bis  wav 
of  thinking  there  had  been  a  lack  of  softness  in  her  singing. 
Christophe  said  nothing.  lie  sat  watching  her.  She  smiled 
vaguely,  knowing  that  he  was  looking  at  her.  All  the  evening 
there  was  a  complete  silence  between  them.  She  knew  quite 


272         JEAN-CHKISTOPHE :    JOURNEY'S  END 

well  that  she  had  risen  above  herself,  or  rather,  that  she  had 
been  '*  herself/'  for  the  first  time.  And  she  could  not  under- 
stand wiry. 

From  that  day  on  Christophe  began  to  observe  Anna  closely. 
She  had  relapsed  into  her  sullenness,  her  cold  indifference,  and 
her  mania  for  work,  which  exasperated  even  her  husband,  while 
beneath  it  all  she  lulled  the  obscure  thoughts  of  her  troubled 
nature.  It  was  in  vain  that  Christophe  watched  her.  he  never 
found  her  anything  but  the  stiff  ordinary  woman  of  their  first 
acquaintance.  Sometimes  she  would  sit  lost  in  thought,  doing 
nothing,  with  her  eyes  staring  straight  in  front  of  her.  They 
would  leave  her  so,  and  come  back  a  quarter  of  an  hour  later 
and  find  her  just  the  same:  she  would  never  stir.  When  her 
husband  asked  her  what  she  was  thinking  of.  she  would  rouse 
herself  from  her  torpor  and  smile  and  say  that  she  was  thinking 
of  nothing.  And  she  spoke  the  truth. 

There  was  nothing  capable  of  upsetting  her  equanimity.  One 
day  when  she  was  dressing,  her  spirit-lamp  burst.  In  an  instant 
Anna  was  a  macs  of  flames.  The  maid  rushed  away  screaming 
for  help.  Braun  lost  his  head,  flung  himself  about,  shouted  and 
yelled,  and  almost  fell  ill.  Anna  tore  away  the  hooks  of  her 
dressing-gown,  slipped  off  her  skirt  just  as  it  was  beginning  to 
burn,  and  stamped  on  it.  When  Christophc  ran  in  excitedly 
with  a  water-bottle  which  he  had  blindly  seized,  he  found  Anna 
standing  on  a  chair,  in  her  petticoat  with  her  arms  bare,  calmly 
putting  out  the  burning  curtains  with  her  hands.  She  got  burnt, 
said  nothing  about  it,  and  onlv  seemed  to  be  put  out  at  being 
seen  in  such  a  costume.  Shi1  blushed,  awkwardly  covered  her 
shoulders  with  her  arms,  and  wi;h  an  air  of  offended  dignity 
ran  away  into  the  next  room.  Christophe  admired  her  calm- 
ness: but  he  could  not  tell  whether  il  proved  her  courage  or  her 
insensibility.  He  was  inclined  to  the  latter  explanation.  In- 
deed. Anna  seemed  to  take  no  interest  in  anything,  or  in  other 
people,  o]1  in  herself.  Christophe  doubted  even  whether  she  had 
a  heart. 

lie  had  no  doubt  at  all  after  a  little  scene  which  he  happened 
to  witness.  Anna  had  a  little  black  dog.  witli  intelligent  soft 
eyes,  which  was  the  spoiled  darling  of  the  household.  Braun 


THE  BURNING  BUSH  273 

adored  it.  Christophe  used  to  take  it  to  his  room  when  lie  shut 
liimself  up  to  work;  and  often,  when  the  door  was  closed,  in- 
stead of  working,  he  would  play  with  it.  When  he  went  out, 
the  dog  was  always  waiting  for  him  at  the  door,  looking  out  for 
him,  to  follow  at  his  heels:  for  he  always  wanted  a  companion 
in  his  walks.  She  would  run  in  front  of  him.  pattering  along 
with  her  little  paws  moving  so  fast  that  they  seemed  to  lly. 
Every  now  and  then  she  would  stop  in  pride  at  walking  faster 
than  he:  and  she  would  look  at  him  and  draw  herself  up  archly. 
She  used  to  beg,  and  bark  furiously  at  a  piece  of  wood  :  but 
directly  she  saw  another  dog  in  the  distance  she  would  tear 
away  as  fast  as  she  could  and  tremblingly  take  refuge  between 
Christophe's  legs.  Christophe  loved  her  and  used  to  laugh  at 
her.  Since  he  bad  held  aloof  from  men  be  had  come  nearer  to 
the  brutes:  he  found  them  pitiful  and  touching.  The  poor  beasts 
surrender  with  such  absolute  confidence  to  those  who  are  kind 
to  them!  Man  is  so  much  the  master  of  their  life  and  death 
tliat  those  who  are  cruel  to  the  weak  creatures  delivered  into  their 
hands  are  guilty  of  an  abominable  abuse  of  power. 

Affectionate  though  the  pretty  creature  was  with  every  one.  sh<? 
had  a  marked  preference  for  Anna.  She  did  nothing  to  attract 
the  dog:  but  she  liked  to  stroke  her  and  let  her  snuggle  down 
in  her  lap.  and  see  that  she  was  fed,  and  she  seemed  to  love  her 
as  much  as  she  was  capable  of  loving  anything.  One  dav  the 
dog  failed  to  get  out  of  the  way  of  a  motor-car.  She  was  run 
over  almost  under  the  very  eyes  of  her  masters.  Shi1  was  still 
alive  and  yelping  pitiably.  Braun  ran  out  of  the  house  bare- 
headed: he  picked  up  the  bleeding  mass  and  tried  to  relieve  the 
dog's  suffering.  Anna  came  up.  looked  down  without  so  much 
as  stooping,  made  a  face  of  disgust,  and  went  awav  again. 
Braun  watched  the  little  creature's  agony  with  tears  in  his  eyes. 
Christophe  was  striding  up  and  down  the  garden  with  clenched 
fists.  He  heard  Anna  quietly  giving  orders  to  the  servant.  He 
could  not  help  crying  out : 

"  It  doesn't  a  fleet:  you  at  all?  '' 

She  replied  : 

"There's  nothing  to  be  done.  It  is  better  not  to  think 
of  it." 

He  felt  that  he  hated  her :  then  he  was  struck  by  the  grotesque- 


27-i    JEAN-CHKISTOPHE :  JOURNEY'S  EXD 

ness  of  her  reply :  and  he  laughed.  He  thought  it  would  be  well 
if  Anna  could  give  him  her  recipe  for  avoiding  the  thought  of 
sad  things,  and  that  life  must  he  very  easy  for  those  who  are 
lucky  enough  to  have  no  heart.  He  fancied  that  if  Braun  were 
to  die,  Anna  would  hardly  be  put  out  by  it,  and  he  felt  glad 
that  he  was  not  married.  His  solitude  seemed  less  sad  to  him 
than  the  fetters  of  habit  that  bind  a  man  for  life  to  a  creature 
to  whom  he  may  be  an  object  of  hatred,  or  worse  still,  nothing 
at  all.  It  was  very  certain  that  this  woman  loved  no  one.  She 
hardly  existed.  The  atmosphere  of  piety  had  withered  her. 

She  took  Christophe  by  surprise  one  day  at  the  end  of  October. 
— They  were  at  dinner.  He  was  talking  to  Braun  about  a  crime 
of  passion  which  was  the  sole  topic  in  the  town.  In  the  country 
two  Italian  girls,  sisters,  had  fallen  in  love  with  the  same  man. 
They  were  both  unable  to  make  the  sacrifice  with  a  good  grace, 
and  so  they  had  drawn  lots  as  to  who  should  yield.  But  when 
the  lot  was  cast  the  girl  who  had  lost  showed  little  inclination  to 
abide  by  the  decision.  The  other  was  enraged  by  such  faithless- 
ness. From  insult  they  came  to  blows,  and  even  to  fighting 
with  knives :  then,  suddenly,  the  wind  changed :  they  kissed  each 
other,  and  wept,  and  vowed  that  they  could  not  live  without 
each  other:  and,  as  they  could  not  submit  to  sharing  the  lover, 
they  made  up  their  minds  that  lie  should  be  killed.  This  they 
did.  One  night  the  two  girls  invited  the  lover  to  their  room, 
and  he  was  congratulating  himself  upon  such  twofold  favor;  and, 
while  one  girl  clasped  him  passionately  in  her  arms,  the  other 
no  less  passionately  stabbed  him  in  the  back,  it  chanced  that 
his  cries  were  heard.  People  came  and  tore  him  in  a  pitiable 
condition  from  the  embraces  of  his  charmers,  and  they  were 
arrested.  They  protested  that  it  was  no  one's  business,  and  that 
they  alone  were  interested  in  the  matter,  and  that,  from  the 
moment  when  they  had  agreed  to  rid  themselves  of  their  own 
property,  it  was  no  one  else's  concern.  Their  victim  was  not  a 
little  inclined  to  agree  with  their  line  of  argument:  but  the  law 
Avas  unable  to  follow  it.  And  Braun  could  not  understand  it 
either. 

"They  are  mad,"  he  said.  "They  should  be  shut  up  in  an 
asylum.  Beasts!  ...  I  can  understand  a  man  killing  him- 
self for  love.  I  can  even  understand  a  man  killing  the  woman 


THE  BURNING  BUSH  275 

he  loves  if  she  deceives  him.  ...  I  don't  mean  that  I  would 
excuse  his  doing  so :  but  I  am  prepared  to  admit  that  there  is 
a  remnant  of  primitive  savagery  in  us:  it  is  barbarous,  but  it  is 
logical :  you  kill  the  person  who  makes  you  suffer.  But  for  a 
woman  to  kill  the  man  she  loves,  without  bitterness,  without 
hatred,  simply  because  another  woman  loves  him,  is  nothing  but 
madness.  .  .  .  Can  you  understand  it,  Christophe?" 

"  Peuh !  "  said  Christophe.  "  I'm  quite  used  to  being  unable 
to  understand  things.  Love  is  madness." 

Anna,  who  had  said  nothing,  and  seemed  not  to  be  listening, 
said  in  her  calm  voice : 

"  There  is  nothing  irrational  in  it.  It  is  quite  natural. 
When  a  woman  loves,  she  wants  to  destroy  the  man  she  loves 
so  that  no  one  else  may  have  him." 

Braun  looked  at  his  wife  aghast,  thumped  on  the  table,  folded 
his  arms,  and  said : 

"  Where  on  earth  did  you  get  that  from  ?  .  .  .  What  ?  So 
you  must  put  your  oar  in,  must  you?  What  the  devil  do  you 
know  about  it  ?  " 

Anna  blushed  a  little,  and  said  no  more.     Braun  went  on: 

"  When  a  woman  loves,  she  wants  to  destroy,  does  she  ?  That's 
a  nice  sort  of  thing  to  say!  To  destroy  any  one  who  is  dear 
to  you  is  to  destroy  yourself. — On  the  contrary,  when  one  loves, 
the  natural  feeling  is  to  do  good  to  the  person  you  love,  to 
cherish  him,  to  defend  him,  to  be  kind  to  him,  to  be  kind  to 
everything  and  everybody.  Love  is  paradise  on  earth." 

Anna  sat  staring  into  the  darkness,  and  let  him  talk,  and  then 
shook  her  head,  and  said  coldly: 

'•  A  woman  is  not  kind  when  she  loves." 

Christophe  did  not  renew  the  experiment  of  hearing  Anna 
sing.  He  was  afraid  ...  of  disillusion,  or  what?  He  could 
not  tell.  Anna  was  just  as  fearful.  She  would  never  stay  in 
the  room  when  he  began  to  play. 

But  one  evening  in  November,  as  he  was  reading  by  the  fire, 
he  saw  Anna  sitting  with  her  sewing  in  her  lap.  deep  in  one 
of  her  reveries.  She  was  looking  blankly  in  front  of  her,  and 
Christophe  thought  he  saw  in  her  eyes  the  strangely  burning 
light  of  the  other  evening.  He  closed  his  book.  She  felt  his 


276         JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  :    JOURNEY'S  END 

eyes  upon  her,  and  picked  up  her  sewing.  With  her  eyelids 
down  she  saw  everything.  He  got  up  and  said : 

"  Come." 

She  stared  at  him,  and  there  was  still  a  little  uneasiness  in 
her  eyes:  she  understood,  and  followed  him. 

"Where  are  yon  going?''  asked  Braun. 

"  To  the  piano/'"  replied  Christophc. 

He  played.  She  sang.  At  once  he  found  her  just  as  she 
had  been  on  the  first  occasion.  She  entered  the  heroic  world 
of  music  as  a  matter  of  course,  as  though  it  were  her  own.  He 
tested  her  yet  further,  and  went  on  to  a  second  song,  then  to  a 
third,  more  passionate,  which  let  loose  in  her  the  whole  gamut 
of  passion,  uplifting  both  herself  and  him  :  then,  as  they  reached 
a  very  paroxysm,  he  stopped  short  and  asked  her,  staring  straight 
into  her  eyes : 

"  Tell  me,  what  woman  are  you?  " 

Anna  replied : 

"  I  do  not  know." 

He  said  brutally: 

"What  is  there  in  you  that  makes  you  sing  like  that?" 

She  replied : 

"  Only  what  you  put  there  to  make  me  sing/" 

"Yes?  Well,  it  is  not  out  of  place.  I'm  wondering  whether 
I  created  it  or  you.  How  do  you  conn1  to  think  of  such  tilings?  " 

"I  don't  know.  I  think  I  am  no  longer  myself  when  I  am 
singing." 

"  T  think  it  is  only  then  that  yon  are  yourself." 

Thev  said  no  more.  Her  cheeks  were  \vet  with  a  slight  per- 
spiration. Her  bosom  heaved,  but  she  spoke  no  word.  She 
stared  at  the  lighted  candles,  and  mechanically  scratcbed  away 
the  wax  that  had  trickled  down  the  side  of  the  candlestick.  lie 
drummed  on  the  keys  as  he  sat  looking  at  her.  They  exchanged 
a  few  awkward  remarks,  brusquely  and  roughly,  and  then  they 
tried  a  commonplace  remark  or  two.  and  finally  relapsed  into 
silence,  being  fearful  of  probing  any  farther.  .  .  . 

Xext  day  they  hardly  spoke:  they  stole  glances  at  each  other 
in  a  sort  of  dread.  But  they  made  it  a  habit  to  play  and  sing 
together  in  the  evening.  Before  long  they  began  in  the  after- 


THE  BUKNTNG  BUSH  277 

noon,  giving  a  little  more  time  to  it  each  day.  Always  the 
same  incomprehensible  passion  would  take  possession  of  her  with 
the  very  first  bars,  and  set  her  flaming  from  head  to  foot,  and, 
while  the  music  lasted,  make  of  the  ordinary  little  woman  an 
imperious  Venus,  the  incarnation  of  all  the  furies  of  the  soul. 
Bran n  was  surprised  at  Anna's  sudden  craze  for  singing,  but 
did  not  take  the  trouble  to  discover  any  explanation  for  a  men1 
feminine  caprice:  he  was  often  present  at  their  little  concerts, 
marked  time  with  his  head,  gave  his  advice,  and  was  perfectly 
happy,  although  he  would  have  preferred  softer,  sweeter  music: 
such  an  expenditure  of  energy  seemed  to  him  exaggerated  and 
unnecessary.  Christoplie  breathed  freely  in  the  atmosphere  of 
danger:  but  he  was  losing  his  head:  he  was  weakened  by  the 
crisis  through  which  he  had  passed,  and  could  not  resist,  and 
lost  consciousness  of  what  was  happening  to  him  without  per- 
ceiving what  was  happening  to  Anna.  One  afternoon,  in  the 
middle  of  a  song,  with  all  the  frantic  ardor  of  it  in  full  blast, 
she  suddenly  stopped,  and  left  the  room  without  making  any 
explanation.  Christophe  waited  for  her:  she  did  not  return. 
Half  an  hour  later,  as  he  was  going  down  the  passage  past  Anna's 
room,  through  the  half-open  door  he  saw  her  absorbed  in  grim 
prayer,  with  all  expression  frozen  from  her  face. 

However,  a  slight,  very  slight,  feeling  of  confidence  cropped 
up  between  them.  He  tried  to  make  her  talk  about  her  past: 
only  with  great  difficulty  could  he  induce  her  to  tell  him  a 
few  commonplace  details.  Thanks  to  Braun's  easy,  indiscreet 
good  nature,  he  was  able  to  gain  a  glimpse  into  her  intimate  life. 

She  was  a  native  of  the  town.  Her  maiden  name  was  Anna 
Maria  Senil.  Her  father,  Martin  Senll.  was  a  member  of  an 
old  commercial  house,  verv  old  and  enormously  rich,  in  whom 
pride  of  caste  and  religious  strictness  were  ingrained.  Being 
of  an  adventurous  temper,  like  nianv  of  his  fellow-countrymen, 
he  had  spent  several  years  abroad  in  (he  Mast  and  in  South 
America  :  he  had  even  made  bold  exploring  exped  il  ions  in  Central 
Asia,  whither  he  had  gone  to  advance  the  commercial  interests 
of  his  house,  for  love  of  science,  and  for  his  own  pleasure. 
By  dint  of  rolling  through  the  world,  he  had  not  only  gathered 
no  moss,  but  had  also  rid  himself  of  that  which  covered  him, 


278         JEAN-CHPJSTOPHE  :    JOURNEY'S  END 

the  moss  of  his  old  prejudices.  When,  therefore,  ho  returned  to 
his  own  country,  being  of  a  warm  temper  and  an  obstinate  mind, 
lie  married,  in  face  of  the  indignant  protests  of  his  family,  the 
daughter  of  a  farmer  of  the  surrounding  country,  a  lady  of 
doubtful  reputation  who  had  originally  been  his  mistress.  Mar- 
riage had  been  the  only  available  means  of  keeping  the  beautiful 
girl  to  himself,  and  he  could  not  do  without  her.  After  having 
exercised  its  veto  in  vain,  his  family  absolutely  closed  its  doors 
to  its  erring  member  who  had  set  aside  its  sacrosanct  authority. 
The  town — all  those,  that  is,  who  mattered,  who,  as  usual,  were 
absolutely  united  in  any  matter  that  touched  the  moral  dignity 
of  the  community — sided  bodily  against  the  rash  couple.  The 
explorer  learned  to  his  cost  that  it  is  no  less  dangerous  to 
traverse  the  prejudice  of  the  people  in  a  country  inhabited  by 
the  sectaries  of  Christ,  than  in  a  country  inhabited  by  those 
of  the  Grand  Lama.  He  had  not  been  strong  enough  to  live 
without  public  opinion.  He  had  more  than  jeopardized  his 
patrimony:  he  could  find  no  employment:  everything  was  closed 
to  him.  He  wore  himself  out  in  futile  wrath  against  the  affronts 
of  the  implacable  town.  His  health,  undermined  by  excess  and 
fever,  could  not  bear  up  against  it.  He  died  of  a  ilux  of  blood 
five  months  after  his  marriage.  Four  months  later,  his  wife,  a 
good  creature,  but  weak  and  feather-brained,  who  bad  never 
lived  through  a  day  since  her  marriage  without  weeping,  died 
in  childbirth,  casting  the  infant  Anna  upon  the  shores  which 
she  was  leaving. 

Martin's  mother  was  alive.  Even  when  they  were  dying  she 
had  not  forgiven  her  son  or  the  woman  whom  she  bad  refused 
to  acknowledge  as  her  daughter-in-law.  But  when  the  woman 
died — and  Divine  vengeance  was  appeased — she  took  the  child 
and  looked  after  her.  She  was  a  woman  of  the  narrowest  piety: 
she  was  rich  and  mean,  and  kept  a  draper's  shop  in  a  gloomy 
street  in  the  old  town.  She  treated  her  son's  daughter  less  as 
a  grandchild  than  as  an  orphan  taken  in  out  of  charity,  and 
therefore  occupying  more  or  less  the  position  of  a  servant  by 
wav  of  pavment.  However,  she  irave  her  a  careful  education: 
but  she  newer  departed  from  her  attitude  of  suspicious  strictness 
towards  her:  it  seemed  as  though  she  considered  the  vhild  guilty 
of  her  parents'  sin,  and  therefore  set  herself  to  chasten  and 


THE  BURNING  BUSH  279 

chastise  the  sin  in  her.  She  never  allowed  her  any  amusement: 
she  punished  everything  that  was  natural  in  her  gestures,  words, 
thoughts,  as  a  crime.  She  killed  all  joy  in  her  young  life. 
From  a  very  early  age  Anna  was  accustomed  to  being  bored  in 
church  and  disguising  the  fact:  she  was  hemmed  in  by  the 
terrors  of  hell:  every  Sunday  the  child's  heavy-lidded  eyes  used 
to  see  them  at  the  door  of  the  old  Niinstcr,  in  the  shape  of  the 
immodest  and  distorted  statues  with  a  lire  burning  between 
their  legs,  while  round  their  loins  crawled  toads  and  snakes. 
She  became  accustomed  to  suppressing  her  instincts  and  lying 
to  herself.  As  soon  as  she  was  old  enough  to  help  her  grand- 
mother, she  was  kept  busy  from  morning  to  night  in  the  dark 
gloomy  shop.  She  assimilated  the  habits  of  those  around  her, 
the  spirit  of  order,  grim  economy,  futile  privations,  the  bored 
indifference,  the  contemptuous,  ungracious  conception  of  life, 
which  is  the  natural  consequence  of  religious  beliefs  in  those  who 
are  not  naturally  religious.  She  was  so  wholly  given  up  to  her 
piety  as  to  seem  rather  absurd  even  to  the  old  woman :  she  in- 
dulged in  far  too  many  fasts  and  macerations:  at  one  period 
she  even  went  so  far  as  to  wear  corsets  embellished  with  pins, 
which  stuck  into  her  flesh  with  every  movement.  She  was  seen 
to  go  pale,  but  no  one  knew  what  was  the  matter.  At  last,  when 
she  fainted,  a  doctor  was  called  in.  She  refused  to  allow  him 
to  examine  her — (she  would  have  died  rather  than  undress  in 
the  presence  of  a  man) — but  she  confessed:  and  the  doctor  was 
so  angry  about  it  that  she  promised  not  to  do  it  again.  To 
make  quite  sure  her  grandmother  thereafter  took  to  inspecting 
her  clothes.  Tn  such  self-torture  Anna  did  not,  as  might  have 
been  supposed,  find  any  mystic  pleasure:  she  had  little  imagina- 
tion, she  would  never  have  understood  the  poetrv  of  saints  like 
Francis  of  Assisi  or  Teresa.  Tier  piety  was  sad  and  materialistic. 
When  she  tormented  herself,  it  was  not  in  any  hope  of  advantage 
to  be  gained  in  the  next  world,  but  came  only  from  a  cruel  bore- 
dom which  rebounded  against  herself,  so  that  she  only  found 
in  it  an  almost  angry  pleasure  in  hurting  herself.  Singularly 
enough,  her  hard,  cold  spirit  was.  like  her  grandmother's,  open 
to  the  influence  of  music,  though  she  never  knew  how  profound 
that  influence  was.  She  was  impervious  to  all  the  other  arts: 
probably  she  had  never  looked  at  a  picture  in  her  life:  she 


280         JEAN-CHRISTOPHE :    JOURNEY'S  EXD 

seemed  to  have  no  sense  of  plastic  beauty,  for  she  was  lacking 
in  taste,  owing  to  her  proud  and  wilful  indifference;  the  idea  of 
a  beautiful  body  only  awoke  in  her  the  idea  of  nakedness,  that 
is  to  say,  like  the  peasant  of  whom  Tolstoy  speaks,  a  feeling  of 
repugnance,  which  was  all  the  stronger  in  Anna  inasmuch  as 
she  was  dimly  aware,  in  her  relations  with  other  people  whom 
she  liked,  of  the  vague  sting  of  desire  far  more  than  of  the 
calm  impression  of  esthetic  judgment.  She  had  no  more  idea 
of  her  own  beauty  than  of  her  suppressed  instincts:  or  rather, 
she  refused  to  have  any  idea  of  it:  and  with  her  habitual  self- 
deception  she  succeeded  in  deluding  herself. 

Braun  met  her  at  a  marriage  feast  at  which  she  was  present, 
quite  unusually  for  her:  for  she  was  hardly  ever  invited  because 
of  the  evil  reputation  which  clung  to  her  from  her  improper 
origin.  She  was  twenty-two,  lie  marked  her  out;  not  that 
she  made  any  attempt  to  attract  attention.  She  sat  next  him 
at  dinner:  she  was  very  stiff  and  badly  dressed,  and  she  hardly 
ever  opened  her  mouth.  But  Braun  never  stopped  talking  to 
her,  in  a  monologue,  all  through  the  meal,  and  be  went  away  in 
raptures.  With  his  usual  penetration,  he  had  been  struck  by  his 
neighbor's  air  of  original  simplicity:  he  had  admired  her  com- 
mon sense  and  her  coolness:  also  he  appreciated  her  healthiness 
and  the  solid  domestic  qualities  which  she  seemed  to  him  to 
possess.  He  called  on  her  grandmother,  called  again,  proposed, 
and  was  accepted.  She  was  given  no  dowry:  Madame  Sentl 
had  left  all  the  wealth  of  her  family  to  the  town  to  encourage 
trade  abroad. 

At  no  point  in  her  life  had  the  young  wife  had  any  love  for 
her  husband;  the  idea  of  such  a  thing  never  seemed  to  her 
to  play  any  part  in  the  life  of  an  honest  woman,  but  rather 
to  be  properly  set  aside  as  guilty.  But  she  knew  the  worth  of 
Braun's  kindness:  she  was  grateful  to  him,  though  she  never 
showed  it,  for  having  married  her  in  spite  of  her  doubtful 
origin.  Besides,  she  had  a  very  strong  feeling  of  honor  between 
husband  and  wife.  For  the  first  seven  years  of  their  married 
life  nothing  had  occurred  to  disturb  their  union.  They  lived 
side  by  side,  as  it  were,  did  not  understand  each  other,  and  never 
worried  about  it:  in  the  eyes  of  the  world  they  were  a  model 
couple.  They  went  out  very  little.  Braun  had  a  fairly  large 


THE  BURNING  BUSH  281 

practice,  but  lie  had  never  succeeded  in  making  his  friends 
accept  his  wife.  No  one  liked  her :  and  the  stigma  of  her  birth 
was  not  yet  quite  obliterated.  Anna,  for  her  part,  never  put 
herself  out  in  order  to  gain  admission  to  society.  She  was 
resentful  on  account  of  the  scorn  which  had  cast  a  cloud  on 
her  childhood.  Besides,  she  was  never  at  her  ease  in  society, 
and  she  was  not  sorry  to  be  left  out  of  it.  She  paid  and  re- 
ceived a  few  inevitable  calls,  such  as  her  husband's  interests 
made  necessary.  Her  callers  were  inquisitive  and  scandalous 
women  of  the  middle-class.  Anna  had  not  the  slightest  interest 
in  their  gossip,  and  she  never  took  the  trouble  to  conceal  her 
indifference.  That  is  what  such  people  never  forgive.  So  her 
callers  grew  fewer  and  more  far  between,  and  Anna  was  left 
alone.  That  was  what  she  wanted :  nothing  could  then  come 
and  break  in  upon  the  dreams  over  which  she  brooded,  and 
the  obscure  thrill  and  humming  of  life  that  was  ever  in  her  body. 
Meanwhile  for  some  weeks  Anna  looked  very  unwell.  Her 
face  grew  thin  and  pale.  She  avoided  both  Christophe  and 
Braun.  She  spent  her  days  in  her  room,  lost  in  thought,  and 
she  never  replied  when  she  was  spoken  to.  Usually  Braun  did 
not  take  much  notice  of  her  feminine  caprices.  He  would  ex- 
plain them  to  Christophe  at  length.  Like  all  men  fated  to  be 
deceived  by  women  he  flattered  himself  that  he  knew  them 
through  and  through.  He1  did  know  something  about  them,  as 
a  matter  of  fact,  but  a  little  knowledge  is  quite  useless.  He 
knew  that  women  often  have  fits  of  persistent  moodiness  and 
blindly  sullen  antagonism:  and  it  was  his  opinion  that  it  was 
necessary  at  such  times  to  leave  them  alone,  and  to  make  no 
attempt  to  understand  or.  above  all.  to  find  out  what  they  were 
doing  in  the  dangerous  unconscious  world  in  which  their  minds 
were  steeped.  Nevertheless  he  did  begin  to  grow  anxious  about 
Anna.  He  thought  that  her  pining  must  he  the  result  of  her 
mode  of  life,  always  shut  up,  never  going  outside  the  town,  hardly 
ever  out  of  the  house.  He  wanted  her  to  go  for  walks:  but  he 
could  hardlv  ever  go  with  her:  the  whole  dav  on  Sundav  was 
taken  up  with  her  pious  duties,  and  on  the  other  days  of  the 
week  he  had  consultations  all  dav  long.  As  for  Christophe.  he 
avoided  going  out  with  her.  Once  or  twice  thev  had  gone  for 
a  short  walk  together,  as  far  as  the  gates  of  the  town  :  they 


282         JEAN-CHKISTOPHE :  JOURNEY'S    EXD 

were  bored  to  death.  Their  conversation  came  to  a  standstill. 
Nature  seemed  not  to  exist  for  Anna :  she  never'  saw  anything : 
the  country  was  to  her  only  grass  and  stones :  her  insensibility 
was  chilling.  Christophe  tried  once  to  make  her  admire  a 
beautiful  view.  She  looked,  smiled  coldly,  and  said,  with  an 
effort  towards  being  pleasant : 

"  Oh!  yes,  it  is  very  mystic.    ..." 

She  said  it  just  as  she  might  have  said: 

"  The  sun  is  very  hot." 

Christophe  was  so  irritated  that  he  dug  his  nails  into  the 
palms  of  his  hands.  After  that  he  never  asked  her  anything: 
and  when  she  was  going  out  he  always  made  some  excuse  and 
stayed  in  his  room. 

In  reality  it  was  not  true  that  Anna  was  insensible  to  Xature. 
She  did  not  like  what  are  conventionally  called  beautiful  land- 
scapes :  she  could  see  no  difference  between  them  and  other  land- 
scapes. But  she  loved  the  country  whatever  it  might  be  like — 
just  earth  and  air.  Only  she  had  no  more  idea  of  it  than  of 
her  other  strong  feelings:  and  those  who  lived  with  her  had 
even  less  idea  of  it. 

Braun  so  far  insisted  as  to  induce  his  wife  to  make  a  day's 
excursion  into  the  outskirts  of  the  town.  She  was  so  bored 
with  him  that  she  consented  for  the  sake  of  peace.  It  was 
arranged  that  they  should  go  on  the  Sunday.  At  the  last  mo- 
ment, the  doctor,  who  had  been  looking  forward  to  it  with 
childlike  glee,  was  detained  by  an  urgent  case  of  illness.  Chris- 
tophe went  with  Anna. 

It  was  a  fine  winter  day  with  no  snow:  a  pure  cold  air,  a 
clear  sky,  a  flaming  sun,  and  an  icy  wind.  They  went  out  on 
a  little  local  railway  which  took  them  to  one  of  the  lines  of  blue 
hills  which  formed  a  distant  halo  round  the  town.  Their  com- 
partment was  full:  they  were  separated.  They  did  not  speak 
to  each  other.  Anna  was  in  a  gloomy  mood  :  the  day  before 
she  had  declared,  to  Braun's  surprise,  that  she  would  not  go  to 
church  on  Sunday.  For  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  missed  a 
service.  Was  it  revolt?  .  .  .  Who  could  tell  what  struggles 
were  taking  place  in  her?  She  stared  blankly  at  the  seat  in 
iront  of  her,  she  was  pale :  she  was  eating  her  heart  out. 


THE  BURNING  BUSH  283 

They  got  out  of  the  train.  The  coldness  and  antagonism  be- 
tween them  did  not  disappear  during  the  first  part  of  their 
walk.  They  stepped  out  side  by  side:  she  walked  with  a  firm 
stride  and  looked  at  nothing:  her  hands  were  free:  she  swung 
her  arms  :  her  heels  rang  out  on  the  frozen  earth. — Gradually  her 
face  quickened  into  life.  The  swiftness  of  their  pace  brought 
the  color  to  her  pale  checks.  Her  lips  parted  to  drink  in  the 
keen  air.  At  the  turn  of  a  zigzag  path  she  began  to  climb 
straight  up  the  hillside  like  a  goat ;  she  scrambled  along  the  edge 
of  a  quarry,  where  she  was  in  great  danger  of  falling,  clinging 
to  the  shrubs.  Christophe  followed  her.  She  climbed  faster 
and  faster,  slipping,  stopping  herself  by  clutching  at  the  grass 
with  her  hands.  Christophe  shouted  to  her  to  stop.  She  made 
no  reply,  but  went  on  climbing  on  all  fours.  They  passed 
through  the  mists  which  hung  above  the  valley  like  a  silvery 
gauze  rent  here  and  there  by  the  bushes :  and  they  stood  in 
the  warm  sunlight  of  the  uplands.  When  she  reached  the  sum- 
mit she  stopped :  her  face  was  aglow :  her  mouth  was  open,  and 
she  was  breathing  heavily.  Ironically  she  looked  down  at  Chris- 
tophe  scaling  the  slope,  took  oil'  her  cloak,  flung  it  at  him,  then 
without  giving  him  time  to  take  his  breath,  she  darted  on. 
Christophe  ran  after  her.  They  warmed  to  the  game:  the  air 
intoxicated  them.  She  plunged  down  a  steep  slope:  the  stones 
gave  way  under  her  feet :  she  did  not  falter,  she  slithered,  jumped, 
sped  down  like  an  arrow.  Every  now  and  then  she  would  dart 
•a  glance  behind  her  to  see  how  much  she  had  gained  on  Chris- 
tophe. He  was  close  upon  her.  She  plunged  into  a  wood.  The 
dead  leaves  crackled  under  their  footsteps:  the  branches  which 
she  thrust  aside  whipped  back  into  his  face.  She  stumbled  over 
the  roots  of  a  tree.  He  caught  her.  She  struggled,  lunging 
out  with  hands  and  feet,  struck  him  hard,  trying  to  knock  him 
off:  she  screamed  and  laughed.  Her  bosom  heaved  against  him: 
fora  moment  their  cheeks  touched:  lie  tasted  the  sweat  that  Lay 
on  Anna's  brow:  he  breathed  the  scent  of  her  moist  hair.  She 
pushed  away  from  him  and  looked  at  him.  unmoved,  with 
defiant  eyes.  He  was  amazed  at  her  strength,  which  all  went 
for  nothing  in  her  ordinary  life. 

They  went  to  the  nearest  village,  joyfully  trampling  the  dry 
stubble  crisping  beneath  their  feet,  in  front  of  thean  whirled 


284          JEAN-CHRISTOPBE:    JOURNEY'S  END 

the  crows  who  were  ransacking  the  fields.  The  sun  was  burning, 
the  wind  was  biting.  He  held  Anna's  arm.  She  had  on  a 
rather  thin  dress:  through  the  stuff  he  could,  feel  the  moisture 
and  the  tingling  warmth  of  her  body.  He  wanted  her  to  put 
on  her  cloak  once  more:  «he  refused,  and  in  bravado  undid  the 
hooks  at  her  neck.  They  lunched  at  an  inn,  the  sign  of  which 
bore  the  figure  of  a  "wild  man"  (7. urn  irifden  ]\ianii}.  A  little 
pine-tree  grew  in  front  of  the  door.  The  dining-room  was  deco- 
rated with  German  quatrains,  and  two  chromolithographs,  one 
of  which  wras  sentimental :  In  the  S-jirinr/  (I  nt  Friililhif/).  and  the 
other  patriotic:  The  HaltJe  of  tfaiiil  Jacqne*,  and  a  crucifix 
with  a  skull  at  the  foot  of  the  cross.  Anna  had  a  voracious 
appetite,  such  as  Christophe  had  never  known  her  to  have. 
They  drank  freely  of  the  ordinary  white  wine.  After  their 
meal  they  set  out  once  more  across  the  fields,  in  a  blithe  spirit 
of  companionship.  In  neither  was  there  any  equivocal  thought. 
They  were  thinking  only  of  the  pleasure  of  their  walk,  the 
singing  in  their  blood,  and  the  whipping,  nipping  air.  Anna's 
tongue  was  loosed.  She  was  no  longer  on  her  guard  :  she  said 
just  whatever  came  into  .her  mind. 

She  talked  about  her  childhood,  and  how  her  grandmother 
used  to  take  her  to  the  house  of  an  old  friend  who  lived  near 
the  cathedral:  and  while  the  old  ladies  talked  they  sent  her 
into  the  garden  over  which  there  hung  the  shadow  of  the 
Milnslcr.  She  used  to  sit  in  a  corner  and  never  stir:  she  used 
to  listen  to  the  shivering  of  the  leaves,  and  watch  the  busy 
swarming  insects:  and  she  used  to  be  both  pleased  and  afraid. — 
(She  made  no  mention  of  her  fear  of  devils:  her  imagination 
was  obsessed  by  it:  she  had  been  told  that  they  prowled  round 
churches  but  never  dared  enter:  and  she  used  to  believe  that 
they  appeared  in  the  shape  of  animals:  spiders,  lizards,  ants, 
all  the  hideous  creatures  that  swarmed  about  her.  under  the 
leaves,  over  the  earth,  or  in  the  crannies  of  the  walls). — Then 
she  told  him  about  the  house  she  used  to  live  in.  and  her  sunless 
room:  she  remembered  it  wi<h  pleasure:  she  used  to  spend  many 
sleepless  nights  there,  telling  herself  things.  .  .  . 

"  What  things?" 

"Silly  things." 

"  Tell  me," 


THE  BURNING  BUSH  285 

She  shook  her  head  in  refusal. 

"Why  not?" 

She  blushed,  then  laughed,  and  added: 

"  In  the  daytime  too,  while  1  was  at  work." 

She  thought  for  a  moment.  laughed  onee  more,  and  then  said: 

"They  were  silly  things,  bad  things." 

He  said,  jokingly  : 

"  Weren't  YOU  afraid?" 

"Of  what?" 

"  Of  being  damned?  " 

The  expression  in  her  eyes  froze. 

'•  You  mustn't  talk  of  that,"  she  said. 

He  turned  the  conversation.  He  marveled  at  the  strength 
she  had  shown  a  short  while  before  in  their  seullle.  She  re- 
sumed her  confiding  expression  and  told  him  of  her  girlish 
achievements — (she  said  "  boyish,"  for.  when  she  was  a  child  she 
had  always  longed  to  join  in  the  games  and  lights  of  the  boys). — 
On  one  occasion  when  she  was  with  a  little  boy  who  was  a  head 
taller  than  herself  she  had  suddenly  struck  him  with  her  fist, 
hoping  that  he  would  strike  her  back.  But  he  ran  away  yelling 
that  she  was  beating  him.  Once,  again,  in  the  country  she 
had  climbed  on  to  the  back  of  a  black  cow  as  she  was  grazing: 
the  terrified  beast  flung  her  against  a  tree,  and  she  bad  narrowly 
escaped  being  killed.  Once  she  took  it  into  her  head  to  jump 
out  of  a  first-floor  window  because  she  bad  dared  herself  to 
do  it:  she  was  lucky  enough  to  get  off  with  a  sprain.  She  used 
to  invent  strange,  dangerous  gymnastics  when  she  was  left  alone 
in  the  bouse:  she  used  to  subject  her  body  to  all  sorts  of  queer 
experiments. 

"  Who  would  think  it  of  you  now.  to  see  you  looking  so 
solemn?  ..." 

"Ob!"  she  said,  "if  you  were  to  see  me  sometimes  when  I 
am  alone  in  mv  room  !  '' 
"'  What !     Even  now?  " 

She  laughed.  She  asked  him — jumping  from  one  subject  to 
another — if  lie  were  a  shot. 

lie  told  her  that  he  never  shot.  She  said  that  she  had  once 
shot  at  a  blackbird  with  a  gun  and  had  wounded  it.  He  waxed 
indignant. 


286         JEAN-CIIKISTOPHE  :    JOURNEY'S  END 

"  Oh !  "  she  said.     "  What  docs  it  matter?  " 

"  Have  you  no  heart  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know." 

"Don't  you  ever  think  the  beasts  are  living  creatures  like 
ourselves  ?  " 

"Yes,"  she  said.  "Certainly.  I  wanted  to  ask  you:  do 
you  think  the  beasts  have  souls?  " 

"Yes.     I  think  so." 

"  The  minister  says  not.  But  1  think  they  have  souls.  .  .  . 
Sometimes,"  she  added,  "  I  think  I  must  have  been  an  animal 
in  a  previous  existence." 

He  began  to  laugh. 

"There's  nothing  to  laugh  at,"  she  said  (she  laughed  too). 
"That  is  one  of  the  stories  I  used  to  tell  myself  when  I  was 
little.  I  used  to  pretend  to  be  a  cat,  a  dog.  a  bird,  a  foal,  a 
heifer.  I  was  conscious  of  all  their  desires.  I  wanted  to  be 
in  their  skins  or  their  feathers  for  a  little  while:  and  it  used 
to  be  as  though  I  really  was.  You  can't  understand  that?  " 

"  Y.OU  are  a  strange  creature.  But  if  you  feel  such  kinship 
with  the  beasts  how  can  you  bear  to  hurt  them?" 

"  One  is  always  hurting  some  one.  Some  people  hurt  me. 
I  hurt  other  people.  That's  the  way  of  the  world.  I  don't 
complain.  We  can't  afford  to  lie  squeamish  in  life!  I  often 
hurt  myself  for  the  pleasure  of  it." 

"Hurt  yourself?" 

"Myself.     One  day  I  hammered  a  nail  into  my  hand,  here.'' 

"  Why  ?  " 

"  There  wasn't  any  reason." 

(She  did  not  tell  him  that  she  had  been  trying  to  crucify 
herself.) 

"  Give  me  your  hand."  she  said. 

"What  do 'you  want  it  for?" 

"Give  it  me." 

He  gave  her  his  hand.  She  took  it  and  crushed  it  until  he 
cried  out.  They  played,  like  peasants,  at  seeing  bow  much  thev 
could  hurt  each  other.  They  were  happy  and  had  no  ulterior 
thought.  The  rest  of  the  world,  the  fetters  of  their  ordinary 
life,  the  sorrows  of  the  past,  fear  of  tin1  future,  the  gathering 
storm  within  themselves,  all  had  disappeared. 


THE  BURNING  BUSH  287 

They  had  walked  several  miles,  but  they  were  not  at  all  tired. 
Suddenly  she  stopped,  flung  herself  down  on  the  ground,  and 
lay  full  length  on  the  stubble,  and  said  no  more.  She  lay  on 
her  back  with  her  hands  behind  her  head  and  looked  up  at  the 
sky.  Oh!  the  peace  of  it,  and  the  sweetness!  ...  A  few 
yards  away  a  spring  came  bubbling  up  in  an  intermittent  stream, 
like  an  artery  beating,  now  faintly,  now  more  strongly.  The 
horizon  took  on  a  pearly  hue.  A  mist  hung  over  the  purple 
earth  from  which  the  black  naked  trees  stood  out.  The  late 
winter  sun  was  shining,  the  little  pale  gold  sun  sinking  down 
to  rest.  Like  gleaming  arrows  the  birds  cleft  the  air.  The 
gentle  voices  of  the  country  bells  called  and  answered  calling 
from  village  to  village.  .  .  .  Christophe  sat  near  Anna  and 
looked  down  at  her.  She  gave  no  thought  to  him.  She  was 
full  of  a  heartfelt  joy.  Her  beautiful  lips  smiled  silently.  He 
thought : 

"Is  that  you?     I  do  not  know  you." 

"  Xor  I.  Xor  I.  I  think  I  must  be  some  one  else.  T  am  no 
longer  afraid:  I  am  no  longer  afraid  of  Him.  .  .  .  Ah  !  How 
He  stifled  me,  how  Pie  made  me  suffer!  I  seemed  to  have  been 
nailed  down  in  my  coffin.  .  .  .  Xow  I  can  breathe:  this  body 
and  this  heart  are  mine.  My  body.  My  dear  body.  My  heart 
is  free  and  full  of  love.  There  is  so  much  happiness  in  me! 
And  I  knew  it  not.  I  never  knew  mvself !  What  have  you  done 
to  me?  ..." 

So  he  thought  he  could  hear  her  softly  sighing  to  herself. 
But  she  was  thinking  of  nothing,  only  that  she  was  happv,  onlv 
that  all  was  well. 

The  evening  had  begun  to  fall.  Behind  the  gray  and  lilac 
veils  of  mist,  about  four  o'clock,  the  sun,  weary  of  life,  was 
setting.  Christophe  got  up  and  went  to  Anna.  He  bent  down 
to  her.  She  turned  her  face  to  him.  still  dizzy  with  looking 
up  into  the  vast  sky  over  which  she  seemed  to  have  been  hanging. 
A  few  seconds  passed  before  she  recognized  him.  Then  her  eves 
stared  at  him  with  an  enigmatic  smile  that  told  him  of  the 
unease  that  was  in  her.  To  escape  the  knowledge  of  it  lie  closed 
his  eyes  for  a  moment.  When  he  opened  them  again  she  was  still 
looking  at  him:  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  for  many  days  they 
had  so  looked  into  each  other's  eyes.  It  was  as  though  they 


288         JEAN-CHHISTOPHE:    JOURNEY'S  END 

were  reading  each  other's  soul.  But  they  refused  to  admit  what 
they  had  read  there. 

He  held  out  his  hand  to  her.  She  took  it  without  a  word. 
They  went  back  to  the  village,  the  towers  of  which  they  could 
see  shaped  like  the  pope's  nose  in  the  heart  of  the  valley :  one 
of  the  towers  had  an  empty  storks'  nest  on  the  top  of  its  roof 
of  mossy  tiles,  looking  just  like  a  toque  on  a  woman's  head. 
At  a  cross-roads  just  outside  the  village  they  passed  a  fountain 
above  which  stood  a  little  Catholic  saint,  a  Avooden  Magdalene, 
graciously  and  a  little  mincingly  holding  out  her  arms.  With 
an  instinctive  movement  Anna  responded  to  the  gesture  and 
held  out  her  arms  also,  and  she  climbed  on  to  the  curb  and  filled 
the  arms  of  the  pretty  little  goddess  with  branches  of  holly  and 
mountain-ash  with  such  of  their  red  berries  as  the  birds  and  the 
frost  had  spared. 

On  the  road  they  passed  little  groups  of  peasants  and  peasant 
women  in  their  Sunday  clothes :  women  with  brown  skins,  very 
red  cheeks,  thick  plaits  coiled  round  their  heads,  light  dresses, 
and  hats  with  flowers.  They  wore  white  gloves  and  red  cuffs. 
They  were  singing  simple  songs  with  shrill  placid  voices  not 
very  much  in  tune.  In  a  stable  a  cow  was  mooing.  A  child 
with  whooping-cough  was  coughing  in  a  house.  A  little  farther 
on  there  came  up  the  nasal  sound  of  a  clarionet  and  a  cornet. 
There  was  dancing  in  the  village  square  between  the  little  inn 
and  the  cemetery.  Four  musicians,  perched  on  a  table,  were 
playing  a  tune.  Anna  and  Christophe  sat  in  front  of  the  inn 
and  watched  the  dancers.  The  couples  were  jostling  and  slang- 
ing each  other  vociferously.  The  girls  were  screaming  for  the 
pleasure  of  making  a  noise.  The  men  drinking  were  beating  time 
on  the  tables  with  their  fists.  At  any  other  time  such  ponderous 
coarse  joy  would  have  disgusted  Anna:  but  now  she  loved  it: 
she  had  taken  off  her  hat  and  was  watching  eagerly.  Christophe 
poked  fun  at  the  burlesque  solemnity  of  the  music  and  the 
musicians.  He  fumbled  in  his  pockets  and  produced  a  pencil 
and  began  to  make  lines  and  dots  on  the  back  of  a  hotel  bill: 
he  was  writing  dance  music.  The  paper  was  soon  covered:  he 
asked  for  more,  and  these  too  he  covered  like  the  first  with  his 
big  scrawling  writing.  Anna  looked  over  his  shoulder  with  her 
face  near  his  and  hummed  over  what  he  wrote :  she  tried  to 


THE  BURNIXG  BUSH  289 

guess  how  the  phrases  would  end,  and  clapped  her  hands  when 
she  guessed  right  or  when  her  guesses  were  falsified  by  some 
unexpected  sally.  When  he  had  done  Christophe  took  what 
he  had  written  to  the  musicians.  They  were  honest  Suabians 
who  knew  their  business,  and  they  made  it  out  without  much 
difficulty.  The  melodies  were  sentimental,  and  of  a  burlesque 
humor,  with  strongly  accented  rhythms,  punctuated,  as  it  were, 
with  bursts  of  laughter.  ]t  was  impossible  to  resist  their  im- 
petuous fun :  nobody's  feet  could  help  dancing.  Anna  rushed 
into  the  throng;  she  gripped  the  iirst  pair  of  hands  held  out 
to  her  and  whirled  about  like  a  mad  tiling;  a  tortoise-shell  pin 
dropped  out  of  her  hair  and  a  few  locks  of  it  fell  down  and 
hung  about  her  face.  Christophe  never  took  his  eyes  off  her : 
he  marveled  at  the  fine  healthy  animal  who  hitherto  had  been 
condemned  to  silence  and  immobility  by  a  pitiless  system  of 
discipline:  he  saw  her  as  no  one  had  ever  seen  her.  as  she  really 
was  under  her  borrowed  mask:  a  Bacchante,  drunk  with  life. 
She  called  to  him.  He  ran  to  her  and  put  his  arms  round  her 
waist.  They  danced  and  danced  until  they  whirled  crashing 
into  a  wall.  They  stopped,  daxed.  Xight  was  fully  come.  They 
rested  for  a  moment  and  then  said  good-by  to  the  company. 
Anna,  who  was  usually  so  stiff  with  the  common  people,  partly 
from  embarrassment,  partly  from  contempt,  held  out  her  hand 
to  the  musicians,  the  host  of  the  inn,  the  village  hoys  with  whom 
she  had  been  dancing. 

Once  more  they  were  alone  under  the  brilliant  frozen  sky 
retracing  the  paths  across  the  fields  by  which  they  had  come 
in  the  morning.  Anna  was  still  excited.  She  talked  less  and 
less,  and  then  ceased  altogether,  as  though  she  had  succumbed 
to  fatigue  or  to  the  mysterious  emotion  of  the  night.  She  leaned 
affectionately  on  Christophe.  As  they  were  going  down  the 
slope  up  which  they  had  so  blithely  scrambled  a  few  hours  be- 
fore, she  sighed.  They  approached  the  station.  As  they  came 
to  the  first  house  he  stopped  and  looked  at  her.  She  looked  up 
at  him  and  smiled  sadly.  The  train  was  just  as  crowded  as  it 
had  been  before,  and  they  could  not  talk.  He  sat  opposite  her 
and  devoured  her  with  his  eyes.  Her  eyes  were  lowered  :  she 
raised  them  and  looked  at  him  when  she  felt  his  eyes  upon  her: 
then  she  glanced  away  and  he  could  not  make  her  look  at  him 


290          JEAX-CHRISTOPHK:    JOURNEY'S  EXD 

again.  She  sat  gazing  out  into  the  night.  A  vague  smile  hov- 
ered about  her  lips  which  showed  a  little  weariness  at  the 
corners.  Then  her  smile  disappeared.  Her  expression  became 
mournful.  He  thought  her  mind  must  be  engrossed  by  the 
rhythm  of  the  train  and  he  tried  to  speak  to  her.  She  replied 
coldly,  without  turning  her  head,  with  a  single  word.  He  tried 
to  persuade  himself  that  her  fatigue  was  responsible  for  the 
change:  but  he  knew  that  it  was  for  a  very  different  reason. 
The  nearer  they  came  to  the  town  the  more  he  saw  Anna's  face 
grow  cold,  and  life  die  down  in  her.  and  all  her  beautiful  body 
with  its  savage  grace  drop  back  into  its  casing  of  stone.  She 
did  not  make  use  of  the  hand  he  held  out  to  her  as  she  stepped 
out  of  the  carriage.  They  returned  home  in  silence. 

A  few  days  later,  about  four  o'clock  in  the  evening,  they  were 
alone  together.  Brann  had  gone  out.  Since  the  day  before 
the  town  had  been  shrouded  in  a  pale  greenish  fog.  The  mur- 
muring of  the  invisible  river  came  up.  The  lights  of  the  electric 
trams  glared  through  the  mist.  The  light  of  day  was  dead, 
stilled:  time  seemed  to  be  wiped  out:  it  was  one  of  those  hours 
when  men  lose  all  consciousness  of  reality,  an  hour  which  is 
outside  the  march  of  the  ages.  After  the  cutting  wind  of  the 
preceding  days,  the  moist  air  had  suddenly  grown  warmer,  too 
damp  and  too  soft.  The  sky  was  filled  with  snow,  and  bent 
under  the  load. 

They  were  alone  together  in  the  drawing-room,  the  cold 
cramped  taste  of  which  was  the  reflection  of  that  of  its  mistress. 
They  said  nothing.  He  was  reading.  She  was  sewing.  lie  got 
up  and  went  to  the  window:  lie  pressed  his  face  against  the 
panes,  and  stood  so  dreaming:  he  was  stupefied  and  heavy  with 
the  dull  light  which  was  cast  back  from  the  darkling  sky  upon 
the  livid  earth:  his  thoughts  were  uneasy:  l\e  tried  in  vain  to 
fix  them:  they  escaped  him.  He  was  filled  with  a  bitter  agony: 
he  felt  that  he  was  being  engulfed:  and  in  the  depths  of  his 
being,  from  the  chasm  of  the  heap  of  ruins  came  a  scorching 
wind  in  slow  gusts.  He  turned  his  back  on  Anna:  she  could 
not  see  him.  she  was  engrossed  in  her  work:  but  a  faint  thrill 
passed  through  her  body:  she  pricked  herself  several  times  with 


THE  BURNING  BUSH  291 

her  needle,  but  she  did  not  feel  it.     They  were  botli  fascinated 
by  the  approaching  danger. 

He  threw  off  his  stupor  and  took  a  few  strides  across  the  room. 
The  piano  attracted  him  and  made  him  fearful.  He  looked 
away  from  it.  As  he  passed  it  his  hand  could  not  resist  it,  and 
touched  a  note.  The  sound  quivered  like  a  human  voice.  Anna 
trembled,  and  let  her  sewing  fall.  Christophe  was  already  seated 
and  playing.  Without  seeing  her,  he  knew  that  Anna  had  got 
up,  that  she  was  coming  towards  him,  that  she  was  by  his  side. 
Before  he  knew  what  he  was  doing,  he  had  begun  the  religious 
and  passionate  melody  that  she  had  sung  the  first  time  she  had 
revealed  herself  to  him:  he  improvised  a  fugue  with  variations 
on  the  theme.  Without  his  saying  a  word  to  her,  she  began  to 
sing.  They  lost  all  sense  of  their  surroundings.  The  sacred 
frenzy  of  music  had  them  in  its  clutches.  .  .  . 

0  music,  that  openest  the  abysses  of  the  soul !  Thou  dost 
destroy  the  normal  balance  of  the  mind.  In  ordinary  life, 
ordinary  souls  are  closed  rooms:  within,  there  droop  the  unused 
forces  of  life,  the  virtues  and  the  vices  to  use  which  is  hurtful 
to  us:  sage,  practical  wisdom,  cowardly  common  sense,  are  the 
keepers  of  the  keys  of  the  room.  They  let  us  sec  only  a  few 
cupboards  tidily  and  properly  arranged.  But  music  holds  the 
magic  wand  which  drives  back  every  lock.  The  doors  are 
opened.  The  demons  of  the  heart  appear.  And,  for  the  first 
time,  the  soul  sees  itself  naked. — While  the  siren  sings,  while 
the  bewitching  voice  trembles  on  the  air,  the  tamer  holds  all 
the  wild  beasts  in  check  with  the  power  of  the  eye.  The  mighty 
mind  and  reason  of  a  great  musician  fascinates  all  the  passions 
that  he  sets  loose.  But  when  the  music  dies  away,  when  the 
tamer  is  no  longer  there,,  then  the  passions  he  has  summoned 
forth  are  left  roaring  in  their  tottering  cage,  and  they  seek 
their  prey.  .  .  . 

The  melody  ended.  Silence.  .  .  .  While  she  was  singing 
she  had  laid  her  hand  on  Christophers  shoulder.  Thev  dared 
not  move:  and  each  felt  the  other  trembling.  Suddenly— in  a 
flash — she  bent  down  to  him,  he  turned  to  her:  their  lips  met: 
he  drank  her  breath.  .  .  . 

She  flung  away  from  him  and  fled.     He  stayed,  not  stirring, 


292         JEAN-CHRISTOPHE:    JOURNEY'S  END 

in  the  dark.  Braun  returned.  They  sat  down  to  dinner. 
Christophe  was  incapable  of  thought.  Anna  seemed  absent- 
minded  :  she  was  looking  "  elsewhere."  Shortly  after  dinner  she 
went  to  her  room.  Christophe  found  it  impossible  to  stay  alone 
with  Braun,  and  went  upstairs  also. 

About  midnight  the  doctor  was  called  from  his  bed  to  a 
patient.  Christophe  heard  him  go  downstairs  and  out.  It  had 
been  snowing  ever  sinee  six  o'clock.  The  houses  and  the  streets 
were  under  a  shroud.  The  air  was  as  though  it  were  padded 
with  cotton-wool.  Not  a  step,  not  a  carriage  could  be  heard 
outside.  The  town  seemed  dead.  Christophe  could  not  sleep. 
He  had  a  feeling  of  terror  which  grew  from  minute  to  minute. 
He  could  not  stir.  He  lay  stiff  in  his  bed,  on  his  back,  with 
his  eyes  wide  open.  A  metallic  light  cast  up  from  the  white 
earth  and  roofs  fell  upon  the  walls  of  the  room.  .  .  .  An  im- 
perceptible noise  made  him  tremble.  Only  a  man  at  a  feverish 
tension  could  have  heard  it.  Came  a  soft  rustling  on  the  floor 
of  the  passage.  Christophe  sat  up  in  bed.  The  faint  noise 
came  nearer.,  stopped;  a  board  creaked.  There  was  some  one 
behind  the  door :  some  one  waiting.  .  .  .  Absolute  stillness  for 
a  few  seconds,  perhaps  for  several  minutes.  .  .  .  Christophe 
could  not  breathe,  he  broke  out  into  a  sweat.  Outside  flakes  of 
snow  brushed  the  window  as  with  a  wing.  A  hand  fumbled 
with  the  door  and  opened  it.  There  appeared  a  white  form, 
and  it  came  slowly  forward :  it  halted  a  few  yards  away  from 
him.  Christophe  could  see  nothing  clearly:  but  he  could  hear 
her  breathing :  and  he  could  hear  his  own  heart  thumping.  She 
came  nearer  to  him;  once  more  she  halted.  Their  faces  were  so 
near  that  their  breath  mingled.  Their  eyes  sought  each  other 
vainly  in  the  darkness.  .  .  .  She  fell  into  his  arms.  In 
silence,  without  a  word,  they  hugged  each  other  close,  fren- 
ziedly.  .  .  . 

An  hour,  two  hours,  a  century  later,  the  door  of  the  house 
was  opened.  Anna  broke  from  the  embrace  in  which  they 
were  locked,  slipped  away,  and  left  Christophe  without  a  word, 
just  as  she  had  come.  He  heard  her  bare  feet  moving  away, 
just  skimming  the  floor  in  her  swift  flight.  She  regained  her 
room,  and  there  Braun  found  her  in  her  bed,  apparently  asleep. 


THE  BURNING  BUSH  293 

So  she  lay  through  the  night,  with  eyes  wide  open,  breathless, 
still,  in  her  narrow  bed  near  the  sleeping  Braun.  How  many 
nights  had  she  passed  like  that ! 

Christophe  could  not  sleep  either.  He  was  utterly  in  despair. 
He  had  always  regarded  the  things  of  love,  and  especially  mar- 
riage, with  tragic  seriousness.  He  hated  the  frivolity  of  those 
writers  whose  art  uses  adultery  as  a  spicy  flavoring.  Adultery 
roused  in  him  a  feeling  of  repulsion  which  was  a  combination 
of  his  vulgar  brutality  and  high  morality.  He  had  always  felt 
a  mixture  of  religious  respect  and  physical  disgust  for  a  woman 
who  belonged  to  another  man.  The  doglike  promiscuity  in  which 
some  of  the  rich  people  in  Europe  lived  appalled  him.  Adultery 
with  the  consent  of  the  husband  is  a  filthy  thing:  without  the 
husband's  knowledge  it  is  a  base  deceit  only  worthy  of  a  rascally 
servant  hiding  away  to  betray  and  befoul  his  master's  honor. 
How  often  had  he  not  piteously  despised  those  whom  lie  had 
known  to  be  guilty  of  such  cowardice !  He  had  broken  with 
some  of  his  friends  who  had  thus  dishonored  themselves  in  his 
eyes.  .  .  .  And  now  he  too  was  sullied  with  the  same  shame- 
ful thing !  The  circumstances  of  the  crime  only  made  it  the 
more  odious.  He  had  come  to  the  house  a  sick,  wretched  man. 
His  friend  had  welcomed  him,  helped  him,  given  him  comfort. 
His  kindness  had  never  flagged.  Nothing  had  been  too  great  a 
demand  upon  it.  He  owed  him  his  very  life.  And  in  return 
he  had  robbed  the  man  of  his  honor  and  his  happiness,  his  poor 
little  domestic  happiness!  He  had  basely  betrayed  him,  and 
with  whom?  With  a  woman  whom  he  did  not  know,  did  not 
understand,  did  not  love.  .  .  .  Did  he  not  love  her?  His 
every  drop  of  blood  rose  up  against  him.  Love  is  too  faint  a 
word  to  express  the  river  of  fire  that  rushed  through  him  when 
he  thought  of  her.  It  was  not  love,  it  was  a  thousand  times  a 
greater  thing  than  love.  ...  He  was  in  a  whirl  all  through 
the  night.  He  got  up,  dipped  his  face  in  the  icy  water,  gasped, 
and  shuddered.  The  crisis  came  to  a  head  in  an  attack  of 
fever. 

When  he  got  up,  aching  all  over,  lie  thought  that  she.  even 
more  than  he,  must  be  overwhelmed  with  shame.  He  went  to 
the  window.  The  sun  was  shining  down  upon  the  dazzling 
snow.  In  the  garden  Anna  was  hanging  out  the  clothes  on  a 


294         JEAN-CHKISTOPHE  :    JOURNEY'S  END 

line.  She  was  engrossed  in  her  work,  and  seemed  to  be  in  no 
wise  put  out.  She  had  a  dignity  in  her  carriage  and  her  gesture 
which  was  quite  new  to  him,  and  made  him,  unconsciously.,  liken 
her  to  a  moving  statue. 

They  met  again  at  lunch.  Braun  was  away  for  the  whole  day. 
Christophe  could  not  have  borne  meeting  him.  He  wanted  to 
speak  to  Anna.  But  they  were  not  alone :  the  servant  kept 
going  and  coming :  they  had  to  keep  guard  on  themselves.  In 
vain  did  Christophe  try  to  catch  Anna's  eye.  She  did  not  look 
at  him  or  at  anything.  There  was  no  indication  of  inward 
ferment:  and  always  in  her  smallest  movement  there  was  the 
unaccustomed  assurance  and  nobility.  After  lunch  he  hoped 
they  would  have  an  opportunity  of  speaking:  but  the  servant 
dallied  over  clearing  away;  and  when  they  went  into  the  next 
room  she  contrived  to  follow  them :  she  always  had  something 
to  fetch  or  to  bring :  she  stayed  bustling  in  the  passage  near  the 
half-open  door  which  Anna  showed  no  hurry  to  shut :  it  looked 
as  though  she  were  spying  on  them.  Anna  sat  by  the  window 
with  her  everlasting  sewing.  Christophe  leaned  back  in  an  arm- 
chair with  his  back  to. the  light,  and  a  book  on  his  knee  which 
he  did  not  attempt  to  read.  Anna  could  only  see  his  profile,  and 
she  noticed  the  torment  in  his  face  as  he  looked  at  the  wall : 
and  she  gave  a  cruel  smile.  From  the  roof  of  the  house  and 
the  tree  in  the  garden  the  melting  snow  trickled  down  into  the 
gravel  with  a  thin  tinkling  noise.  Some  distance  away  was  the 
laughter  of  children  chasing  each  other  in  the  street  and  show- 
balling.  Anna  seemed  to  be  half-asleep.  The  silence  was  tor- 
ture to  Christophe:  it  hurt  him  so  that  he  could  have  cried  out. 

At  last  the  servant  went  downstairs  and  left  the  house.  Chris- 
tophe got  up,  turned  to  Anna,  and  was  about  to  say : 

"  Anna !  Anna  !  what  have  we  done  ?  " 

Anna  looked  at  him :  her  eyes,  which  had  been  obstinately 
lowered,  had  just  opened :  they  rested  on  Christophe,  and  de- 
voured him  hotly,  hungrily.  Christophe  felt  his  own  eyes  burn 
under  the  impact,  and  he  reeled ;  everything  that  he  wanted  to 
say  was  brushed  aside.  They  came  together,  and  once  more 
they  were  locked  in  an  embrace.  .  .  . 


THE  BURNING  BUSH  295 

The  shades  of  the  evening  were  falling.  Their  blood  was 
still  in  turmoil.  She  was  lying  down,  with  her  dress  torn, 
her  arms  outstretched.  He  had  buried  his  face  in  the  pillow, 
and  was  groaning  aloud.  She  turned  towards  him  and  raised 
his  head,  and  caressed  his  eyes  and  his  lips  with  her  fingers: 
she  brought  her  face  close  to  his,  and  she  stared  into  his  eye-?. 
Her  eyes  were  deep,  deep  as  a  lake,  and  they  smiled  at  each 
other  in  utter  indifference  to  pain.  They  lost  consciousness. 
He  was  silent.  Mighty  waves  of  feeling  thrilled  through 
them.  .  .  . 

That  night,  when  he  was  alone  in  his  room,  Christophe  thought 
of  killing  himself. 

Next  day,  as  soon  as  he  was  up,  he  went  to  Anna.  Now  it 
was  he  whose  eyes  avoided  hers.  As  soon  as  he  met  their  gaze 
all  that  he  had  to  say  was  banished  from  his  mind.  However, 
he  made  an  effort,  and  began  to  speak  of  the  cowardice  of 
what  they  had  done.  Hardly  had  she  understood  than  she 
roughly  stopped  his  lips  with  her  hand.  She  flung  away  from 
him  with  a  scowl,  and  her  lips  pressed  together,  and  an  evil 
expression  upon  her  face.  He  went  on.  She  flung  the  work 
she  was  holding  down  on  the  ground,  opened  the  door,  and 
tried  to  go  out.  He  caught  her  hands,  closed  the  door,  and  said 
bitterly  that  she  was  very  lucky  to  be  able  to  banish  from  her 
mind  all  idea  of  the  evil  they  had  done.  She  struggled  like 
an  animal  caught  in  a  trap,  and  cried  angrily : 

"  Stop !  .  .  .  You  coward,  can't  you  see  how  I  am  suffer- 
ing? ...  I  won't  let  you  speak!  Let  me  go!  '' 

Her  face  was  drawn,  her  expression  was  full  of  hate  and  fear, 
like  a  beast  that  has  been  hurt:  her  eyes  would  have  killed 
him,  if  they  could. — He  let  her  go.  She  ran  to  the  opposite 
corner  of  the  room  to  take  shelter.  He  had  no  desire  to  pursue 
her.  His  heart  was  aching  with  bitterness  and  terror.  Hraun 
came  in.  He  looked  at  them,  and  they  stood  stoekishly  there. 
Nothing  existed  for  them  outside  their  own  suffering. 

Christophe  went  out.  Braun  and  Anna  sat  down  to  their 
meal.  In  the  middle  of  dinner  Braun  suddenly  got  up  to  open 
the  window.  Anna  had  fainted. 


296         JEAN-CHKISTOPHE :    JOURNEY'S    END 

Christophe  left  the  town  for  a  fortnight  on  the  pretext  of 
having  been  called  away.  For  a  whole  week  Anna  remained 
shut  up  in  her  room  except  for  meal-times.  She  slipped  back 
into  consciousness  of  herself,  into  her  old  habits,  the  old  life 
from  which  she  had  thought  she  had  broken  away,  from  which 
we  never  break  away.  In  vain  did  she  close  her  eyes  to  what 
she  had  done.  Every  day  anxiety  made  further  inroads  into 
her  heart,  and  finally  took  possession  of  it.  On  the  following 
Sunday  she  refused  once  more  to  go  to  church.  But  the  Sunday 
after  that  she  went,  and  never  omitted  it  again.  She  was 
conquered,  but  not  submissive.  God  was  the  enemy. — an  enemy 
from  whose  power  she  could  not  free  herself.  She  went  to 
Him  with  the  sullen  anger  of  a  slave  who  is  forced  into  obedi- 
ence. During  service  her  face  showed  nothing  but  cold  hos- 
tility :  but  in  the  depths  of  her  soul  the  whole  of  her  religious 
life  was  a  fierce,  dumbly  exasperated  struggle  against  the  Master 
whose  reproaches  persecuted  her.  She  pretended  not  to  hear. 
She  had  to  hear :  and  bitterly,  savagely,  with  clenched  teeth, 
hard  eyes,  and  a  deep  frowrning  furrow  in  her  forehead,  she 
would  argue  with  God.  She  thought  of  Christophe  with  hatred. 
She  could  not  forgive  him  for  having  delivered  her  for  one 
moment  from  the  prison  of  her  soul,  only  to  let  her  fall  back 
into  it  again,  to  be  the  prey  of  its  tormentors.  She  could  not 
sleep;  day  and  night  she  went  over  and  over  the  same  torturing 
thoughts:  she  did  not  complain:  she  went  on  obstinately  doing 
her  household  work  and  all  her  other  duties,  and  throughout 
maintaining  the  unyielding  and  obstinate  character  of  her  will 
in  her  daily  life,  the  various  tasks  of  which  she  fulfilled  with 
the  regularity  of  a  machine.  She  grew  thin,  and  seemed  to  1)6 
a  prey  to  some  internal  malady.  Braun  questioned  her  fondly 
and  anxiously :  he  wanted  to  sound  her.  She  repulsed  him 
angrily.  The  greater  her  remorse  grew  for  what  she  had  done 
to  him,  the  more  harshly  she  spoke  to  him. 

Christophe  had  determined  not  io  return.  He  wore  himself 
out.  He  took  long  runs  and  violent  exercise,  rowed,  walked, 
climbed  mountains.  Nothing  was  able  to  quench  the  fire  in 
him. 

He  was  more  the  victim  of  passion  than  an  ordinary  man. 
It  is  the  necessity  of  the  nature  of  men  of  genius.  Even  the 


THE  BURNING  BUSH  207 

most  chaste,  like  Beethoven  and  Biirchner,  must  always  be  in 
love:  every  human  capacity  is  raised  to  a  higher  degree  in  them. 
and  as,  in  them,  every  human  capacity  is  seized  on  by  their 
imagination,  their  minds  are  a  prey  to  a  continual  succession 
of  passions.  Most  often  they  are  only  transitory  fires :  ono 
destroys  another,  and  all  are  absorbed  by  the  great  blaze  of  the 
creative  spirit.  But  if  the  heat  of  the  furnace  ceases  to  fill  the 
soul,  then  the  soul  is  left  defenseless  against  the  passions  without 
which  it  cannot  live :  it  must  have  passion,  it  creates  passion : 
and  the  passions  will  devour  the  soul  .  .  .  — and  then,  besides 
the  bitter  desire  that  harrows  the  flesh,  there  is  the  need  of 
tenderness  which  drives  a  man  who  is  weary  and  disillusioned  of 
life  into  the  mothering  arms  of  the  comforter,  woman.  A 
great  man  is  more  of  a  child  than  a  lesser  man :  more  than 
any  other,  he  needs  to  confide  in  a  woman,  to  lay  his  head  in 
the  soft  hands  of  the  beloved,  in  the  folds  of  the  lap  of  her 
gown. 

But  Christophe  could  not  understand.  ...  He  did  not 
believe  in  the  inevitability  of  passion — the  idiotic  cult  of  the 
romantics.  He  believed  that  a  man  can  and  must  fight  with 
all  the  force  of  his  will.  .  .  .  His  will !  Where  was  it  ?  Xot 
a  trace  of  it  was  left.  He  was  possessed.  He  was  stung  by  the 
barbs  of  memory,  day  and  night.  The  scent  of  Anna's  body 
was  with  him  everywhere.  He  was  like  a  dismantled  hulk, 
rolling  rudderless,  at  the  mercy  of  the  winds.  Tn  vain  did  he 
try  to  escape,  he  strove  mightily,  wore  himself  out  in  the  attempt : 
he  always  found  himself  brought  back  to  the  same  place,  and 
he  shouted  to  the  wind : 

"  Break  me,  break  me,  then  !  What  do  you  want  of  me  ?  " 
Feverishly  he  probed  into  himself.  Why,  why  this  woman? 
.  .  .  Why  did  he  love  her?  It  was  not  for  her  qualities 
of  heart  or  mind.  There  were  any  number  of  bettor  and  more 
intelligent  women.  It  was  not  for  her  body.  He  had  had  other 
mistresses  more  acceptable  to  his  senses.  What  was  it?  .  .  . 
— "  We  love  because  we  love." — Yes.  but  there  is  a  reason,  even 
if  it  be  beyond  ordinary  human  reason.  Madness?  That  means 
nothing.  Why  this  madness? 

Because  there  is  a  hidden  soul,  blind  forces,  demons,  which 
every  one  of  us  bears  imprisoned  in  himself.  Our  every  effort. 


298         JEAN-CHRISTOPHE :    JOURNEY'S  END 

since  the  first  existence  of  humanity,  has  been  directed  towards 
the  building  up  against  this  inward  sea  of  the  dykes  of  onr 
reason  and  our  religions.  But  a  storm  arises  (and  the  richest 
souls  are  the  most  subject  to  storms),  the  dykes  are  broken, 
the  demons  have  free  pbay,  they  find  themselves  in  the  presence 
of  other  souls  uptorn  by  similar  powers.  .  .  .  They  hurl  them- 
selves at  each  other.  Hatred  or  love  ?  A  f rcnzy  of  mutual  de- 
struction?— Passion  is  the  soul  of  prey. 

The  sea  has  burst  its  bounds.  Who  shall  turn  it  back  into 
its  bed?  Then  must  a  man  appeal  to  a  mightier  than  himself. 
To  Neptune,  the  God  of  the  tides. 

After  a  fortnight  of  vain  efforts  to  escape,  Christophe  returned 
to  Anna.  He  could  not  live  away  from  her.  He  was  stifled. 

And  yet  he  went  on  struggling.  On  the  evening  of  his  re- 
turn, they  found  excuses  for  not  meeting  and  not  dining  to- 
gether :  at  night  they  locked  their  doors  in  fear  and  dread. — But 
love-  was  stronger  than  they.  In  the  middle  of  the  night  she 
came  creeping  barefooted,  and  knocked  at  his  door.  She  wept 
silently.  He  felt  the  tears  coursing  down  her  cheeks.  She  tried 
to  control  herself,  but  her  anguish  was  too  much  for  her  and 
she  sobbed.  Under  the  frightful  burden  of  her  grief  Ohristophe 
forgot  his  own :  he  tried  to  calm  her  and  gave  her  tender,  com- 
fortable words.  She  moaned : 

"I  am  so  unhappy.     I  wish  I  were  dead.   ..." 

Her  plaint  pierced  his  heart.  He  tried  to  kiss  her.  She  re- 
pulsed him : 

"I  hate  you!    .    .    .     Why  did  you  ever  come?" 

She  wrenched  herself  away  from  him.  Sbe  turned  her  back 
on  him  and  shook  with  rage  and  grief.  Sbe  hated  him  mortally. 
Christophe  lay  still,  appalled.  In  the  silence  Anna  heard  his 
choking  breathing:  she  turned  suddenly  and  flung  her  arms 
round  his  neck : 

"  Poor  Christophe ! "  she  said.  "  I  have  made  you  suf- 
fer. ..." 

For  the  first  time  he  heard  pity  in  her  voice. 

"  Forgive  me,"  she  said. 

He  said : 

"  We  must  forgive  each  other." 


THE  BURNING  BUSH  299 

She  raised  herself  as  though  she  found  it  hard  to  breathe. 
She  sat  there,  with  bowed  back,  overwhelmed,  and  said : 

"I  am  ruined.  ...  It  is  God's  will,  lie  has  betrayed 
me.  .  .  .  What  can  I  do  against  Him?" 

She  stayed  for  a  long  time  like  that,  then  lay  down  again 
and  did  not  stir.  A  faint  light  proclaimed  the  dawn.  In  the 
half-light  he  saw  her  sorrowful  face  so  near  his.  He  murmured : 

"  The  day." 

She  made  no  movement. 

He  said: 

"  So  be  it.     What  does  it  matter  ?  " 

She  opened  her  eyes  and  left  him  with  an  expression  of  utter 
weariness.  She  sat  for  a  moment  looking  down  at  the  floor. 
In  a  dull,  colorless  voice  she  said: 

"  I  thought  of  killing  him  last  night." 

He  gave  a  start  of  terror : 

"  Anna  !  "  he  said. 

She  was  staring  gloomily  at  the  window. 

"Anna!"  he  said  again.  "In  God's  name!  .  .  .  Not 
him!  ...  He  is  the  best  of  us!  .  .  ." 

She  echoed : 

"  Not  him.     Very  well." 

They  looked  at  each  other. 

They  had  known  it  for  a  long  time.  They  had  known  where 
the  only  way  out  lay.  They  could  not  bear  to  live  a  lie.  And 
they  had  never  even  considered  the  possibility  of  eloping  to- 
gether. They  knew  perfectly  well  that  that  would  not  solve  the 
problem  :  for  the  bitterest  suffering  came  not  from  the  external 
obstacles  that  held  them  apart,  but  in  themselves,  in  their  differ- 
ent souls.  It  was  as  impossible  for  them  to  live  together  as  to 
live  apart.  They  were  driven  into  a  corner. 

From  that  moment  on  they  never  touched  each  other :  the 
shadow  of  death  was  upon  them  :  they  were  sacred  to  each  oilier. 

But  they  put  off  appointing  a  time  for  their  decision.  They 
kept  on  saying:  '''To-morrow,  to-morrow.  ..."  And  they 
turned  their  eyes  away  from  their  to-morrow.  Christophe's 
mighty  soul  had  wild  spasms  of  revolt:  he  would  not  consent 
to  his  defeat :  he  despised  suicide,  and  he  could  not  resign  himself 
to  such  a  pitiful  and  abrupt  conclusion  of  his  splendid  life.  As 


300         JEAN-CHBISTOPHE :    JOURNEY'S  EXD 

for  Anna,  how  could  she,  unless  she  were  forced,  accept  the  idea 
of  a  death  which  must  lead  to  eternal  death?  But  ruthless 
necessity  was  at  their  heels,  and  the  circle  was  slowly  narrowing 
about  them. 

That  morning,  for  the  first  time  since  the  betrayal,  Christophe 
was  left  alone  with  Braun.  Until  then  he  had  succeeded  in 
avoiding  him.  He  found  it  intolerable  to  be  with  him.  He 
had  to  make  an  excuse  to  avoid  eating  at  the  same  table :  the 
food  stuck  in  his  throat.  To  shake  the  man's  hand,  to  eat  his 
bread,  to  give  the  kiss  of  Judas!  .  .  .  Most  odious  for  him 
to  think  of  was  not  the  contempt  he  had  for  himself  so  much 
as  the  agony  of  suffering  that  Braun  must  endure  if  he  should 
come  to  know.  .  .  .  The  idea  of  it  crucified  him.  He  knew 
only  too  well  that  poor  Braun  would  never  avenge  himself,  that 
perhaps  he  would  not  even  have  the  strength  to  hate  them :  but 
what  an  utter  wreck  of  all  his  life!  .  .  .  How  would  he 
regard  him !  Christophe  felt  that  he  could  not  face  the  reproach 
in  his  eyes. — And  it  was  inevitable  that  sooner  or  later  Braun 
would  be  warned.  Did  he  not  already  suspect  something?  See- 
ing him  again  after  his  fortnight's  absence  Christophe  was  struck 
by  the  change  in  him  :  Braun  was  not  the  same  man.  His  gaiety 
had  disappeared,  or  there  was  something  forced  in  it.  At  meals 
he  would  stealthily  glance  at  Anna,  who  talked  not  at  all.  ate 
not  at  all,  and  seemed  to  be  burning  away  like  the  oil  in  a  lamp. 
With  timid,  touching  kindness  he  tried  to  look  after  her:  she 
rejected  his  attentions  harshly:  then  he  bent  his  head  over  his 
plate  and  relapsed  into  silence.  Anna  could  bear  it  no  longer, 
and  flung  her  napkin  on  the  table  in  the  middle  of  the  meal  and 
left  the  room.  The  two  men  finished  their  dinner  in  silence, 
or  pretended  to  do  so,  for  they  ate  nothing:  they  dared  not  raise 
their  eyes.  When  they  had  finished,  Christophe  was  on  the 
point  of  going  when  Braun  suddenly  clasped  his  arm  with  both 
hands  and  said : 

"  Christophe !  " 

Christophe  looked  at  him  uneasily. 

"Christophe,"  said  Braun  again — (his  voice  was  shaking), — 
"do  you  know  what's  the  matter  with  her?" 

Christophe  stood  transfixed :  for  a  moment  or  two  he  could 


THE  BURNING  BUSH  301 

find  nothing  to  say.  Braun  stood  looking  at  him  timidly :  very 
quickly  he  begged  his  pardon: 

"  You  see  a  good  deal  of  her,  she  trusts  you.    ..." 

Christophe  was  very  near  taking  Braun's  hands  and  kissing 
them  and  begging  his  forgiveness.  Braun  saw  Christophe's 
downcast  expression,  and,  at  once,  he  was  terrified,  and  refused 
to  see :  he  cast  him  a  beseeching  look  and  stammered  hurriedly 
and  gasped: 

"  No,  no.     You  know  nothing  ?     Nothing  ?  " 

Christophe  was  overwhelmed  and  said: 

"  No." 

Oh !  the  bitterness  of  not  being  able  to  lay  bare  his  offense, 
to  humble  himself,  since  to  do  so  would  be  to  break  the  heart 
of  the  man  he  had  wronged !  Oh  !  the  bitterness  of  being  unable 
to  tell  the  truth,  when  he  could  see  in  the  eyes  of  the  man  asking 
him  for  it,  that  he  could  not,  would  not  know  the  truth !  .  .  . 

"  Thanks,  thank  you.     I  thank  you   ..."  said  Braun. 

He  stayed  with  his  hands  plucking  at  Christophe's  sleeve  as 
though  there  was  something  else  he  wished  to  ask,  and  yet  dared 
not,  avoiding  his  eyes.  Then  he  let  go,  sighed,  and  went  away. 

Christophe  was  appalled  by  this  new  lie.  He  hastened  to 
Anna.  Stammering  in  his  excitement,  he  told  her  what  had 
happened.  Anna  listened  gloomily  and  said : 

"Oh,  well.     He  knows.     What 'does  it  matter?  " 

"  How  can  you  talk  like  that  ?  "  cried  Christophe.  "  It  is 
horrible !  I  will  not  have  him  suffer,  whatever  it  may  cost  us, 
whatever  it  may  cost." 

Anna  grew  angry. 

"And  what  if  he  does  suffer?  Don't  I  have  to  suffer?  Let 
him  suffer  too  !  " 

They  said  bitter  things  to  each  other.  He  accused  her  of 
loving  only  herself.  She  reproached  him  with  thinking  more  of 
her  husband  than  of  herself. 

But  a  moment  later,  when  he  told  her  that  he  could  not  go 
on  living  like  that,  and  that  he  would  go  and  tell  the  whole 
story  to  Braun,  then  she  cried  out  on  him  for  his  selfishness, 
declaring  that  she  did  not  care  a  bit  about  Christophe's  con- 
science, but  was  quite  determined  that  Braun  should  never  know. 

In  spite  of  her  hard  words  she  was  thinking  as  much  of  Braun 


302         JEAN-C1IRISTOPHE:    JOURNEY'S  END 

as  of  Christophe.  Though  she  had  no  real  affection  for  her 
husband  she  was  fond  of  him.  She  had  a  religious  respect  for 
social  ties  and  the  duties  they  involve.  Perhaps  she  did  not 
think  that  it  was  the  duty  of  a  wife  to  be  kind  and  to  love  her 
husband:  but  she  did  think  that  she  was  compelled  scrupulously 
to  fulfil  her  household  duties  and  to  remain  faithful.  It  seemed 
to  her  ignoble  to  fail  in  that  object  as  she  herself  had  done. 

And  even  more  surely  than  Christophe  she  knew  that  Braun 
must  know  everything  very  soon.  It  was  something  to  her  credit 
that  she  concealed  the  fact  from  Christophe,  either  because  she 
did  not  wish  to  add  to  his  troubles  or  more  probably  because 
of  her  pride. 

Secluded  though  the  Braun  household  was,  secret  though  the 
tragedy  might  remain  that  was  being  enacted  there,  some  hint 
of  it  had  trickled  away  to  the  outer  world. 

In  that  town  it  was  impossible  for  any  one  to  flatter  himself 
that  the  facts  of  his  life  were  hidden.  This  was  strangely  true. 
No  one  ever  looked  at  anybody  in  the  streets :  the  doors  and 
shutters  of  the  houses  were  closed.  But  there  were  mirrors 
fastened  in  the  corners  of  the  windows:  and  as  one  passed  the 
houses  one  could  hear  the  faint  creaking  of  the  Venetian  shutters 
being  pushed  open  and  shut  again.  Nobody  took  any  notice  of 
anybody  else:  everything  and  everybody  were  apparently  ignored  : 
but  it  was  not  long  before  one  perceived  that  not  a  single  word, 
not  a  single  gesture  had  been  unobserved:  whatever  one  did, 
whatever  one  said,  whatever  one  saw.  whatever  one  ate  was 
known  at  once:  even  what  one  thought  was  known,  or,  at  least, 
everybody  pretended  to  know.  One  was  surrounded  by  a  univer- 
sal, mysterious  watchfulness.  Servants,  tradespeople,  relations, 
friends,  people  who  were  neither  friends  nor  enemies,  passing 
strangers,  all  by  tacit  agreement  shared  in  this  instinctive 
espionage,  the  scattered  elements  of  which  were  gathered  to  a 
head  no  one  knew  how.  Not  only  were  one's  actions  observed, 
but  they  probed  into  one's  inmost  heart.  In  that  town  no  man 
had  the  right  to  keep  the  secrets  of  his  conscience;,  and  everybody 
had  the  right  to  rummage  amongst  his  intimate  thoughts,  and, 
if  they  were  offensive  to  public  opinion,  to  call  him  to  account. 
The  invisible  despotism  of  the  collective  mind  dominated  the 


THE  BUKNING  BUSH  303 

individual:  all  his  life  ho  remained  like  a  child  in  a  state  of 
tutelage:  he  could  call  nothing  his  own:  he  belonged  to  the 
town. 

It  was  enough  for  Anna  to  have  stayed  away  from  church 
two  Sundays  running  to  arouse  suspicion.  As  a  rule  no  one 
seemed  to  notice  her  presence  at  service:  she  lived  outside  the 
life  of  the  place,  and  the  town  seemed  to  have  forgotten  her 
existence. — On  the  evening  of  the  first  Sunday  when  she  had 
stayed  away  her  absence  was  known  to  everybody  and  docketed 
in  their  memory.  On  the  following  Sunday  not  one  of  the  pious 
people  following  the  blessed  words  in  their  Bibles  or  on  the 
minister's  lips  seemed  to  be  distracted  from  their  solemn  atten- 
tion :  not  one  of  them  had  failed  to  notice  as  they  entered,  and 
to  verify  as  they  left,  the  fact  that  Anna's  place  was  empty. 
Next  day  Anna  began  to  receive  visits  from  women  she  had 
not  seen  for  many  months :  they  came  on  various  pretexts, 
some  fearing  that  she  was  ill.  others  assuming  a  new  interest 
in  her  affairs,  her  husband,  her  house:  some  of  them  showed  a 
singularly  intimate  knowledge  of  the  doings  of  her  household  : 
not  one  of  them— (with  clumsy  ingenuity) — made  any  allusion 
to  her  absence  from  church  on  two  Sundays  running.  Anna 
said  that  she  was  unwell  and  declared  that  she  was  very  busy. 
Her  visitors  listened  attentively  and  applauded  her:  Anna  knew 
that  they  did  not  believe  a  word  she  said.  Their  eyes  wandered 
round  the  room,  prying,  taking  notes,  docketing.  They  did  not 
for  a  moment  drop  their  cold  affability  or  their  noisy  affected 
chatter:  but  their  eyes  revealed  the  indiscreet  curiositv  which 
was  devouring  them.  Two  or  three  with  exaggerated  indiffer- 
ence inquired  after  M.  Krafft. 

A  few  days  later— (during  Christophers  absence1). — the  min- 
ister came  himself.  He  was  a  handsome,  good-natured  creature, 
splendidly  healthy,  affable,  with  thai  imperturbable  tranquillity 
which  conies  1<>  a  man  from  the  consciousness  of  being  in  sole 
possession  of  the  truth,  the  whole  truth,  lie  inquired  anxiously 
after  the  health  of  the  members  of  his  Hock,  politely  and  ab- 
sently listened  to  the  excuses  she  gave  him.  which  he  had  not 
asked  for.  accepted  a  cup  of  tea.  made  a  mild  joke  or  two, 
expressed  his  opinion  on  the  subject  of  drink  that  the  wine  re- 
ferred to  in  the  Bible  was  not  alcoholic  liquor,  produced  several 


304         JEAX-CHRISTOPHE  :    JOURNEY'S  END 

quotations,  told  a  story,  and,  as  he  was  leaving,  made  a  dark 
allusion  to  the  danger  of  bad  company,  to  certain  excursions 
in  the  country,  to  the  spirit  of  impiety,  to  the  impurity  of 
dancing,  and  the  filthy  lusts  of  the  flesh.  He  seemed  to  be 
addressing  his  remarks  to  the  age  in  general  and  not  to  Anna. 
He  stopped  for  a  moment,  coughed,  got  up,  bade  Anna  give  his 
respectful  compliments  to  M.  Braun,  made  a  joke  in  Latin, 
bowed,  and  took  his  leave. — Anna  was  left  frozen  by  his  allusion. 
Was  it  an  allusion?  How  could  he  have  known  about  her  ex- 
cursion with  Christophe?  They  had  not  met  a  soul  of  their 
acquaintance  that  day.  But  was  not  everything  known  in  the 
town?  The  musician  with  the  remarkable  face  and  the  young 
woman  in  black  who  had  danced  at  the  inn  had  attracted  much 
attention:  their  descriptions  had  been  spread  abroad;  and,  as 
the  story  was  bandied  from  mouth  to  mouth,  it  had  reached  the 
town  where  the  watchful  malice  of  the  gossips  had  not  failed 
to  recognize  Anna.  No  doubt  it  amounted  as  yet  to  no  more 
than  a  suspicion,  but  it  was  singularly  attractive,  and  it  was 
augmented  by  information  supplied  by  Anna's  maid.  Public 
curiosity  had  been  a-tip-toe,  waiting  for  them  to  compromise 
each  other,  spying  on  them  with  a  thousand  invisible  eyes.  The 
silent  crafty  people  of  the  town  were  creeping  close  upon  them, 
like  a  cat  lying  in  wait  for  a  mouse. 

In  spite  of  the  danger  Anna  would  in  all  probability  not 
have  given  in :  perhaps  her  consciousness  of  such  cowardly  hos- 
tility would  have  driven  her  to  some  desperate  act  of  provocation 
if  she  had  not  herself  been  possessed  by  the  Pharisaic  spirit  of 
the  society  which  was  so  antagonistic  to  her.  Her  education  had 
subjugated  her  nature.  It  was  in  vain  that  she  condemned  the 
tyranny  and  meanness  of  public  opinion :  she  respected  it :  she 
subscribed  to  its  decrees  even  when  they  were  directed  against 
herself:  if  they  had  come  into  conflict  with  her  conscience,  she 
would  have  sacrificed  her  conscience.  She  despised  the  town: 
but  she  could  not  have  borne  the  town  to  despise  herself. 

Now  the  time  was  coming  when  the  public  scandal  would  be 
afforded  an  opportunity  of  discharging  itself.  The  carnival  was 
coming  on. 

In  that  city,  the  carnival  had  preserved  up  to  the  time  of  the 


THE  BURNING  BUSH  305 

events  narrated  in  this  history — (it  has  changed  since  then) — a 
character  of  archaic  license  and  roughness.  Faithfully  in  ac- 
cordance with  its  origin,  by  which  it  had  been  a  relaxation  for 
the  profligacy  of  the  human  mind  subjugated,  wilfully  or  in- 
voluntarily, by  reason,  it  nowhere  reached  such  a  pitch  of 
audacity  as  in  the  periods  and  countries  in  which  custom  and 
law,  the  guardians  of  reason,  weighed  most  heavily  upon  the 
people.  The  town  in  which  Anna  lived  was  therefore  one  of 
its  most  chosen  regions.  The  more  moral  stringency  paralyzed 
action  and  gagged  speech,  the  bolder  did  action  become  and 
speech  the  more  untrammeled  during  those  few  days.  Every- 
thing that  was  secreted  away  in  the  lower  depths  of  the  soul, 
jealousy,  secret  hate,  lewd  curiosity,  the  malicious  instincts  in- 
herent in  the  social  animal,  would  burst  forth  with  all  the 
vehemence  and  joy  of  revenge.  Every  man  had  the  right  to  go 
out  into  the  streets,  and,  prudently  masked,  to  nail  to  the  pillory, 
in  full  view  of  the  public  gaze,  the  object  of  his  detestation,  to 
lay  before  all  and  sundry  all  that  he  had  found  out  by  a  year 
of  patient  industry,  his  whole  hoard  of  scandalous  secrets  gath- 
ered drop  by  drop.  One  man  would  display  them  on  the  cars. 
Another  would  carry  a  transparent  lantern  on  which  were  pasted 
in  writings  and  drawings  the  secret  history  of  the  town.  An- 
other would  go  so  far  as  to  wear  a  mask  in  imitation  of  his 
enemy,  made  so  easily  recognizable  that  the  very  gutter-snipes 
would  point  him  out  by  name.  Slanderous  newspapers  would 
appear  during  the  three  days.  Even  the  very  best  people  would 
craftily  take  part  in  the  game  of  Pasquino.  Xo  control  was 
exercised  except  over  political  allusions, — such  coarse  liberty  of 
speech  having  on  more  than  one  occasion  produced  fierce  con- 
flict between  the  authorities  of  the  town  and  the  representatives 
of  foreign  countries.  But  there  was  nothing  to  protect  the  citi- 
zens against  the  citizens,  and  this  cloud  of  public  insult,  con- 
stantly hanging  over  their  heads,  did  not  a  little  help  to  maintain 
the  apparently  impeccable  morality  on  which  the  town  prided 
itself. 

Anna  felt  the  weight  of  that  dread — which  was  quite  un- 
jiistified.  She  had  very  little  reason  to  be  afraid.  She  occupied 
too  small  a  place  in  the  opinion  of  the  town  for  any  one  to 


306         JEAN-CHRISTOPHE :   JOURNEY'S  END 

think  of  attacking  her.  But  in  the  absolute  isolation  in  which 
of  her  own  choice  she  lived,  in  her  state  of  exhaustion  and 
nervous  excitement  brought  on  by  several  weeks  of  sleepless 
nights  and  moral  suffering,  her  imagination  was  apt  to  welcome 
the  most  unreasoning  terrors.  She  exaggerated  the  animosity 
of  those  who  did  not  like  her.  She  told  herself  that  suspicion 
was  on  her  track:  the  veriest  trifle  was  enough  to  ruin  her:  and 
there  was  nothing  to  assure  her  that  it  was  not  already  an 
accomplished  fact.  It  would  mean  insult,  pitiless  exposure,  her 
heart  laid  bare  to  the  mockery  of  the  passers-by :  dishonor  so 
cruel  that  Anna  was  near  dying  of  shame  at  the  very  thought 
of  it.  She  called  to  mind  how,  a  few  years  before,  a  girl,  who 
had  been  the  victim  of  such  persecution,  had  had  to  fly  the 
country  with  her  family.  .  .  .  And  she  could  do  nothing, 
nothing  to  defend  herself,  nothing  to  prevent  it,  nothing  even 
to  find  out  if  it  was  going  to  happen.  The  suspense  was  even 
more  maddening  than  the  certainty.  Anna  looked  desperately 
about  her  like  an  animal  at  bay.  In  her  own  house  she  knew 
that  she  was  hemmed  in. 

Anna's  servant  was  a  woman  of  over  forty :  her  name  was  Biibi : 
she  was  tall  and  strong:  her  face  was  narrow  and  bony  round 
her  brow  and  temples,  wide  and  long  in  the  lower  part,  fleshy 
under  the  jaw,  roughly  pear-shaped :  she  had  a  perpetual  smile 
and  eyes  that  pierced  like  gimlets,  sunken,  as  though  they  had 
been  sucked  in,  beneath  red  eyelids  with  colorless  lashes.  She 
never  put  off  her  expression  of  coquettish  gaiety:  she  was  always 
delighted  with  her  superiors,  always  of  their  opinion,  worrying 
about  their  health  with  tender  interest:  smiling  when  they  gave 
her  orders:  smiling  when  they  scolded  her.  Braun  believed  that 
she  was  unshakably  devoted.  Her  gushing  manner  was  strongly 
in  contrast  with  Anna's  coldness.  However,  she  was  like  her 
in  many  things:  like  her  she  spoke  little  and  dressed  in  a  severe 
neat  style :  like  her  she  was  very  pious,  and  went'  to  service 
with  her,  scrupulously  fulfilling  all  her  religious  duties  and 
nicely  attending  to  her  household  tasks:  she  was  clean,  method- 
ical, and  her  morals  and  her  kitchen  were  beyond  reproach.  In 
a  word  she  was  an  exemplary  servant  and  the  perfect  type  of 
domestic  foe.  Anna's  feminine  instinct  was  hardly  ever  wrong 


THE  BURNING  BUSH  307 

in  her  divination  of  the  secret  thoughts  of  women,  and  she  had 
no  illusions  about  her.  They  detested  each  other,  knew  it,  and 
never  let  it  appear. 

On  the  night  of  Christophe's  return,  when  Anna,  torn  by 
her  desire  and  her  emotion,  went  to  him  once  more  in  spite 
of  her  resolve  never  to  see  him  again,  she  walked  stealthily, 
groping  along  the  wall  in  the  darkness:  just  as  she  reached 
Christophe's  door,  instead  of  the  ordinary  cold  smooth  polished 
floor,  she  felt  a  warm  dust  softly  crunching  under  her  bare  feet. 
She  stooped,  touched  it  with  her  hands,  and  understood :  a  thin 
layer  of  ashes  had  been  spread  for  the  space  of  a  few  yards 
across  the  passage.  Without  knowing  it  Babi  had  happed  on 
the  old  device  employed  in  the  days  of  the  old  Breton  songs 
by  Frocin  the  dwarf  to  catch  Tristan  on  his  way  to  Yseult:  so 
true  it  is  that  a  limited  number  of  types,  good  and  bad,  serve 
for  all  ages.  A  remarkable  piece  of  evidence  in  favor  of  the 
wise  economy  of  the  universe! — Anna  did  not  hesitate;  she  did 
not  stop  or  turn,  but  went  on  in  a  sort  of  contemptuous  bravado: 
she  went  to  Christophe,  told  him  nothing,  in  spite  of  her  uneasi- 
ness:  but  when  she  returned  she  took  the  stove  brush  and  care- 
fully effaced  every  trace  of  her  footsteps  in  the  ashes,  after  she 
had  crossed  over  them. — When  Anna  and  Babi  met  next  day 
it  was  with  the  usual  coldness  and  the  accustomed  smile. 

Babi  used  sometimes  to  receive  a  visit  from  a  relation  who 
was  a  little  older  than  herself:  he  fulfilled  the  function  of 
beadle  of  the  church:  during  Gottesdienst  (Divine  service)  he 
used  to  stand  sentinel  at  the  church  door,  wearing  a  white  armlet 
with  black  stripes  and  a  silver  tassel,  leaning  on  a  cane  wilh  a 
curved  handle.  By  trade  lie  was  an  undertaker.  Ilis  name  was 
Sami  Witschi.  He  was  very  tall  and  thin,  with  a  slight  stoop, 
and  he  had  the  clean-shaven  solemn  face  of  an  old  peasant,  lie 
was  very  pious  and  knew  hotter  than  any  one  all  the  tittle-tattle 
of  the  parish.  Babi  and  Sami  were  thinking  of  getting  married: 
they  appreciated  each  others  serious  qualities,  and  solid  faith 
and  malice.  But  they  were  in  no  hurry  to  make  up  their  minds: 
they  prudently  took  stock  of  each  other. —  Latterly  Sami's  visit? 
had  become  more  frequent.  He  would  come  in  unawares.  Every 
time  Anna  went  near  the  kitchen  and  looked  through  the  door, 
she  would  see  Sami  sitting  near  the  fire,  and  Biibi  a  few  yards 


308         JEAK-CHEISTOPHE:    JOUBXEY'S  END 

away,  sewing.  However  much  they  talked,  it  was  impossible 
to  hear  a  sound.  She  could  see  Bain's  beaming  face  and  her 
lips  moving:  Sami's  wide  hard  mouth  would  stretch  in  a  grin 
without  opening:  not  a  sound  would  come  up  from  his  throat: 
the  house  seemed  to  be  lost  in  silence.  Whenever  Anna  entered 
the  kitchen,  Sami  would  rise  respectfully  and  remain  standing, 
without  a  word,  until  she  had  gone  out  again.  Whenever  Babi 
heard  the  door  open,  she  would  ostentatiously  break  off  in  the 
middle  of  a  commonplace  remark,  and  turn  to  Anna  with  an 
obsequious  smile  and  wait  for  her  orders.  Anna  would  think 
they  were  talking  about  her :  but  she  despised  them  too  much 
to  play  the  eavesdropper. 

The  day  after  Anna  had  dodged  the  ingenious  trap  of  the 
ashes,  as  she  entered  the  kitchen,  the  first  thing  she  saw  in 
Sami's  hand  was  the  little  broom  she  had  used  the  night  before 
to  wipe  out  the  marks  of  her  bare  feet.  She  had  taken  it  out 
of  Christophe's  room,  and  that  very  minute,  she  suddenly  re- 
membered that  she  had  forgotten  to  take  it  back  again ;  she  had 
left  it  in  her  own  room,  where  Babi's  sharp  eyes  had  seen  it 
at  once.  The  two  gossips  had  immediately  put  two  and  two 
together.  Anna  did  not  flinch.  Babi  followed  her  mistress's 
eyes,  gave  an  exaggerated  smile,  and  explained  : 

"The  broom  was  broken:  I  gave  it  to  Sami  to  mend." 
Anna  did  not  take  the  trouble  to  point  out  the  gross  falsehood 
of  the  excuse :  she  did  not  seem  even  to  hear  it :  she  looked  at 
Babi's  work,  made  a  few  remarks,  and  went  out  again  impas- 
sively. But  wben  the  door  was  closed  she  lost  all  her  pride: 
she  could  not  help  hiding  behind  the  corner  of  the  passage 
and  listening — (sbe  was  humiliated  to  the  very  depths  of  her 
being  at  having  to  stoop  to  such  means:  but  fear  mastered  her). 
— She  heard  a  dry  chuckle  of  laughter.  Then  whispering,  so 
low  that  she  could  not  make  out  what  was  said.  But  in  her 
desperation  Anna  thought  she  heard :  her  terror  breathed  into 
her  ears  the  words  she  was  afraid  of  hearing:  she  imagined  that 
they  were  speaking  of  the  coming  masquerades  and  a  charivari. 
There  was  no  doubt:  they  would  try  to  introduce  the  episode 
of  the  ashes.  Probably  she  was  wrong:  but  in  her  state  of 
morbid  excitement,  having  for  a  whole  fortnight  been  haunted 
by  the  fixed  idea  of  public  insult,  she  did  not  stop  to  consider 


THE  BUKXIXG  BUSH  309 

whether  the  uncertain  could  be   possible:  she   regarded   it   as 
certain. 

Prom  that  time  on  her  mind  was  made  up. 

On  the  evening  of  the  same  day — (it  was  the  Wednesday  pre- 
ceding the  carnival) — Braun  was  called  away  to  a  consultation 
twenty  miles  out  of  the  town:  he  would  not  return  until  the  next 
morning.  Anna  did  not  come  down  to  dinner  and  stayed  in 
her  room.  She  had  chosen  that  night  to  carry  out  the  tacit 
pledge  she  had  made  with  herself.  But  she  had  decided  to 
carry  it  out  alone,  and  to  say  nothing  to  Christophe.  She 
despised  him.  She  thought : 

"  He  promised.  But  he  is  a  man,  he  is  an  egoist  and  a  liar. 
He  has  his  art.  He  will  soon  forget."' 

And  then  perhaps  there  was  in  her  passionate  heart  that 
seemed  so  inaccessible  to  kindness,  room  for  a  feeling  of  pity 
for  her  companion.  But  she  was  too  harsh  and  too  passionate 
to  admit  it  to  herself. 

Babi  told  Christophe  that  her  mistress  had  bade  her  to  make 
her  excuses  as  she  was  not  very  well  and  wished  to  rest.  Chris- 
tophe dined  alone  under  Biibi's  supervision,  and  she  bored  him 
with  her  chatter,  tried  to  make  him  talk,  and  protested  such 
an  extraordinary  devotion  to  Anna,  that,  in  spite  of  his  readiness 
to  believe  in  the  good  faith  of  men,  Christophe  became  sus- 
picious. He  was  counting  on  having  a  decisive  interview  with 
Anna  that  night.  He  could  no  more  postpone  matters  than 
she.  He  had  not  forgotten  the  pledge  they  had  given  each  other 
at  the  dawn  of  that  sad  day.  He  was  ready  to  keep  it  if  Anna 
demanded  it  of  him.  But  he  saw  the  absurdity  of  their  dying 
together,  how  it  would  not  solve  the  problem,  and  how  the 
sorrow  of  it  and  the  scandal  must  fall  upon  Braun's  shoulders. 
He  was  inclined  to  think  that  the  best  thing  to  do  was  to  tear 
themselves  apart  and  for  him  to  try  once  more  to  go  right  away. 
— to  see  at  least  if  he  were  strong  enough  to  stay  away  from 
her:  he  doubted  it  after  the  vain  attempt  he  had  made  before: 
but  he  thought  that,  in  ease  he  could  not  bear  it.  he  would  still 
have  time  to  turn  to  the  last  resort,  alone,  without  anybody 
knowing. 

He  hoped  that  after  supper  he  would  be  able  to  escape  for 


310         JEAN-CHRISTOPHE :    JOURNEY'S  END 

a  moment  to  go  up  to  Anna's  room.  But  Biibi  dogged  him.  As 
a  rule  she  used  to  finish  her  work  early:  but  that  night  she 
Deemed  never  to  have,  done  with  scrubbing  her  kitchen:  and 
when  Christophe  thought  he  was  rid  of  her,  she  took  it  into 
her  head  to  tidy  a  cupboard  in  the  passage  leading  to  Anna's 
room.  Christophe  found  her  standing  on  a  stool,  and  he  saw 
that  she  had  no  intention  of  moving  all  evening.  He  felt  a 
furious  desire  to  knock  her  over  with  her  piles  of  plates :  but 
he  restrained  himself  and  asked  her  to  go  and  see  how  her 
mistress  was  and  if  he  could  say  good-night  to  her.  Biibi  went, 
returned,  and  said,  as  she  watched  him  with  a  malicious  joy, 
that  Madame  was  better  and  was  asleep  and  did  not  want  any- 
body to  disturb  her.  Christophe  tried  irritably  and  nervously 
to  read,  but  could  not,  and  went  up  to  his  room.  Biibi  watched 
his  light  until  it  was  put  out,  and  then  went  upstair?  to  her 
room,  resolving  to  keep  watch :  she  carefully  left  her  door  open 
so  that  she  could  hear  every  sound  in  the  house.  Unfortunately 
for  her,  she  could  not  go  to  bed  without  at  once  falling  asleep 
and  sleeping  so  soundly  that  not  thunder,  not  even  Tier  own 
curiosity,  could  wake  her  up  before  daybreak.  Her  sound  sleep 
was  no  secret.  The  echo  of  it  resounded  through  the  house  even 
to  the  lower  floor. 

As  soon  as  Christophv  heard  the  familiar  noise  he  went  to 
Anna's  room.  It  was  imperative  that  he  should  speak  to  her. 
He  was  profoundly  uneasy.  He  reached  her  door,  turned  the 
handle:  the  door  was  locked.  He  knocked  lightly:  no  reply. 
He  placed  his  lips  to  the  keyhole  and  begged  her  in  a  whisper, 
then  more  loudly,  to  open:  not  a  movement,  not  a  sound.  Al- 
though he  told  himself  that  Anna  was  asleep,  he  was  in  agonies. 
And  as,  in  a  vain  attempt  to  hear,  he  laid  his  check  against  the 
door,  a  smell  came  to  his  nostrils  which  seemed  to  be  issuing 
from  the  room:  he  bent  down  and  recognized  it:  it  was  the 
smell  of  gas.  His  blood  froze.  He  shook  the  door,  never  think- 
ing that  he  might  wake  Biibi:  the  door  did  not  give.  .  .  . 
He  understood:  in  her  dressing-room,  which  led  out  of  her 
room,  Anna  had  a  little  gas-stove:  she  had  turned  it  on.  He 
must  break  open  the  door:  but  in  his  anxiety  Christophe  kept 
his  senses  enough  to  remember  that  at  all  costs  Biibi  must  not 
hear.  He  leaned  against  one  of  the  leaves  of  the  door  and  gave 


THE  BURNING  BUSH  311 

an  enormous  shove  as  quietly  as  he  could.  The  solid,  well-fitting 
door  creaked  on  its  hinges,  but  did  not  yield.  There  was  another 
door  which  led  from  Anna's  room  to  Braun's  dressing-room. 
He  ran  to  it.  That  too  was  locked:  but  the  lock  was  outside. 
He  started  to  tug  it  off.  It  was  not  easy.  He  bad  to  remove 
the  four  big  screws  which  were  buried  deep  in  the  wood.  He 
had  only  his  knife  and  he  could  not  see:  for  he  dared  not  light 
a  candle;  it  would  have  meant  blowing  the  whole  place  up. 
Fumblingly  he  managed  to  lit  his  knife  into  the  head  of  a 
screw,  then  another,  breaking  the  blades  and  cutting  himself; 
the  screws  seemed  to  be  interminably  long,  and  he  thought  he 
would  never  be  able  to  get  them  out:  and,  at  the  same  time, 
in  the  feverish  haste  which  was  making  his  body  break  out  into 
a  cold  sweat,  there  came  to  his  mind  a  memory  of  his  childhood  : 
he  saw  himself,  a  boy  of  ten,  shut  up  in  a  dark  room  as  a  punish- 
ment:  he  had  taken  off  the  lock  and  run  out  of  the  house.  .  .  . 
The  last  screw  came  out.  The  lock  gave  with  a  crackling  noise 
like  the  sawing  of  wood.  Christophe  plunged  into  the  room, 
rushed  to  the  window,  and  opened  it.  A  ilood  of  cold  air  swept 
in.  Christophe  bumped  into  the  furniture  in  the  dark  and 
came  to  the  bed,  groped  with  his  hands,  and  came  on  Anna's 
body,  tremblingly  felt  her  legs  lying  still  under  the  clothes, 
and  moved  his  hands  up  to  her  waist:  Anna  was  sitting  up  in 
bed,  trembling.  She  had  not  had  time  to  feel  the  first  effects 
of  asphyxiation:  the  r,oom  was  high:  the  air  came  through  the 
chinks  in  the  windows  and  the  doors.  Christophe  caught  her 
in  his  arms.  She  broke  away  from  him  angrily,  crying: 

"Go  away!    .    .    .     Ah!     What  have  you  clone ?" 

She  raised  her  hands  to  strike  him:  but  she  was  worn  out 
with  emotion:  she  fell  hack  on  her  pillow  and  sobbed: 

"Oh!     Oh!     We've  to  go  through  it  all  over  again!'" 

Christophe  took  her  hands  in  his.  kissed  her,  scolded  her, 
spoke  to  her  tenderly  and  roughly : 

"You  were  going  to  die,  to  die.  alone,  without  me!" 

"Oh!     You!''  she  said  bitterly. 

Her  tone  was  as  much  as  to  say: 

"  You  want  to  live." 

He'  spoke  harshly  to  her  and  tried  to  break  down  her 
will. 


312         JEAN-CHRISTOPHE:    JOURNEY'S  END 

"  You  are  mad ! "  he  said.  "  You  might  have  blown  the 
house  to  pieces !  " 

"  I  wanted  to/'  she  said  angrily. 

He  tried  to  play  on  her  religious  fears :  that  was  the  right 
note.  As  soon  as  he  touched  on  it  she  began  to  scream  and 
to  beg  him  to  stop.  He  went  on  pitilessly,  thinking  that  it 
was  the  only  means  of  bringing  her  back  to  the  desire  to  live. 
She  said  nothing  more,  but  lay  sobbing  convulsively.  When 
he  had  done,  she  said  in  a  tone  of  intense  hatred: 

"  Are  you  satisfied  now  ?  Y^ou've  done  your  work  well. 
You've  brought  me  to  despair.  And  now,  what  am  I  to  do  ?  " 

"  Live,"  he  said. 

"  Live !  "  she  cried.  "  You  don't  know  how  impossible  it  is ! 
You  know  nothing !  You  know  nothing !  " 

He  asked : 

"What  is  it?" 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders: 

"  Listen." 

In  a  few  brief  disconnected  sentences  she  told  him  all  that 
she  had  concealed  from  him :  Babi's  spying  on  her.  the  ashes, 
the  scene  with  Sami,  the  carnival,  the  public  insult  that  was 
before  her.  As  she  told  her  story  she  was  unable  to  distinguish 
between  the  figments  of  her  fear  and  what  she  had  any  reason 
to  fear.  He  listened  in  utter  consternation,  and  was  no  more 
capable  than  she  of  discerning  between  the  real  and  the  imagi- 
nary in  her  story.  Nothing  had  ever  been  farther  from  his 
mind  than  to  suspect  how  they  were  being  dogged.  He  tried 
to  understand :  he  could  find  nothing  to  say :  against  such 
enemies  he  was  disarmed.  Only  he  was  conscious  of  a  blind 
fury,  a  desire  to  strike  and  to  destroy.  He  said : 

"  Why  didn't  you  dismiss  Biibi  ?  " 

She  did  not  deign  to  reply.  Biibi  dismissed  would  have  been 
even  more  venomous  than  Biibi  tolerated :  and  Christophe  saw 
the  idiocy  of  his  question.  His  thoughts  were  in  a  whirl: 
he  was  trying  to  discover  a  way  out,  some  immediate  action 
upon  which  to  engage.  He  clenched  his  fists  and  cried:. 

"I'll  kill  them?" 

"Who?"  she  said,  despising  him  for  his  futile  words. 

He  lost  all  power  of  thought  or   action.     He   felt  that  he 


THE  BURNING  BUSH  313 

was  lost  in  such  a  network  of  obscure  treachery,  in  which  it  was 
impossible  to  clutch  at  anything  since  all  were  parties  to  it. 
He  writhed. 

"Cowards!"  he  cried,  in  sheer  despair. 

He  slipped  down  on  to  his  knees  and  buried  his  face  against 
Anna. — They  were  silent  for  a  little.  She  felt  a  mixture  of 
contempt  and  pity  for  the  man  who  could  defend  neither  him- 
self nor  her.  He  felt  Anna's  limbs  trembling  with  cold  against 
his  cheek.  The  window  had  been  left  open,  and  outside  it 
was  freezing :  they  could  see  the  icy  stars  shivering  in  the  sky 
that  was  smooth  and  gleaming  as  a  mirror. 

When  she  had  fully  tasted  the  bitter  joy  of  seeing  him  as 
broken  as  herself,  she  said  in  a  hard,  weary  voice: 

"  Light  the  candle." 

He  did  so.  Anna's  teeth  were  chattering,  she  was  sitting 
huddled  up,  with  her  arms  tight  folded  across  her  chest  and 
her  knees  up  to  her  chin.  He  closed  the  window.  Then  he 
sat  on  the  bed.  He  laid  his  hands  on  Anna's  feet:  they  were 
cold  as  ice,  and  he  warmed  them  with  his  hands  and  lips.  She 
was  softened. 

"  Christophe !  "  she  said. 

Her  eyes  were  pitiful  to  see. 

"  Anna  !  "  said  he. 

"  What  are  we  going  to  do  ?  " 

He  looked  at  her  and  replied : 

"  Die." 

She  gave  a  cry  of  joy. 

"  Oh !     You  will  ?    You  will  ?   .    .    .     I  shall  not  be  alone !  " 

She  kissed  him. 

"Did  you  think  I  was  going  to  let  you?" 

She  replied  in  a  whisper: 

"  Yes." 

A  few  moments  later  he  questioned  her  with  his  eyes.  She 
understood. 

"  In  the  bureau,"  she  said.  "  On  the  right.  The  bottom 
drawer." 

He  went  and  looked.  At  the  back  of  the  drawer  he  found 
a  revolver.  Braim  had  bought  it  as  a  student.  He  had  never 
made  use  of  it.  In  an  open  box  Christophe  found  some  cart- 


314         JEAN-CHEISTOPHE:    JOURNEY'S  END 

ridges.  Ho  took  them  to  the  bed.  Anna  looked  at  them,  and 
at  once  turned  her  eyes  away  to  the  wall. 

Christophe  waited,  and  then  asked: 

"  You  don't  want  to   .    .    .  ?  " 

Anna  turned  abruptly: 

"I  will.   .    .    .      Quick!" 

She  thought : 

"  Nothing  can  save  me  now  from  the  everlasting  pit.  A  little 
more  or  less,  it  will  be  just  the  same/' 

Christophe  awkwardly  loaded  the  revolver. 

"  Anna,"  he  said,  and  his  voice  trembled.  "  One  of  us  will 
sec  the  other  die." 

She  wrenched  the  pistol  out  of  his  hands  and  said  selfishly : 

"  I  shall  be  the  first." 

They  looked  at  each  other  once  more.  .  .  .  Alas!  At  the 
very  moment  when  they  were  to  die  for  each  other  they  felt 
so  far  apart!  .  .  .  Each  was  thinking  in  terror: 

"What  am  I  doing?     What  am  T  doing?" 

And  each  was  reading  the  other's  eyes.  The  absurdity  of 
the  thing  was  what  struck  Christophe  most.  All  his  life  gone 
for  nothing:  vain  his  struggles:  vain  his  suffering:  vain  his 
hopes:  all  botched,  flung  to  the  winds:  one  .foolish  act  was  to 
wipe  all  away.  .  .  .  in  his  normal  state  he  would  have 
wrenched  the  revolver  away  from  Anna  and  flung  it  gut  of  the 
window  and  cried  : 

"No,  no!     T  will  not." 

But  eight  months  of  suffering,  of  doubt  and  torturing  grief, 
and  on  top  of  that  the  whirlwind  of  their  crazy  passion,  had 
wasted  his  strength  and  broken  bis  will  :  be  felt  that  be  could 
do  nothing  now.  that  he  was  no  longer  master  of  himself.  .  .  . 
Ah!  what  did  it  mailer,  after  all? 

Anna,  feeling  certain  that  she  was  doomed  to  everlasting 
death,  stretched  every  nerve  to  catch  and  bold  the  last  minute 
of  her  life:  Christopho's  sorrowful  face  lit  by  the  flickering 
candle,  the  shadows  on  the  wall,  a  footstep  in  the  street,  the 
cold  contact  of  the  sled  in  her  band.  .  .  .  She  clung  to  those 
sensations,  as  a  shipwrecked  man  clings  to  the  spar  that  sinks 
beneath  bis  weight.  Afterwards  all  was  terror.  Why  not  pro- 
long the  time  of  waiting  ?  But  she  said  to  herself : 


THE  BURNING  BUSH  315 

"I  must.   ..." 

She  said  good-by  to  Christophe,  with  no  tenderness,  with  the 
haste  of  a  hurried  traveler  fearful  of  losing  the  train:  she  bared 
her  bosom,  felt  for  her  heart,  and  laid  the  mouth  of  the  re- 
volver against  it.  Christophe  hid  his  face.  Just  as  she 
was  about  to  fire  she  laid  her  left  hand  on  Christophe's. 
It  was  the  gesture  of  a  child  dreading  to  walk  in  the  dark- 
ness. .  .  . 

Then  a  few  frightful  seconds  passed.  .  .  .  Anna  did  not 
fire.  Christophe  wanted  to  raise  his  head,  to  take  her  in  his 
arms :  and  he  was  afraid  that  his  very  movement  might  bring 
her  to  the  point  of  firing.  He  heard  nothing  more :  he  lost 
consciousness.  ...  A  groan  from  Anna  pierced  his  heart. 
He  got  up.  He  saw  Anna  with  her  face  distorted  in  terror. 
The  revolver  had  fallen  down  on  to  the  bed.  She  kept  on  saying 
plaintively : 

"Christophe!   ...     It  has  missed  fire!   ..." 

He  took  the  pistol :  it  had  lain  long  forgotten  and  had  grown 
rusty :  but  the  trigger  was  in  working  order.  Perhaps  the 
cartridges  had  gone  bad  with  exposure  to  the  air. — Anna  held 
out  her  hand  for  the  revolver. 

"  Enough !     Enough  !  "  he  implored  her. 

She  commanded  him: 

"The  cartridges!" 

He  gave  them  to  her.  She  examined  them,  took  one,  loaded 
the  pistol,  trembling,  put  the  pistol  to  her  breast,  and  fired. — 
Once  more  it  missed  fire. 

Anna  flung  the  revolver  out  into  the  room. 

"  Oh !  It  is  horrible,  horrible !  "  she  cried.  "  He  will  not 
let  me  die  !  " 

She  writhed  and  sobbed:  she  was  like  a  madwoman.  He 
tried  to  touch  her:  she  beat  him  off,  screaming.  Finally  she 
had  a  nervous  attack.  Christophe  stayed  with  her  until  morn- 
ing. At  last  she  was  pacified:  but  she  lay  still  and  breathless, 
with  her  eyes  closed  and  the  livid  skin  stretched  tight  over 
the;  bones  of  her  forehead  and  checks:  she  looked  like  one 
dead. 

Christophe  repaired  the  disorder  of  her  bed.  picked  up  the 
revolver,  fastened  on  the  lock  he  had  wrenched  away,  tidied  up 


316         JEAN-CHRISTOPHE:    JOURNEY'S  END 

the  whole  room,  and  went  away :  for  it  was  seven  o'clock  and 
Babi  might  come  at  any  moment. 

"When  Braun  returned  next  morning  he  found  Anna  in  the 
same  prostrate  condition.  He  saw  that  something  extraordinary 
had  happened  :  but  he  could  glean  nothing  either  from  Babi  or 
Christophe.  All  day  long  Anna  did  not  stir:  she  did  not 
open  her  eyes :  her  pulse  was  so  weak  that  he  could  hardly  feel 
it :  every  now  and  then  it  would  stop,  and,  for  a  moment,  Braun 
would  be  in  a  state  of  agony,  thinking  that  her  heart  had 
stopped.  His  affection  made  him  doubt  his  own  knowledge :  he 
ran  and  fetched  a  colleague.  The  two  men  examined  Anna 
and  could  not  make  up  their  minds  whether  it  was  the  be- 
ginning of  a  fever,  or  a  case  of  nervous  hysteria :  they  had  to 
keep  the  patient  under  observation.  Braun  never  left  Anna's 
bedside.  He  refused  to  eat.  Towards  evening  Anna's  pulse 
gave  no  signs  of  fever,  but  was  extremely  weak.  Braun  tried 
to  force  a  few  spoonfuls  of  milk  between  her  lips :  she  brought 
it  back  at  once.  Her  body  lay  limp  in  her  husband's  arms  like 
a  broken  doll.  Braun  spent  the  night  witli  her,  getting  up 
every  moment  to  listen  to  her  breathing.  Babi,  who  was  hardly 
at  all  put  out  by  Anna's  illness,  played  the  devoted  servant  and 
refused  to  go  to  bed  and  sat  up  with  Braun. 

On  the  Friday  Anna  opened  her  eyes.  Braun  spoke  to  her: 
she  took  no  notice  of  him.  She  lay  quite  still  with  her  eyes 
staring  at  a  mark  on  the  wall.  About  midday  Braun  saw  great 
tears  trickling  down  her  thin  checks:  he  dried  them  gently: 
one  by  one  the  tears  went  on  trickling  down.  Once  more  Braun 
tried  to  make  her  take  some  food.  She  took  it  passively.  Tn 
the  evening  she  began  to  talk:  loose  snatches  of  sentences.  She 
talked  about  the  Rhine:  she  had  tried  to  drown  herself,  but 
there  was  not  enough  water.  In  her  dreams  she  persisted  in 
attempting  suicide,  imagining  all  sorts  of  strange  forms  of 
death;  always  death  was  at  the  back  of  her  thoughts.  Some- 
times she  was  arguing  with  some  one,  and  then  her  face  would 
take  on  an  expression  of  fear  and  anger:  she  addressed  herself 
to  God.  and  tried  obstinately  to  prove  that  it  was  all  His  fault. 
Or  the  flame  of  desire  would  kindle  in  her  eyes,  and  she  would 
say  shameless  things  which  it  seemed  impossible  that  she  should 


THE  BURNING  BUSH  317 

know.  Once  she  saw  Babi,  and  gave  precise  orders  for  the 
morrow's  washing.  At  night  she  dozed.  Suddenly  she  got  up : 
Braun  ran  to  her.  She  looked  at  him  strangely,  and  babbled 
impatient  formless  words.  He  asked  her : 

"  My  dear  Anna,  what  do  you  want  ?  " 

She  said  harshly : 

"  Go  and  bring  him." 

"Who?"  he  asked. 

She  looked  at  him  once  more  with  the  same  expression  and 
suddenly  burst  out  laughing :  then  she  drew  her  hands  over  her 
forehead  and  moaned : 

"Oh!  my  God!     Let  me  forget !   ..." 

Sleep  overcame  her.  She  was  at  peace  until  day.  About 
dawn  she  moved  a  little :  Braun  raised  her  head  to  give  her  to 
drink:  she  gulped  down  a  few  mouthfuls,  and,  stooping  to 
Braun's  hands,  she  kissed  them.  Once  more  she  dozed 
off. 

On  the  Saturday  morning  she  woke  up  about  nine  o'clock. 
Without  saying  a  word,  she  began  to  slip  out  of  bod.  Braun 
went  quickly  to  her  and  tried  to  make  her  lie  down  again. 
She  insisted.  He  asked  her  what  she  wanted  to  do.  She 
replied : 

"  Go  to  church." 

He  tried  to  argue  with  her  and  to  remind  her  that  it  was 
not  Sunday  and  the  church  was  closed.  She  relapsed  into 
silence:  but  she  sat  in  a  chair  near  the  bed,  and  began  to  put 
on  her  clothes  with  trembling  fingers.  Braun's  doctor-friend 
came  in.  He  joined  Braun  in  his  entreaties :  then,  seeing  that 
she  would  not  give  in.  he  examined  her,  and  finally  consented. 
He  took  Braun  aside,  and  told  him  that  his  wife's  illness 
seemed  to  be  altogether  moral,  and  that  for  the  time  being  he 
must  avoid  opposing  her  wishes,  and  that  he  could  see  no 
danger  in  her  going  out,  so  long  as  Braun  went  with  her. 
Braun  told  Anna  that  he  would  go  with  her.  She  refused,  and 
insisted  on  going  alone.  But  she  stumbled  as  soon  as  she  tried 
to  walk  across  the  room.  Then,  without  a  word,  she  took 
Braun's  arm,  and  they  went  out.  She  was  very  weak,  and 
kept  stopping.  Several  times  he  asked  her  if  she  wanted  to  go 
home.  She  began  to  walk  on.  When  they  reached  the  church, 


318         JEAN-CIiraSTOPHE:    JOUENEY'S  END 

as  he  had  told  her,  they  found  the  doors  closed.  Anna  sat  down 
on  a  bench  near  the  door,  and  stayed,  shivering,  until  the  clock 
struck  twelve.  Then  she  took  Braun's  arm  again,  and  they 
came  home  in  silence.  But  in  the  evening  she  wanted  to  go 
to  church  again.  Braun's  entreaties  were  useless.  He  had  to 
go  out  with  her  once  more, 

Christophe  had  spent  the  two  days  alone.  Braun  was  too 
anxious  to  think  about  him.  Only  once,  on  the  Saturday  morn- 
ing, when  he  was  trying  to  divert  Anna's  mind  from  her  fixed 
idea  of  going  out,  he  had  asked  her  if  she  would  like  to  see 
Christophe.  She  had  looked  at  him  with  such  an  expression 
of  fear  and  loathing  that  he  could  not  but  remark  it:  and  he 
never  pronounced  Christophe' s  name  again. 

Christophe  had  shut  himself  up  in  his  room.  Anxiety,  love, 
remorse,  a  very  chaos  of  sorrow  was  whirling  in  him.  He 
blamed  himself  for  everything.  He  was  overwhelmed  by  self- 
disgust.  More  than  once  he  had  got  up  to  go  and  confess  the 
whole  story  to  Braun — and  each  time  he  had  immediately  been 
arrested  by  the  thought  of  bringing  wretchedness  to  yet  another 
human  being  by  his  self-accusation.  At  the  same1  time  he  was 
spared  nothing  of  his  passion.  He  prowled  about  in  the  passage 
outside  Anna's  room  ;  and  when  he  heard  footsteps  inside  com- 
ing to  the  door  he  rushed  away  to  his  own  room. 

When  Braun  and  Anna  went  out  in  the  afternoon,  he  looked 
out  for  them  from  behind  his  window-curtains.  He  saw  Anna. 
She  who  had  been  so  erect  and  proud  walked  now  with  bowed 
back,  lowered  head,  yellow  complexion:  she  was  an  old  woman 
bending  under  the  weight  of  the  cloak  and  shawl  her  husband 
had  thrown  about  her:  she  was  ugly.  But  Christophe  did  not 
see  her  ugliness:  he  saw  only  her  misery;  and  his  heart  ached 
with  pity  and  love.  He  longed  to  run  to  her,  to  prostrate  him- 
self in  the  mud,  to  kiss  her  feet:  her  dear  body  so  broken  and 
destroyed  by  passion,  and  to  implore  her  forgiveness.  And  he 
thought  as  he  looked  after  her: 

"  My  work.   .    .    .     That  is  wlmt  I  have  done !  " 

But  when  he  looked  into  the  mirror  and  saw  his  own  face, 
he  was  shown  the  same  devastation  in  his  eyes,  in  all  his 
features :  he  saw  the  marks  of  death  upon  himself,  as  upon  her, 
and  he  thought : 


THE  BURNING  BUSH  319 

"  My  work  ?  Xo.  It  is  the  work  of  the  cruel  Master  who 
drives  us  mad  and  destroys  us." 

The  house  was  empty.  Babi  had  gone  out  to  tell  the  neigh- 
bors of  the  day's  events.  Time  was  passing.  The  clock  struck 
five.  Christophe  was  filled  with  terror  as  he  thought  of  Anna's 
return  and  the  coming  of  the  night.  He  felt  that  he  could  not 
bear  to  stay  under  the  same  roof  with  her  for  another  night. 
He  felt  his  reason  breaking  beneath  the  weight  of  passion.  He 
did  not  know  what  to  do,  he  did  not  know  what  he  wanted, 
except  that  he  wanted  Anna  at  all  costs.  He  thought  of  the 
wretched  face  he  had  just  seen  going  past  his  window,  and  he 
said  to  himself: 

"  I  must  save  her  from  myself !   .    .    . " 

His  will  stirred  into  life. 

He  gathered  together  the  litter  of  papers  on  the  table,  tied 
them  up,  took  his  hat  and  cloak,  and  went  out.  In  the  passage, 
near  the  door  of  Anna's  room,  he  hurried  forward  in  a.  spasm 
of  fear.  Downstairs  he  glanced  for  the  last  time  into  the  empty 
garden.  He  crept  away  like  a  thief  in  the  night.  An  icy  mist 
pricked  his  .face  and  hands.  Christophe  skirted  the  walls  of  the 
houses,  dreading  a  meeting  with  any  one  he  knew.  He  went  to 
the  station,  and  got  into  a  train  which  was  just  starting  for 
Lucerne.  At  the  first  stopping-place  he  wrote  to  Braun.  He 
said  that  he  had  been  called  away  from  the  town  on  urgent 
business  for  a  few  days,  and  that  he  was  very  sorry  to  have 
to  leave  him  at  such  a  time:  he  begged  him  to  send  him  news, 
and  gave  him  an  address.  At  Lucerne  he  took  the  St.  Gothard 
train.  Late  at  night  he  got  out  at  a  little  station  between 
Altorf  and  Goeschenen.  He  did  not  know  the  name,  never 
knew  it.  He  went  into  the  nearest  inn  by  the  station.  The 
road  was  filled  with  pools  of  water.  It  was  raining  in  torrents: 
it  rained  all  night  and  all  next  day.  The  water  was  rushing  and 
roaring  like  a  cataract  from  a  broken  gutter.  Sky  and  earth 
were  drowned,  seemingly  dissolved  and  melted  like  his  own 
mind.  He  went  to  bed  between  damp  sheets  which  smelt  of 
railway  smoke.  He  could  not  lie  still.  The  idea  of  the  danger 
hanging  over  Anna  was  too  much  in  his  mind  for  him  to  feel 
his  own  suffering  as  yet.  Somehow  he  must  avert  public  malig- 
nity from  her,  somehow  turn  it  aside  upon  another  track.  In 


320         JEAN-CHRISTOPHE :    JOURNEY'S  EXD 

his  feverish  condition  a  queer  idea  came  to  him :  he  decided 
to  write  to  one  of  the  few  musicians  with  whom  he  had  been 
acquainted  in  the  little  town,  Krebs,  the  confectioner-organist. 
He  gave  him  to  understand  that  he  was  off  to  Italy  upon  an 
affair  of  the  heart,  that  he  had  been  possessed  by  the  passion 
when  he  first  took  up  his  abode  with  the  Brauns,  and  that  he 
had  tried  to  shake  free  of  it,  but  it  had  been  too  strong  for 
him.  He  put  the  whole  thing  clearly  enough  for  Krebs  to 
understand,  and  yet  so  veiled  as  to  enable  him  to  improve  on 
it  as  he  liked.  Christophe  implored  Krebs  to  keep  his  secret. 
He  knew  that  the  good  little  man  simply  could  not  keep  any- 
thing to  himself,  and — quite  rightly — he  reckoned  on  Krebs 
hastening  to  spread  the  news  as  soon  as  it  came  into  his  hands. 
To  make  sure  of  hoodwinking  the  gossips  of  the  town  Christophe 
closed  his  letter  with  a  few  cold  remarks  about  Braun  and  about 
Anna's  illness. 

He  spent  tbe  rest  of  the  night  and  the  next  day  absorbed 
by  his  fixed  idea  .  .  .  Anna  .  .  .  Anna.  .  .  .  He  lived 
through  the  last  few  months  with  her,  day  by  day:  he  did  not 
see  her  as  she  was,  but  enveloped  her  with  a  passionate  atmos- 
phere of  illusion.  From  the  very  beginning  he  had  created 
her  in  the  image  of  his  own  desire,  and  given  her  a  moral 
grandeur,  a  tragic  consciousness  which  he  needed  to  heighten 
his  love  for  her.  These  lies  of  passion  gained  in  intensity  of 
conviction  now  that  they  were  beyond  the  control  of  Anna's 
presence.  He  saw  in  her  a  healthy  free  nature,  oppressed, 
struggling  to  shake  off  its  fetters,  reaching  upwards  to  a  wider 
life  of  liberty  in  the  open  air  of  the  soul,  and  then,  fearful 
of  it,  struggling  against  her  dreams,  wrestling  with  them,  be- 
cause they  could  not  be  brought  into  line  Avith  her  destiny,  and 
made  it  only  the  more  sorrowful  and  wretched.  She  cried  to 
him :  "  Help  me."  He  saw  once  more  her  beautiful  body, 
clasped  it  to  him.  His  memories  tortured  him :  he  took  a  savage 
delight  in  mortifying  the  wounds  they  dealt  him.  As  the  day 
crept  on,  the  feeling  of  all  that  he  had  lost  became  so  frightful 
that  he  could  not  breathe. 

Without  knowing  what  he  was  doing,  he  got  up,  went  out, 
paid  his  bill,  and  took  the  first  train  back  to  the  town  in  which 
Anna  lived.  He  arrived  in  the  middle  of  the  ni^ht:  he  went 


THE  BURNING  BUSH  321 

straight  to  the  house.  There  was  a  wall  between  the  alley  and 
the  garden  next  to  Braun's.  Christophe  climbed  the  wall, 
jumped  down  into  the  next-door  garden,  and  then  into  Braun's. 
He  stood  outside  the  house.  It  was  in  darkness  save  for  a 
night-light  which  cast  a  yellow  glow  upon  a  window — the  window 
of  Anna's  room.  Anna  was  there.  She  was  suffering.  He  had 
only  to  make  one  stride  to  enter.  He  -laid  his  hand  on  the 
handle  of  the  door.  Then  he  looked  at  his  hand,  the  door,  the 
garden :  suddenly  he  realized  what  he  was  doing :  and,  breaking 
free  of  the  hallucination  which  had  been  upon  him  for  the  last 
seven  or  eight  hours,  he  groaned,  wrenched  free  of  the  inertia 
which  held  him  riveted  to  the  ground  whereon  he  stood,  ran  to 
the  wall,  scaled  it,  and  fled. 

That  same  night  he  left  the  town  for  the  second  time :  and 
next  day  he  went  and  buried  himself  in  a  mountain  village, 
hidden  from  the  world  by  driving  blizzards. — There  he  would 
bury  his  heart,  stupefy  his  thoughts,  and  forget,  and  for- 
get! .  .  . 


""JSperd  leva  su,  mnd  I'ambascia 

Con  I'animo  cJie  vinca  ogni  battaglia, 
Se  col  'suo  grave  corpo  non  s'accascia. 

"Leva' mi  allor,  mostrandomi  fornito 
Meglio  di  lena  ctiio  non  mi  sentm; 
E  dissi:  '  Va,  cli'io  son  forte  edanlito.J" 

INF.  xxiv. 


THE  BURNING  BUSH  323 

Oh !  God,  what  have  I  done  to  Thoe  ?  Why  dost  Thou  over- 
whelm me?  Since  I  was  a  little  child  Thou  hast  appointed 
misery  and  conflict  to  be  my  lot.  I  have  struggled  without 
complaint.  I  have  loved  my  misery.  I  have  tried  to  preserve 
the  purity  of  the  soul  Thou  gavest  me.  to  defend  the  fire  which 
Thou  hast  kindled  in  me.  .  .  .  Lord,  it  is  Thou,  it  is  Thou 
who  art  so  furious  to  destroy  what  Thou  hast  created.  Thou 
hast  put  out  the  fire,  Thou  hast  besmirched  my  soul.  Thou 
hast  despoiled  me  of  all  that  gave  me  life.  I  had  hut  two 
treasurable  things  in  the  world :  my  friend  and  my  soul.  Xow 
I  have  nothing,  for  Thou  hast  taken  everything  from  me.  One 
only  creature  was  mine  in  the  wilderness  of  the  world :  Thou 
hast  taken  him  from  me.  Our  hearts  were  one.  Thou  hast  torn 
them  asunder :  Thou  hast  made  us  know  the  sweetness  of  being 
together  only  to  make  us  know  the  horror  of  being  lost  to  each 
other.  Thou  hast  created  emptiness  all  about  me.  Thou  hast 
created  emptiness  within  me.  1  was  broken  and  sick,  unarmed 
and  robbed  of  my  will.  Thou  hast  chosen  that  hour  to  strike 
me  down.  Thou  hast  come  stealthily  with  silent  feet  from 
behind  treacherously,  and  Thou  hast  stabbed  me :  Thou  hast  let 
loose  upon  me  Thy  fierce  dogs  of  passion ;  I  was  weak,  and  Thou 
knewest  it,  and  I  could  not  struggle:  passion  has  laid  me  low, 
and  thrown  me  into  confusion,  and  befouled  me.  and  destroyed 
all  that  I  had.  ...  I  am  left  only  in  self-disgust.  If  I 
could  only  cry  aloud  my  grief  and  my  shame!  or  forget  them 
in  the  rushing  stream  of  creative  force !  But  my  strength  is 
broken,  and  my  creative  power  is  withered  up.  I  am  like  a 

dead  tree Would    I   were  dead!     0    God,   deliver  me. 

break  my  body  and  my  soul,  tear  me  from  this  earth,  leave 
me  not  to  struggle  blindly  in  the  pit,  leave  me  not  in  this 
endless  agony !  I  cry  for  mercy.  .  .  .  Lord,  make  an  end  ! 

So  in  his  sorrow  Christophe  cried  upon  a  Cod  in  whom  his 
reason  did  not  believe. 

He  had  taken  refuge  in  a  lonely  farm  in  the  Swiss  Jura 
Mountains.  The  house  was  built  in  the  woods  tucked  away 
in  the  folds  of  a  high  humpy  plateau.  It  was  protected  from 


324         JEAN-CHRISTOPHE :    JOURNEY'S  END 

tlie  north  winds  by  crags  and  boulders.  In  front  of  it  lay  a 
wide  stretch  of  fields,  and  long  wooded  slopes :  the  rock  suddenly 
came  to  an  end  in  a  sheer  precipice:  twisted  pines  hung  on  the 
edge  of  it;  behind  were  wide-spreading  beeches.  The  sky  was 
blotted  out,  There  was  no  sign  of  life.  A  wide  stretch  of 
country  with  all  its  lines  erased.  The  whole  place  lay  sleeping 
under  the  snow.  Only  at  night  in  the  forest  foxes  barked. 
It  was  the  end  of  the  winter.  Slow  dragging  winter.  Inter- 
minable winter.  When  it  seemed  like  to  break  up,  snow  would 
fall  once  more.,  and  it  would  begin  again. 

However,  for  a  week  now  the  old  slumbering  earth  had  felt 
its  heart  slow  beating  to  new  birth.  The  first  deceptive  breath 
of  spring  crept  into  the  air  and  beneath  the  frozen  crust.  From 
the  branches  of  the  beech-trees,  stretched  out  like  soaring  wings, 
the  snow  melted.  Already  through  the  white  cloak  of  the  fields 
there  peered  a  few  thin  blades  of  grass  of  tender  green :  around 
their  sharp  needles,  through  the  gaps  in  the  snow,  like  so  many 
little  mouths,  the  dank  black  earth  was  breathing.  For  a  few 
hours  every  day  the  voice  of  the  waters,  sleeping  beneath  their 
robe  of  ice,  murmured.  In  the  skeleton  woods  a  few  birds  piped 
their  shrill  clear  song. 

Christophe  noticed  nothing.  All  things  were  the  same  to  him. 
He  paced  up  and  down,  up  and  down  his  room.  Or  be  would 
walk  outside.  He  could  not  keep  still.  His  soul  was  torn  in 
pieces  by  inward  demons.  They  fell  upon  and  rent  each  other. 
His  suppressed  passion  never  left  oil'  beating  furiously  against 
the  walls  of  the  house  of  its  captivity.  His  disgust  with  passion 
was  no  less  furiously  in  revolt:  passion  and  disgust  flew  at  each 
other's  throats,  and,  in  their  conflict,  they  lacerated  his  heart. 
And  at  the  same  time  he  was  delivered  up  to  the  memory  of 
Olivier,  despair  at  his  death,  the  hunger  to  create  which  nothing 
could  satisfy,  and  pride  rearing  on  the  edge  of  the  abyss  of 
nothingness.  He  was  a  prey  to  all  devils.  He  hac!  no  moment 
of  respite.  Or,  if  there  came  a  seeming  calm,  if  the  rushing 
waves  did  fall  back  for  a  moment,  it  was  only  that  he  might 
find  himself  alone,  and  nothing  in  himself:  thought,  love,  will, 
all  had  been  done  to  death. 

To  create !  That  was  the  only  loophole.  To  abandon  the 
wreck  of  his  life  to  the  mercy  of  the  waves !  To  save  himself 


THE  BURNING  BUSH  325 

by  swimming  in  the  dreams  of  art !  .  .  .  To  create !  He 
tried.  .  .  .  He  could  not. 

Christophe  had  never  had  any  method  of  working.  When 
he  was  strong  and  well  he  had  always  rather  suffered  from  his 
superabundance  than  been  disturbed  at  seeing  it  diminish:  he 
followed  his  whim :  he  used  to  work  first  as  the  fancy  took 
him,  as  circumstances  chanced,  with  no  fixed  rule.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  he  was  always  working  everywhere:  his  brain  was  always 
busy.  Often  and  often  Olivier,  who  was  less  richly  endowed 
and  more  reflective,  had  warned  him: 

"  Take  care.  You  are  trusting  too  much  to  your  force.  It 
is  a  mountain  torrent.  Full  to-day,  perhaps  dry  to-morrow. 
An  artist  must  coax  his  genius:  he  must  not  let  it  scatter  itself 
at  random.  Turn  your  force  into  a  channel.  Train  yourself 
in  habits  of  mind  and  a  healthy  system  of  daily  work,  at  fixed 
hours.  They  are  as  necessary  to  the  artist  as  the  practice  of 
military  movements  and  steps  to  a  man  who  is  to  go  into  battle. 
When  moments  of  crisis  come — (and  they  always  do  come)— - 
the  bracing  of  steel  prevents  the  soul  from  destruction.  I  know. 
It  is  just  that  that  has  saved  me  from  death." 

But  Christophe  used  to  laugh  and  say : 

"  That's  all  right  for  you,  my  boy !  There's  no  danger  of 
my  losing  my  taste  for  life.  My  appetite's  too  good." 

Olivier  would  shrug  his  shoulders: 

"  Too  much  ends  in  too  little.  There  are  no  worse  invalids 
than  the  men  who  have  always  had  too  much  health." 

And  now  Olivier's  words  had  come  true.  After  the  death 
of  his  friend  the  source  of  his  inward  life  had  not  all  at  once 
dried  up:  but  it  had  become  strangely  intermittent:  it  ilowed 
in  sudden  gushes,  then  stopped,  then  disappeared  under  the 
earth.  Christophe  had  paid  no  heed  to  it:  what  did  it  matter 
to  him?  His  grief  and  bis  budding  passion  bad  absorbed  bis 
mind. — But  after  the  storm  had  passed,  when  once  more  be 
turned  to  the  fountain  to  drink,  he  could  find  no  trace  of  it. 
All  was  barren.  Not  a  trickle  of  water.  II  is  soul  was  dried 
up.  In  vain  did  he  try  to  dig  down  into  the  sand,  and  force 
the  water  up  from  the  subterranean  wells,  and  create  at  all 
costs:  the  machine1  of  his  mind  refused  to  obey.  He  could  not 
invoke  the  aid  of  habit,  the  faithful  allv.  which,  when  we 


326         JEAN-CHRISTOPHE :    JOURNEY'S  END 

have  lost  every  reason  for  living,  alone,  constant  and  firmly 
loyal,  stays  with  us,  and  speaks  no  word,  and  makes  no  sign, 
but  with  eyes  fixed,  and  silent  lips,  with  its  sure  unwavering 
hand  leads  us  by  the  hand  through  the  dangerous  chasm  until 
the  light  of  day  and  the  joy  of  life  return.  Christophe  was 
helpless :  and  his  hand  could  lind  no  guiding  hand  in  the  dark- 
ness. He  could  not  find  his  way  back  to  the  light  of  day. 

It  was  the  supreme  test.  Then  he  felt  that  he  was  on  the 
verge  of  madness.  Sometimes  he  would  wage  an  absurd  and 
crazy  battle  with  his  own  brain,  maniacal  obsessions,  a  night- 
mare of  numbers :  he  would  count  the  boards  on  the  floor,  the 
trees  in  the  forest :  figures  and  chords,  the  choice  of  which  was 
beyond  his  reason.  Sometimes  he  would  lie  in  a  state  of  pros- 
tration, like  one  dead. 

Nobody  worried  about  him.  He  lived  apart  in  one  wing 
of  the  house.  He  tidied  his  own  room — or  left  it  undone,  every 
day.  His  meals  were  laid  for  him  downstairs :  he  never  saw 
a  human  face.  His  host,  an  old  peasant,  a  taciturn,  selfish 
creature,  took  no  interest  in  him.  Whether  Christophe  ate 
or  did  not  eat  was  his  affair.  He  hardly  ever  noticed  whether 
Christophe  came  in  at  night.  Once  he  was  lost  in  the  forest, 
buried  up  to  his  hips  in  the  snow :  he  was  very  near  never 
returning.  He  tried  to  wear  himself  out  to  keep  himself  from 
thinking.  He  could  not  succeed.  Only  now  and  then  could 
he  snatch  a  few  hours  of  troubled  sleep. 

Only  one  living  creature  seemed  to  take  any  notice  of  his 
existence:  this  was  an  old  St.  Bernard,  who  used  to  come  and 
lay  his  big  head  with  its  mournful  eyes  on  Christophe's  knees 
when  Christophe  was  sitting  on  the  seat  in  front  of  the  house. 
They  would  look  long  at  each  other.  Christophe  would  not 
drive,  him  away.  Unlike  the  sick  Goethe,  the  dog's  eyes  had 
no  uneasiness  for  him.  Unlike  him,  he  had  no  desire  to  cry: 

"  Go  away !  .  .  .  Thou  goblin,  thou  shalt  not  catch  me, 
whatever  thou  doest !  " 

He  asked  nothing  better  than  to  be  engrossed  by  the  dog's 
suppliant  sleepy  eyes  and  to  help  the  beast:  he  felt  that  there 
must  be  behind  them  an  imprisoned  soul  imploring  his  aid. 

In  those  hours  when  he  was  weak  with  suffering,  torn  alive 
away  from  life,  devoid  of  human  egoism,  he  saw  the  victims 


THE  BURNING  BUSH  327 

of  men,  the  field  of  battle  in  which  man  triumphed  in  the  bloody 
slaughter  of  all  other  creatures :  and  his  heart  was  filled  with 
pity  and  horror.  Even  in  the  days  when  he  had  been  happy 
he  had  always  loved  the  beasts :  he  had  never  been  able  to  bear 
cruelty  towards  them :  he  had  always  had  a  detestation  of  sport, 
which  he  had  never  dared  to  express  for  fear  of  ridicule :  per- 
haps even  he  had  never  dared  to  admit  it  to  himself:  but  his 
feeling  of  repulsion  had  been  the  secret  cause  of  the  apparently 
inexplicable  feeling  of  dislike  he  had  had  for  certain  men:  he 
had  never  been  able  to  admit  to  his  friendship  a  man  who 
could  kill  an  animal  for  pleasure.  It  was  not  sentimentality: 
no  one  knew  better  than  he  that  life  is  based  on  suffering  and 
infinite  cruelty :  no  man  can  live  without  making  others  suffer. 
It  is  no  use  closing  our  eyes  and  fobbing  ourselves  off  with 
words.  It  is  no  use  either  coming  to  the  conclusion  that  we 
must  renounce  life  and  sniveling  like  children.  No.  We  must 
kill  to  live,  if,  at  the  time,  there  is  no  other  means  of  living. 
But  the  man  who  kills  for  the  sake  of  killing  is  a  miscreant. 
An  unconscious  miscreant,  I  know.  But,  all  the  same,  a  mis- 
creant. The  continual  endeavor  of  man  should  be  to  lessen 
the  sum  of  suffering  and  cruelty:  that  is  the  first  duty  of 
humanity. 

In  ordinary  life  those  ideas  remained  buried  in  Christophe's 
inmost  heart.  He  refused  to  think  of  them.  What  was  the 
good?  What  could  he  do?  He  had  to  be  Christophe,  he  had 
to  accomplish  his  work,  live  at  all  costs,  live  at  the  cost  of  the 
weak.  ...  It  was  not  he  who  had  made  the  universe.  .  .  . 
Better  not  think  of  it,  better  not  think  of  it.  .  .  . 

But  when  unhappiness  had  dragged  him  down,  him.  too,  to 
the  level  of  the  vanquished,  he  had  to  think  of  these  things 
Only  a  little  while  ago  he  had  blamed  Olivier  for  plunging  into 
futile  remorse  and  vain  compassion  for  all  the  wretchedness 
that  men  suffer  and  inflict.  Now  he  went  even  farther:  with 
all  the  vehemence  of  his  mighty  nature  he  probed  to  the  depths 
of  the  tragedy  of  the  universe:  he  suffered  all  the  sufferings 
of  the  world,  and  was  left  raw  and  bleeding.  He  could  not 
think  of  the  animals  without  shuddering  in  anguish.  He  looked 
into  the  eyes  of  the  beasts  and  saw  there  a  soul  like  his  own,  a 
soul  which  could  not  speak :  but  the  eyes  cried  for  it : 


328         JEAN-CHRISTOPHE :    JOURNEY'S  END 

"  What  have  I  done  to  you?  Why  do  you  hurt  me?" 
He  could  not  bear  to  see  the  most  ordinary  sights  that  he 
had  seen  hundreds  of  times — a  calf  crying  in  a  wicker  pen,  with 
its  big,  protruding  eyes,  with  their  bluish  whites  and  pink  lids, 
and  white  lashes,  its  curly  white  tufts  on  its  forehead,  its 
purple  snout,  its  knock-kneed  legs : — a  lamb  being  carried  by  a 
peasant  with  its  four  legs  tied  together,  hanging  head  down, 
trying  to  hold  its  head  up,  moaning  like  a  child,  bleating  and 
lolling  its  gray  tongue: — fowls  huddled  together  in  a  basket: — 
the  distant  squeals  of  a  pig  being  bled  to  death : — a  fish  being 
cleaned  on  the  kitchen-table.  .  .  .  The  nameless  tortures 
which  men  inflict  on  such  innocent  creatures  made  his  heart 
ache.  Grant  animals  a  ray  of  reason,  imagine  what  a  frightful 
nightmare  the  world  is  to  them :  a  dream  of  cold-blooded  men. 
blind  and  deaf,  cutting  their  throats,  slitting  them  open,  gutting 
them,  cutting  them  into  pieces,  cooking  them  alive,  sometimes 
laughing  at  them  and  their  contortions  as  they  writhe  in  agony. 
Is  there  anything  more  atrocious  among  the  cannibals  of  Africa  ? 
To  a  man  whose  mind  is  free  there  is  something  even  more 
intolerable  in  the  sufferings  of  animals  than  in  the  sufferings 
of  men.  For  with  the  latter  it  is  at  least  admitted  that  suffer- 
ing is  evil  and  that  the  man  who  causes  it  is  a  criminal.  But 
thousands  of  animals  are  uselessly  butchered  every  day  without 
a  shadow  of  remorse.  If  any  man  were  to  refer  to  it.  he  would 
be  thought  ridiculous. — And  that  is  the  unpardonable  crime. 
That  alone  is  the  justification  of  all  that  men  may  suffer.  It 
cries  vengeance  upon  all  the  human  race.  If  God  exists  and 
tolerates  it,  it  cries  vengeance  upon  Cod.  If  there  exists  a  good 
God,  then  even  the  most  humble  of  living  things  must  be  saved. 
If  God  is  good  only  to  the  strong,  if  there  is  no  justice  for  the 
weak  and  lowly,  for  the  poor  creatures  who  are  offered  up  as  a 
sacrifice  to  humanity,  then  then;  is  no  such  thing  as  goodness, 
no  such  tiling  as  justice.  .  .  . 

Alas!  The  slaughter  accomplished  by  man  is  so  small  a 
thing  of  itself  in  the  carnage  of  the  universe!  The  animals 
devour  each  other.  The  peaceful  plants,  the  silent  trees,  are 
ferocious  beasts  one  to  another.  The  serenity  of  the  forests 
is  only  a  commonplace  of  easy  rhetoric  for  the  literary  men 
who  only  know  Nature  through  their  books !  .  .  .  In  the 


THE  BURNING  BUSH  329 

forest  hard  by,  a  few  yards  away  from  the  house,  there  were 
frightful  struggles  always  toward.  The  murderous  beeches  flung 
themselves  upon  the  pines  with  their  lovely  pinkish  steins, 
hemmed  in  their  slenderness  with  antique  columns,  and  stifled 
them.  They  rushed  down  upon  the  oaks  and  smashed  them, 
and  made  themselves  crutches  of  them.  The  beeches  were  like 
Briareus  with  his  hundred  arms,  ten  trees  in  one  tree!  They 
dealt  death  all  about  them.  And  when,  failing  foes,  they  came 
together,  they  became  entangled,  piercing,  cleaving,  twining 
round  each  other  like  antediluvian  monsters.  Lower  down,  in  the 
forest,  the  acacias  had  left  the  outskirts  and  plunged  into  the 
thick  of  it  and  attacked  the  pinewoods,  strangling  and  tearing 
up  the  roots  of  their  foes,  poisoning  them  with  their  secretions. 
It  was  a  struggle  to  the  death  in  which  the  victors  at  once  took 
possession  of  the  room  and  the  spoils  of  the  vanquished.  Then 
the  smaller  monsters  would  finish  the  work  of  the  great.  Fungi, 
growing  between  the  roots,  would  suck  at  the  sick  tree,  and 
gradually  empty  it  of  its  vitality.  Black  ants  would  grind 
exceeding  small  the  rotting  wood.  Millions  of  invisible  insects 
were  gnawing,  boring,  reducing  to  dust  what  had  once  been 
life.  .  .  .  And  the  silence  of  the  struggle !  .  .  .  Oh !  the 
peace  of  Nature,  the  tragic  mask  that  covers  the  sorrowful  and 
cruel  face  of  Life ! 

Christophe  was  going  down  and  down.  But  he  was  not  the 
kind  of  man  to  let  himself  drown  without  a  struggle,  with  his 
arms  held  close  to  his  sides.  In  vain  did  he  wish  to  die:  he 
did  everything  in  his  power  to  remain  alive.  He  was  one  of 
those  men  of  whom  Mozart  said:  "  Tlici/  niuxl  act  until  at  la*t 
tJiey  have  no  means  of  action."  He  felt  that  he  was  sinking, 
and  in  his  fall  he  cast  about,  striking  out  with  his  arms  to  right 
and  left,  for  some  support  to  which  to  cling.  It  seemed  to  him. 
Hint  he  had  found  it.  He  had  just  remembered  Oliviers  little 
boy.  At  once  ho  turned  on  him  all  his  desire  for  life:  he  clung 
to  him  desperately.  Yes:  he  must  go  and  find  him.  claim  him, 
bring  him  up,  love  him.  take  the  place  of  his  father,  bring 
Olivier  to  life  again  in  his  son.  Why  had  he  not  thought  of  it 
in  the  selfishness  of  his  sorrow?  He  wrote  to  Cecile.  who  had 
charge  of  the  boy.  He  waited  feverishly  for  her  reply.  His 


330         JEAN-CH.RISTOPHE :    JOURNEY'S  END 

whole  being  was  bent  upon  the  one  thought.  He  forced  himself 
to  be  calm :  he  still  had  reason  for  hope.  He  was  quite  con- 
fident about  it :  he  knew  how  kind  Cecile  was. 

Her  answer  came.  Cecile  said  that  three  months  after 
Olivier's  death,  a  lady  in  black  had  come  to  her  house  and  said : 

"  Give  me  back  my  child!  " 

It  was  Jacqueline,  who  had  deserted  her  child  and  Olivier, — 
Jacqueline,  but  so  changed  that  she  had  hardly  recognized  her. 
Her  mad  love  affair  had  not  lasted.  She  had  wearied  of  her 
lover  more  quickly  than  her  lover  had  done  of  her.  She  had 
come  back  broken,  disgusted,  aged.  The  too  flagrant  scandal  of 
her  adventure  had  closed  many  doors  to  her.  The  least  scrupu- 
lous had  not  been  the  least  severe.  Even  her  mother  had  been 
so  offensive  and  so  contemptuous  that  Jacqueline  had  found  it 
impossible  to  stay  with  her.  She  had  seen  through  and  through 
the  world's  hypocrisy.  Olivier's  death  had  been  the  last  blow. 
She  seemed  so  utterly  sorrowful  that  Cecile  had  not  thought 
it  right  to  refuse  to  let  her  have  her  boy.  It  was  hard  for  her 
to  have  to  give  up  the  little  creature,  whom  she  had  grown  so 
used  to  regarding  as  her  own.  But  how  could  she  make  things 
even  harder  for  a  woman  who  had  more  right  than  herself,  a 
woman  who  was  further  more  unhappy?  She  had  wanted  to 
write  to  Christophe  to  ask  his  advice.  But  Christophe  had 
never  answered  the  letters  she  had  written  him,  she  did  not 
know  his  address,  she  did  not  even  know  whether  he  was  alive 
or  dead.  .  .  .  Joy  comes  and  goes.  What  could  she  do? 
Only  resign  herself  to  the  inevitable.  The  main  thing  was 
for  the  child  to  be  happy  and  to  be  loved.  .  .  . 

The  letter  reached  him  in  the  evening.  A  belated  gust  of 
winter  brought  back  the  snow.  It  fell  all  night.  In  the  forest, 
where  already  the  young  leaves  had  appeared,  the  trees  cracked 
and  split  beneath  the  weight  of  it.  They  went  off  like  a 
battery  of  artillery.  Alone  in  his  room,  without  a  light,  sur- 
rounded only  by  the  phosphorescent  darkness.  Christophe  sat 
listening  to  the  tragic  sounds  of  the  forest,  and  started  at  every 
crack:  and  he  was  like  one  of  the  trees  bending  beneath  its  load 
and  snapping.  He  said  to  himself: 

"  Now  the  end  has  come." 


THE  BURNING  BUSH  331 

Night  passed.  Day  came.  The  tree  was  not  broken.  All 
through  the  new  day  and  the  following  night  the  tree  went  on 
bending  and  cracking:  but  it  did  not  break.  Christophe  had 
no  reason  for  living  left :  and  he  went  on  living.  He  had  no 
motive  for  struggling;  and  he  struggled,  body  to  body,  foot  to 
foot,  with  the  invisible  enemy  who  was  bending  his  back.  He 
was  like  Jacob  with  the  angel.  He  expected  nothing  from  the 
fight,  he  expected  nothing  now  but  the  end,  rest;  and  he  went 
on  fighting.  And  he  cried  aloud : 

"  Break  me  and  have  done !  Why  dost  thou  not  throw  me 
down?" 

Days  passed.  Christophe  issued  from  the  fight,  utterly  life- 
less. Yet  he  would  not  lie  down,  and  insisted  on  going  out 
and  walking.  Happy  are  those  men  who  are  sustained  by  the 
fortitude  of  their  race  in  the  hours  of  eclipse  of  their  lives! 
Though  the  body  of  the  son  was  near  breaking-point,  the  strength 
of  the  father  and  the  grandfather  held  him  up :  the  energy  and 
impetus  of  his  robust  ancestors  sustained  his  broken  soul,  like 
a  dead  knight  being  carried  along  by  his  horse. 

Along  a  precipitous  road  he  went  with  a  ravine  on  either 
hand :  he  went  down  the  narrow  path,  thick  with  sharp  stones, 
among  which  coiled  the  gnarled  roots  of  the  little  stunted  oaks: 
he  did  not  know  where  he  was  going,  and  yet  he  was  more  sure- 
footed than  if  he  had  been  moving  under  the  lucid  direction 
of  his  will.  He  had  not  slept,  he  had  hardly  eaten  anything 
for  several  days.  He  saw  a  mist  in  front  of  his  eyes.  He 
walked  down  towards  the  valley. — It  was  Easter-week.  A  cloudy 
day.  The  last  assault  of  winter  had  been  overcome.  The 
warmth  of  spring  was  brooding.  From  the  villages  far  down 
the  sound  of  bells  came  up :  first  from  a  village  nestling  in  a 
hollow  at  the  foot  of  the  mountain,  with  its  dappled  thatched 
roofs,  dark  and  light  in  patches,  covered  with  thick,  velvety 
moss.  Then  from  another,  out  of  sight,  on  the  other  slope  of 
the  hill.  Then,  others  down  on  the  plain  beyond  the  river. 
And  the  distant  hum  of  a  town  seen  hazily  in  the  mist.  Chris- 
tophe stopped.  His  heart  almost  stopped  beating.  Their  voices 
seemed  to  be  saving: 


332          JEAX-CII.UISTOPHE:    JOURNEY'S  EKD 

"  Come  with  us.  Hero  is  peace.  Here  sorrow  is  dead.  Dead, 
and  thought  is  dead  too.  We  croon  so  sweetly  to  the  soul  that 
it  sleeps  in  our  arms.  Come,  and  rest,  and  thou  shalt  not  wake 
again/' 

He  felt  so  worn  out !  He  was  so  fain  to  sleep !  But  he 
shook  his  head  and  said: 

"  It  is  not  peace  that  1  seek,  but  1  if  e." 

He  went  on  his  way.  He  walked  for  miles  without  noticing 
it.  In  his  state  of  weakness  and  hallucination  the  simplest  sen- 
sations came  to  him  with  unexpected  resonance.  Over  earth  and 
air  his  mind  cast  fantastic  lights.  A  shadow,  with  nothing  to 
cause  it  that  he  could  see,  going  before  him  on  the  Avhite  and 
sunless  road,  made  him  tremble. 

As  he  emerged  from  a  wood  he  found  himself  near  a  village. 
He  turned  back :  the  sight  of  men  hurt  him.  However,  he  could 
not  avoid  passing  by  a  lonely  house  above  the  hamlet:  it  was 
built  on  the  side  of  the  mountain,  and  looked  like  a  sanatorium : 
it  was  surrounded  by  a  large  garden  open  to  the  sun;  a  few 
men  were  wandering  with  faltering  footsteps  along  the  gravel 
paths.  Christophe  did  not  look  at  it  particularly :  but  at  a  turn 
of  the  path  he  came  face  to  face  with  a  man  witb  pale  eyes  and 
a  fat,  yellow  face,  staring  blankly,  who  had  sunk  down  on  a 
seat  at  the  foot  of  t\vo  poplar  trees.  Another  man  was  sitting 
by  his  side :  they  were  both  silent.  Christophe  walked  past  them. 
But,  a  few  yards  on,  he  stopped:  the  man's  eyes  had  seemed 
familiar  to  him.  He  turned.  The  man  had  not  stirred:  he 
was  still  staring  fixedly  at  something  in  front  of  him.  But  his 
companion  looked  at  Christophe,  who  beckoned  to  him.  He 
came  up. 

"Who  is  he?"  asked  Christophe. 

"  A  patient  in  the  asylum,"  said  the  man,  pointing  to  the 
house. 

"  I  think  I  know  him,"  said  Christophe. 

"Possibly,"  replied  the  man.  "He  was  a  well-known  writer 
in  Germany." 

Christophe  mentioned  a  name. — Yes.  That  was  the  name. — • 
He  had  met  him  once  in  the  days  when  he  was  writing  for 
Mannheim's  review.  Then,  they  were  enemies:  Christophe  was 
only  just  beginning,  and  the  other  was  already  famous.  He 


THE  BURNING  BUSH  333 

had  been  a  man  of  considerable  power,  very  self-confident,  very 
contemptuous  of  other  men's  work,  a  novelist  whose  realistie  and 
sensual  writings  had  stood  out  above  the  mediocrity  of  the 
productions  of  his  day.  Christophe,  who  detested  the  man, 
could  not  help  admiring  the  perfection  of  his  materialistic  art, 
which  was  sincere,  though  limited. 

"  He  went  mad  a  year  ago,''  said  the  keeper.  "  He  was 
treated,  regarded  as  cured,  and  sent  home.  Then  he  went  mad 
again.  One  evening  lie  threw  himself  out  of  the  window.  At 
first,  when  he  came  here,  he  used  to  fling  himself  about  and 
shout.  But  now  he  is  quite  quiet.  He  spends  his  days  sitting 
there,  as  you  see." 

"What  is  lie  looking  at?"  asked  Christophe. 

He  went  up  to  the  seat,  and  looked  pitifully  at  the  pale  face 
of  the  madman,  with  his  heavy  eyelids  drooping  over  his  eyes: 
one  of  them  seemed  to  be  almost  shut.  The  madman  seemed  to 
be  unaware  of  Christophe's  presence.  Christophe  spoke  to  him 
by  name  and  took  his  hand — a  soft,  clammy  hand,  which  lay 
limp  in  his  like  a  dead  thing:  he  had  not  the  courage  to  keep  it 
in  his :  the  man  raised  his  glazing  eyes  to  Christophe  for  a 
moment,  then  went  on  staring  straight  in  front  of  him  with 
his  besotted  smile.  Christophe  asked: 

"  What  are  you  looking  at?  " 

The  man  said,  without  moving,  in  a  whisper: 

"  I  am  waiting." 

"What  for?" 

"  The  Resurrection." 

Christophe  started  back.  He  walked  hurriedly  away.  The 
word  had  burnt  into  his  very  soul. 

He  plunged  into  the  forest,  and  climbed  up  the  hillside  in 
the  direction  of  his  own  house."  Tn  his  confusion  he  missed 
his  way.  and  found  himself  in  the  middle  of  an  immense  pine- 
wood.  Darkness  and  silence.  A  few  patches  of  sunlight  of  a 
pale,  ruddy  gold,  come  it  was  impossible  to  tell  whence,  fell 
aslant  the  dense  shadows.  Christophe  was  hvpnotized  bv  these 
patches  of  light.  Round  him  everything  seemed  to  lie  in  dark- 
ness. He  walked  along  over  the  carpet  of  pine-needles,  tripping 
over  the  roots  which  stood  out  like  swollen  veins.  At  the  foot 
of  the  trees  were  neither  plants  nor  moss.  Tn  the  branches  was 


334         JEAN-CHEISTOPHE :    JOURNEY'S  END 

never  the  song  of  a  bird.  The  lower  branches  were  dead.  All 
the  life  of  the  place  had  fled  upwards  to  meet  the  sun.  Soon 
even  the  life  overhead  would  be  gone.  Christophe  passed  into  a 
part  of  the  wood  which  was  visited  by  some  mysterious  pesti- 
lence. A  kind  of  long,  delicate  lichen,  like  spiders'  webs,  had 
fastened  upon  the  branches  of  the  red  pines,  and  wrapped  them 
about  with  its  meshes,  binding  them  from  hand  to  foot,  passing 
from  tree  to  tree,  choking  the  life  out  of  the  forest.  It  was 
like  the  deep-sea  alga  with  its  subtle  tentacles.  There  was  in 
the  place  the  silence  of  the  depths  of  the  ocean.  High  over- 
head hung  the  pale  sun.  Mists  which  had  crept  insidiously 
through  the  forest  encompassed  Christophe.  Everything  dis- 
appeared :  there  was  nothing  to  be  seen.  For  half  an  hour 
Christophe  wandered  at  random  in  the  web  of  the  white  mist, 
which  grew  slowly  thicker,  black,  and  crept  down  into  his  throat : 
he  thought  he  wras  going  straight:  but  he  was  walking  in  a 
circle  beneath  the  gigantic  spiders'  webs  hanging  from  the  stifled 
pines :  the  mist,  passing  through  them,  left  them  enriched  with 
shivering  drops,  of  water.  At  last  the  meshes  were  rent  asunder, 
a  hole  was  made,  and  Christophe  managed  to  make  his  way  out 
of  the  submarine  forest.  He  came  to  living  woods  and  the 
silent  conflict  of  the  pines  and  the  beeches.  But  everywhere 
there  was  the  same  stillness.  The  silence,  which  had  been  brood- 
ing for  hours,  was  agonizing.  Christophe  stopped  to  listen.  .  .  . 

Suddenly,  in  the  distance,  there  came  a  storm.  A  premoni- 
tory gust  of  wind  blew  up  from  the  depths  of  the  forest.  Like 
a  galloping  horse  it  rushed  over  the  swaying  tree-tops.  It  was 
like  the  God  of  Michael  Angelo  passing  in  a  water-spout.  It 
passed  over  Christophe's  head.  The  forest  rustled,  and  Chris- 
tophe's  heart  quivered.  It  was  the  Annunciation.  .  .  . 

Silence  came  again.  In  a'  state  of  holy  terror  Christophe 
walked  quickly  home,  with  his  legs  giving  way  beneath  him. 
At  the  door  of  the  house  he  glanced  fearfully  behind  him,  like 
a  hunted  man.  All  Nature  seemed  dead.  The  forests  which 
covered  the  sides  of  the  mountain  were  sleeping,  lying  heavy 
beneath  a  weight  of  sadness.  The  still  air  was  magically  clear 
and  transparent.  There  was  never  a  sound.  Only  the  melan- 
choly music  of  a  stream — water  eating  away  the  rock — sounded 
the  knell  of  the  earth.  Christophe  went  to  bed  in  a  fever.  In 


THE  BURNING  BUSH  335 

the  stable  hard  by  the  beasts  stirred  as  restlessly  and  uneasily 
as  he.  ... 

Night.  He  had  dozed  off.  In  the  silence  the  distant  storm 
arose  once  more.  The  wind  returned,  like  a  hurricane  now, — - 
the  fcchn  of  the  spring,  with  its  burning  breath  warming  the 
still  sleeping,  chilly  earth,  the  fcchn  which  melts  the  ice  and 
gathers  fruitful  rains.  It  rumbled  like  thunder  in  the  forests 
on  the  other  side  of  the  ravine.  It  came  nearer,  swelled,  charged 
up  the  slopes :  the  whole  mountain  roared.  In  the  stable  a 
horse  neighed  and  the  cows  lowed.  Christophe's  hair  stood  on 
end,  he  sat  up  in  bed  and  listened.  The  squall  came  up  scream- 
ing, set  the  shutters  banging,  the  weather-cocks  squeaking,  made 
the  slates  of  the  roof  go  crashing  down,  and  the  whole  house 
shake.  A  flower-pot  fell  and  was  smashed.  Christophe's  win- 
dow was  insecurely  fastened,  and  was  burst  open  with  a  bang, 
and  the  warm  wind  rushed  in.  Christophe  received  its  blast 
full  in  his  face  and  on  his  naked  chest.  He  jumped  out  of  bed 
gaping,  gasping,  choking.  It  was  as  though  the  living  God 
were  rushing  into  his  empty  soul.  The  Resurrection !  .  .  . 
The  air  poured  down  his  throat,  the  flood  of  new  life  swelled 
through  him  and  penetrated  to  his  very  marrow.  He  felt  like 
to  burst,  he  wanted  to  shout,  to  shout  for  joy  and  sorrow :  and 
there  would  only  come  inarticulate  sounds  from  his  mouth. 
He  reeled,  he  beat  on  the  walls  with  his  arms,  while  all  around 
him  were  sheets  of  paper  flying  on  the  wind.  He  fell  down 
in  the  middle  of  the  room  and  cried : 

"  0  Thou,  Thou  !     Thou  art  come  back  to  me  at  last !  " 

"  Thou  art  come  back  to  me,  Thou  art  come  back  to  me ! 
0  Thou,  whom  I  had  lost !  .  .  .  Why  didst  Thou  abandon 
me  ?  " 

"  To  fulfil  My  task,  that  thou  didst  abandon." 

"What  task?'" 

"My  fight." 

"What  need  hast  Thou  to  fight?  Art  Thou  not  master 
of  all?" 

"  I  am  not  the  master." 

"  Art  Thou  not  All  that  Is  ?  " 

"  I  am  not  all  that  is.  I  am  Life  fighting  Nothingness.  I 
am  not  Nothingness,  I  am  the  Fire  which  burns  in  the  Night. 


336         JEAN-CHPJSTOPHE :    JOURNEY'S  END 

I  am  not  the  Night.  I  am  the  eternal  Light;  I  am  not  an 
eternal  destiny  soaring  above  the  fight.  I  am  free  Will  which 
struggles  eternally.  Struggle  and  burn  with  Me." 

"  I  am  conquered.     I  am  good  for  nothing." 

"  Thou  art  conquered  ?  All  seems  lost  to  thee  ?  Others  will 
be  conquerors.  Think  not  of  thyself,  think  of  My  army." 

"  I  am  alone.  I  have  none  but  myself.  I  belong  to  no 
army." 

"  Thou  art  not  alone,  and  thou  dost  not  belong  to  thyself. 
Thou  art  one  of  My  voices,  thou  art  one  of  My  arms.  Speak 
and  strike  for  Me.  But  if  the  arm  be  broken,  or  the  voice  be 
weary,  then  still  I  hold  My  ground :  I  fight  with  other  voices, 
other  arms  than  thine.  Though  thou  art  conquered,  yet  art 
thou  of  the  army  which  is  never  vanquished.  Eemember  that 
and  thou  wilt  fight  even  unto  death." 

"  Lord,  I  have  suffered  much !  " 

"  Thinkest  thou  that  I  do  not  suffer  also  ?  For  ages  death 
has  hunted  Me  and  nothingness  has  lain  in  wait  for  Me.  It 
is  only  by  victory  in  the  fight  that  I  can  make  My  way.  The 
river  of  life  is  red  with  My  blood." 

"Fighting,  always  fighting?" 

"We  must  always  fight.  God  is  a  fighter,  even  He  Himself. 
•  God  is  a  conqueror.  He  is  a  devouring  lion.  Nothingness  hems 
Him  in  and  He  hurls  it  down.  And  the  rhythm  of  the  fight 
is  the  supreme  harmony.  Such  harmony  is  not  for  thy  mortal 
ears.  It  is  enough  for  thee  to  know  that  it  exists.  Do  thy 
duty  in  peace  and  leave  the  rest  to  the  Gods." 

"  I  have  no  strength  left." 

"  Sing  for  those  Avho  are  strong." 

"  My  voice  is  gone." 

"  Pray." 

"  My  heart  is  foul." 

"Pluck  it  out.     Take.  Mine." 

"  Lord,  it  is  easy  to  forget  myself,  to  cast  away  my  dead  soul. 
But  how  can  I  cast  out  the  dead  ?  how  can  I  forget  those  whom 
I  have  loved?" 

"  Abandon  the  dead  with  thy  dead  soul.  Thou  wilt  find  them 
alive  with  My  living  soul." 

"Thou  hast  left  me  once:  wilt  Thou  leave  me  again?" 


THE  BURNING  BUSH  337 

'•  I  shall  leave  thee  again.  Never  doubt  that.  It  is  for  thee 
never  to  leave  Me  more." 

"But  if  the  flame  of  my  life  dies  down?" 

"  Then  do  thou  kindle  others." 

"  And  if  death  is  in  me  ?  " 

"  Life  is  otherwhere.  Go,  open  thy  gates  to  life.  Thou 
insensate  man,  to  shut  thyself  up  in  thy  ruined  house!  Quit 
thyself.  There  arc  other  mansions." 

"  0  Life,  0  Life !  I  see  ...  I  sought  thee  in  myself,  in 
my  own  empty  shut-in  soul.  My  soul  is  broken:  the  sweet  air 
pours  in  through  the  windows  of  my  wounds :  I  breathe  again. 
I  have  found  Thee  once  more,  0  Life !  .  .  . " 

"  I  have  found  thee  again.  .  .  .  Hold  thy  peace,  and 
listen." 

And  like  the  murmuring  of  a  spring,  Christophe  heard  the 
song  of  life  bubbling  up  in  him.  Leaning  out  of  his  window, 
he  saw  the  forest,  which  yesterday  had  been  dead,  seething  with 
life  under  the  sun  and  the  wind,  heaving  like  the  Ocean.  Along 
the  stems  of  the  trees,  like  thrills  of  joy,  the  waves  of  the  wind 
passed:  and  the  yielding  branches  held  their  arms  in  ecstasy 
up  to  the  brilliant  sky.  And  the  torrent  rang  out  merrily  as 
a  bell.  The  country-side  had  risen  from  the  grave  in  which 
yesterday  it  had  been  entombed :  life  had  entered  it  at  the  time 
when  love  passed  into  Christophe's  heart.  Oh  !  the  miracle  of 
the  soul  touched  by  grace,  awaking  to  new  life !  Then  every- 
thing comes  to  life  again  all  round  it.  The  heart  begins  to 
beat  once  more.  The  eye  of  the  spirit  is  opened.  The  dried-up 
fountains  begin  once  more  to  flow. 

And  Christophe  returned  to  the  Divine  conflict.  .  .  .  How 
his  own  fight,  how  all  the  conflicts  of  men  were  lost  in  that 
gigantic  battle,  wherein  the  suns  rain  down  like  flakes  of  snow 
tossing  on  the  wind!  .  .  .  He  had  laid  bare  his  soul.  And. 
just  as  in  those  dreams  in  which  one  hovers  in  space,  he  felt 
that  he  was  soaring  above  himself,  he  saw  himself  from  above. 
in  the  general  plan  of  the  world  :  and  the  meaning  of  his  efforts, 
the  price  of  his  suffering,  were  revealed  to  him  at  a  glance. 
His  struggles  were  a  part  of  the  great  fight  of  the  worlds.  His 
overthrow  was  a  momentary  episode,  immediately  repaired.  Just 


338         JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  :    JOURNEY'S  END 

as  he  fought  for  all,  so  all  fought  for  him.     They  shared  his 
trials,  he  shared  their  glory. 

"  Companions,  enemies,  walk  over  me,  crush  me,  let  me  feel 
the  cannons  which  shall  win  victory  pass  over  my  body !  I 
do  not  think  of  the  iron  which  cuts  deep  into  my  flesh,  I  do 
not  think  of  the  foot  that  tramples  down  my  head,  I  think  of 
my  Avenger,  the  Master,  the  Leader  of  the  countless  army. 
My  blood  shall  cement  the  victory  of  the  future.  ..." 

God  was  not  to  him  the  impassive  Creator,  a  Nero  from  his 
tower  of  brass  watching  the  burning  of  the  City  to  which  he 
himself  has  set  fire.  God  was  fighting.  God  was  suffering. 
Fighting  and  suffering  with  all  who  fight  and  for  all  who 
suffer.  For  God  was  Life,  the  drop  of  light  fallen  into  the 
darkness,  spreading  out,  reaching  out,  drinking  up  the  night. 
But  the  night  is  limitless,  and  the  Divine  struggle  will  never 
cease :  and  none  can  know  how  it  will  end.  It  was  a  heroic 
symphony  wherein  the  very  discords  clashed  together  and 
mingled  and  grew  into  a  serene  whole !  Just  as  the  beech-forest 
in  silence  furiously  wages  war,  so  Life  carries  war  into  the 
eternal  peace. 

The  wars  and  the  peace  rang  echoing  through  Christophe. 
He  was  like  a  shell  wherein  the  ocean  roars.  Epic  shouts  passed, 
and  trumpet  calls,  and  tempestuous  sounds  borne  upon  sovereign 
rhythms.  For  in  that  sonorous  soul  everything  took  shape  in 
sound.  It  sang  of  light.  It  sang  of  darkness,  sang  of  life  and 
death.  It  sang  for  those  who  were  victorious  in  battle.  It 
sang  for  himself  who  was  conquered  and  laid  low.  It  sang. 
All  was  song.  It  was  nothing  but  song. 

It  was  so  drunk  with  it  that  it  could  not  hear  its  own  song. 
Like  the  spring  rains,  the  torrents  of  music  disappeared  into 
the  earth  that  was  cracked  by  the  winter.  Shame,  grief,  bitter- 
ness now  revealed  their  mysterious  mission :  they  had  decom- 
posed the  earth  and  they  had  fertilized  it.  The  share  of  sorrow, 
breaking  the  heart,  had  opened  up  new  sources  of  life.  The  waste 
land  had  once  more  burst  into  flower.  But  they  were  not  the 
old  spring  flowers.  A  new  soul  had  been  born. 

Every  moment  it  was  springing  into  birth.  For  it  was  not 
yet  shaped  and  hardened,  like  the  souls  that  have  come  to  the 


THE  BURNING  BUSH  339 

end  of  their  belief,  the  souls  which  are  at  the  point  of  death. 
It  was  not  the  finished  statue.  It  was  molten  metal.  Every 
second  made  a  new  universe  of  it.  Christophe  had  no  thought 
of  setting  bounds  upon  himself.  He  gave  himself  up  to  the  joy 
of  a  man  leaving  behind  him  the  burden  of  his  past  and  setting 
out  on  a  long  voyage,  with  youth  in  his  blood,  freedom  in 
his  heart,  to  breathe  the  sea  air,  and  think  that  the  voyage 
will  never  come  to  an  end.  Now  that  he  was  caught  up  again 
by  the  creative  force  which  flows  through  the  world,  he  was 
amazed  to  the  point  of  ecstasy  at  the  world's  wealth.  He  loved, 
he  was,  his  neighbor  as  himself.  And  all  things  were  "  neigh- 
bors "  to  him,  from  the  grass  beneath  his  feet  to  the  man  whose 
hand  he  clasped.  A  fine  tree,  the  shadow  of  a  cloud  on  the 
mountain,  the  breath  of  the  fields  borne  upward  on  the  wind, 
and,  at  night,  the  hive  of  heaven  buzzing  with  the  swarming 
suns  .  .  .  his  blood  raced  through  him  ...  he  had  no  de- 
sire to  speak  or  to  think,  he  desired  only  to  laugh  and  to  cry, 
and  to  melt  away  into  the  living  marvel  of  it  all.  Write?  Why 
should  he  write?  Can  a  man  write  the  inexpressible?  .  .  . 
But  whether  it  were  possible  or  no,  he  had  to  write.  It  was 
his  law.  Ideas  would  come  to  him  in  flashes,  wherever  he  might 
be,  most  often  when  he  was  out  walking.  He  could  not  wait. 
Then  he  would  write  with  anything,  on  anything  that  came  to 
hand :  and  very  often  he  could  not  have  told  the  meaning  of 
the  phrases  which  came  rushing  forth  from  him  with  irresistible 
impetuosity :  and,  as  he  wrote,  more  ideas  would  come,  more 
and  more:  and  he  would  write  and  write,  on  his  shirt  cuffs,  in 
the  lining  of  his  hat.  Quickly  though  he  wrote,  yet  his  thoughts 
would  leap  ahead,  and  he  had  to  use  a  sort  of  shorthand. 

They  were  only  rough  notes.  The  difficulty  began  when  he 
tried  to  turn  his  ideas  into  the  ordinary  musical  forms :  he  dis- 
covered that  none  of  the  conventional  molds  were  in  the  least 
suitable:  if  he  wanted  to  fix  his  visions  with  any  sort  of  fidelity, 
he  had  to  begin  by  forgetting  all  the  music  he  had  ever  heard, 
everything  he  had  ever  written,  make  a  clean  sweep  of  all  the 
formulas  he  had  ever  learned,  and  the  traditional  technique; 
fling  away  all  such  crutches  of  the  impotent  mind,  the  com- 
fortable bed  made  for  the  indolence  of  those  who  lie  back  on 
the  thoughts  of  other  men  to  save  themselves  the  trouble  of 


340          JEAN-CIIIUSTOPHE:    JOURNEY'S  END 

thinking  for  themselves.  A  short  while  ago,  when  he  thought 
that  he  had  reached  maturity  in  life  and  art — (as  a  matter  of 
fact  he  had  only  been  at  the  end  of  one  of  his  lives  and  one 
of  his  incarnations  in  art), — he  had  expressed  himself  in  a  pre- 
existing language:  his  feelings  had  submitted  without  revolt  to 
the  logic  of  a  pre-established  development,  which  dictated  a 
portion  of  his  phrases  in  advance,  and  had  led  him,  docilely 
enough,  along  the  beaten  track  to  the  appointed  spot  where  the 
public  was  awaiting  him.  Now  there  was  no  road  marked  out, 
and  his  feelings  had  to  carve  out  their  own  path:  his  mind  had 
only  to  follow.  It-  was  no  longer  appointed  to  describe  or  to 
analyze  passion :  it  had  to  become  part  and  parcel  of  it,  and 
seek  to  wed  its  inward  law. 

At  the  same  time  he  shed  all  the  contradictions  in  which  he 
had  long  been  involved,  though  he  had  never  willingly  submitted 
to  them.  For,  although  he  was  a  pure  artist,  he  had  often  in- 
corporated in  his  art  considerations  which  are  foreign  to  art: 
he  had  endowed  it  with  a  social  mission.  And  he  had  not  per- 
ceived that  there  were  two  men  in  him  :  the  creative  artist  who 
never  worried  himself  about  any  moral  aim,  and  the  man  of 
action,  the  thinker,  who  wanted  his  art  to  be  moral  and  social. 
The  two  would  sometimes  bring  each  other  to  an  awkward  pass. 
But  now  that  he  was  subject  to  every  creative  idea,  with  its 
organic  law,  like  a  reality  superior  to  all  reality,  he  had  broken 
free  of  practical  reason.  In  truth,  he  shed  none  of  his  con- 
tempt for  the  flabby  and  depraved  immorality  of  the  age:  in 
truth,  he  still  thought  that  its  impure  and  unwholesome  art  was 
the  lowest  rung  of  art,  because  it  is  a  disease,  a  fungus  growing 
on  a  rotting  trunk:  but  if  art  for  pleasure's  sake  is  the  prostra- 
tion of  art,  Christophe  by  no  means  opposed  to  it  the  short- 
sighted utilitarianism  of  art  for  morality's  sake,  that  winged 
Pegasus  harnessed  to  the  plow.  The  highest  art,  the  only  art 
which  is  worthy  of  the  name,  is  above  all  temporary  laws:  it 
is  a  comet  sweeping  through  the  infinite.  It  may  be  that  its 
force  is  useful,  it  may  be  that  it  is  apparently  useless  and  dan- 
gerous in  the  existing  order  of  the  workaday  world  :  but  it  is 
force,  it  is  movement  and  lire:  it  is  tin-  lightning  darted  from 
heaven:  and,  for  that  very  reason,  it  is  sacred,  for  that  very 
reason  it  is  beneficent.  The  good  it  does  may  be  of  the  practical 


THE  BTJRNIXG  BUSH  341 

order:  but  its  real,  its  Divine  benefits  are,  like  faith,  of  the 
supernatural  order.  It  is  like  the  sun  whence  it  is  sprung.  The 
sun  is  neither  moral  nor  immoral.  It  is  that  which  Is.  It 
lightens  the  darkness  of  space.  And  so  does  art. 

And  Christophe,  being  delivered  up  to  art,  was  amazed  to 
find  unknown  and  unsuspected  powers  teeming  in  himself: 
powers  quite  apart  from  his  passions,  his  sorrows,  his  conscious 
soul,  a  stranger  soul,  indifferent  to  all  his  loves  and  sufferings, 
to  all  his  life,  a  joyous,  fantastic,  wild,  incomprehensible  soul. 
It  rode  him  and  dug  its  spurs  into  his  sides.  And,  in  the  rare 
moments  when  he  could  stop  to  take  breath,  he  wondered  as  he 
read  over  what  he  had  written : 

"  How  could  such  things  have  come  out  of  me  ?  " 

He  was  a  prey  to  that  delirium  of  the  mind  which  is  known 
to  every  man  of  genius,  that  will  which  is  independent  of  the 
will,  "  the  ineffable  enigma  of  the  world  and  life,"  which  Goethe 
calls  "  the  demoniac/'  against  which  he  was  always  armed,  though 
it  always  overcame  him. 

And  Christophe  wrote  and  wrote.  For  days  and  weeks. 
There  are  times  when  the  mind,  being  impregnated,  can  feed 
upon  itself  and  go  on  producing  almost  indefinitely.  The  faint- 
est contact  with  things,  the  pollen  of  a  flower  borne  by  the 
wind  were  enough  to  make  the  inward  germs,  the  myriads  of 
germs  put  forth  and  come  to  blossom.  Christophe  had  no  time 
to  think,  no  time  to  live.  His  creative  soul  reigned  sovereign 
over  the  ruins  of  his  life. 

And  suddenly  it  stopped.  Christophe  came  out  of  that  state 
broken,  scorched,  older  by  ten  years — but  saved.  He  had  left 
Christophe  and  gone  over  to  God. 

Streaks  of  white  hair  had  suddenly  appeared  in  his  black 
mane,  like  those  autumn  flowers  which  spring  up  in  the  fields 
in  September  nights.  There  were  fresli  lines  on  his  cheeks. 
But  his  eyes  had  regained  their  calm  expression,  and  his  mouth 
bore  the  marks  of  resignation.  He  was  appeased.  He  under- 
stood now.  He  understood  the  vanity  of  his  pride,  the  vanity 
of  human  pride,  under  the  terrible  hand  of  the  Force  which 
moves  the  worlds.  Xo  man  is  surely  master  of  himself.  A 
man  must  watch.  For  if  he  slumbers  that  Force  rushes  into 


342         JEAN-CHEISTOPHE :    JOURNEY'S  END 

him  and  whirls  him  headlong  .  .  .  into  what  dread  abysses? 
or  the  torrent  which  bears  him  along  sinks  and  leaves  him  on 
its  dry  bed.  To  fight  the  fight  it  is  not  enough  to  will.  A 
man  must  humiliate  himself  before  the  unknown  God.  who 
flat  ubi  vult,  who  blows  where  and  when  He  listeth,  love,  death, 
or  life.  Human  will  can  do  nothing  without  God's.  One  sec- 
ond is  enough  for  Him  to  obliterate  thn  work  of  years  of  toil 
and  effort.  And,  if  it  so  please  Him,  He  can  cause  the  eternal 
to  spring  forth  from  dust  and  mud.  Xo  man  more  than  the 
creative  artist  feels  at  the  mercy  of  God :  for,  if  he  is  truly 
great,  he  will  only  say  what  the  Spirit  bids  him. 

And  Christophe  understood  the  wisdom  of  old  Haydn  who 
went  down  on  his  knees  each  morning  before  he  took  pen  in 
hand.  .  .  .  Vigila  ct  or  a.  Watch  and  pray.  Pray  to  God 
that  He  may  be  with  you.  Keep  in  loving  and  pious  com- 
munion with  the  Spirit  of  life. 

Towards  the  end  of  summer  a  Parisian  friend  of  Christophe's, 
who  was  passing  through  Switzerland,  discovered  his  retreat. 
He  was  a  musical  critic  who  in  old  days  had  been  an  excellent 
judge  of  his  compositions.  He  was  accompanied  by  a  well- 
known  painter,  who  was  avowedly  a  whole-hearted  admirer  of 
Christophe's.  They  told  him  of  the  very  considerable  success 
of  his  work,  which  was  being  played  all  over  Europe.  Chris- 
tophe showed  very  little  interest  in  the  news :  the  past  was  dead 
to  him,  and  his  old  compositions  did  not  count.  At  his  visitors' 
request  he  showed  them  the  music  he  had  written  recently.  The 
critic  could  make  nothing  of  it.  He  thought  Christophe  had 
gone  mad. 

"  No  melody,  no  measure,  no  thematic  workmanship :  a  sort 
of  liquid  core,  molten  matter  which  had  not  hardened,  taking 
any  shape,  but  possessing  none  of  its  own :  it  is  like  nothing  on 
earth :  a  glimmering  of  light  in  chaos." 

Christophe  smiled: 

"  It  is  quite  like  that,"  he  said.  "  The  eyes  of  chaos  shining 
through  the  veil  of  order.  ..." 

But  the  critic  did  not  understand  Novalis'  words: 

("He  is  cleaned  out,"  he  thought.) 

Christophe  did  not  try  to  make  him  understand. 


THE  BURNING  BUSH  343 

When  his  visitors  were  ready  to  go  he  walked  with  them  a 
little,  so  as  to  do  the  honors  of  his  mountain.  But  he  did  not 
go  far.  Looking  down  at  a  field,  the  musical  critic  called  to 
mind  the  scenery  of  a  Parisian  theater :  and  the  painter  criti- 
cised the  colors,  mercilessly  remarking  on  the  awkwardness 
of  their  combination,  and  declaring  that  to  him  they  had  a 
Swiss  flavor,  sour,  like  rhubarb,  musty  and  dull,  a  la  Hodler; 
further,  he  displayed  an  indifference  to  Nature  which  was  not 
altogether  affectation.  He  pretended  to  ignore  Nature. 

"Nature!  What  on  earth  is  Nature?  I  don't  know.  Light, 
color,  very  well !  But  I  don't  care  a  hang  for  Nature !  " 

Christophe  shook  hands  with  them  and  let  them  go.  That 
sort  of  thing  had  no  effect  on  him  now.  They  were  on  the  other 
side  of  the  ravine.  That  was  well.  He  said  to  nobody  in 
particular : 

"  If  you  wish  to  come  up  to  me,  you  must  take  the  same  road." 

The  creative  fire  which  had  been  burning  for  months  had 
died  down.  But  its  comfortable  warmth  was  still  in  Christophe's 
heart.  He  knew  that  the  fire  would  flare  up  again :  if  not  in 
himself,  then  around  him.  Wherever  it  might  be,  he  would 
love  it  just  the  same :  it  would  always  be  the  same  fire.  On 
that  September  evening  he  could  feel  it  burning  throughout  all 
Nature. 

He  climbed  up  to  the  house.  There  had  been  a  storm.  The 
sun  had  come  out  again.  The  fields  were  steaming.  The  ripe 
fruit  was  falling  from  the  apple-trees  into  the  wet  grass. 
Spiders'  webs,  hanging  from  the  branches  of  the  trees,  still 
glittering  with  the  rain,  were  like  the  ancient  wheels  of  Myeenean 
chariots.  At  the  edge  of  the  dripping  forest  the  green  wood- 
pecker was  trilling  his  jerky  laughter;  and  myriads  of  little 
wasps,  dancing  in  the  sunbeams,  filled  the  vault  of  the  woods 
with  their  deep,  long-drawn  organ  note. 

Christophe  came  to  a  clearing,  in  the  hollow  of  a  shoulder 
of  the  mountain,  a  little  valley  shut  in  at  both  ends,  a  perfect 
oval  in  shape,  which  was  flooded  with  the  light  of  the  setting 
sun:  the  earth  was  red:  in  the  midst  lay  a  little  golden  field 
of  belated  crops,  and  rust-colored  rushes.  Round  about  it  was 
a  girdle  of  the  woods  with  their  ripe  autumn  tints :  ruddy  copper 


344         JEAN-CHEISTOPHE :    JOURNEY'S  KXI) 

beeches,  pale  yellow  chestnuts,  rowans  with  their  coral  berries, 
flaming  cherry-trees  with  their  little  tongues  of  fire,  myrtle- 
bushes  with  their  leaves  of  orange  and  lemon  and  brown  and 
burnt  tinder.  It  was  like  a  burning  bush.  And  from  the  heart 
of  the  flaring  cup  rose  and  soared  a  lark,  drunk  with  the  berries 
and  the  sun. 

And  Christophe's  soul  was  like  the  lark.  It  knew  that  it 
would  soon  come  down  to  earth  again,  and  many  times.  But 
it  knew  also  that  it  would  unwearyingly  ascend  in  the  fire,  sing- 
ing its  "  tirra-lirra  "  which  tells  of  the  light  of  the  heavens  to 
those  who  are  on  earth  below. 


THE    NEW    DAWN 


HERE,    AT    THE    END    OF   THIS    BOOK, 
I  DEDICATE  IT  : 

TO  THE  FREE  SPIRITS — OF  ALL  NATIONS 

WHO   SUFFER,  FIGHT,  AND 
WILL  PREVAIL. 

K.  B. 


PEEFACE  TO  THE  LAST  VOLUME 

OF 

JEAN-CHBISTOPHE 

I  HAVE  written  the  tragedy  of  a  generation  which  is  nearing 
its  end.  I  have  sought  to  conceal  neither  its  vices  nor  its 
virtues,  its  profound  sadness,  its  chaotic  pride,  its  heroic  efforts, 
its  despondency  beneath  the  overwhelming  burden  of  a  super- 
human task,  the  burden  of  the  whole  world,  the  reconstruction 
of  the  world's  morality,  its  esthetic  principles,  its  faith,  the 
forging  of  a  new  humanity. — Such  we  have  been. 

You  young  men,  you  men  of  to-day,  march  over  us.  trample 
us  under  your  feet,  and  press  onward.  Be  ye  greater  and 
happier  than  we. 

For  myself,  I  bid  the  soul  that  was  mine  farewell.  I  cast 
it  from  me  like  an  empty  shell.  Life  is  a  succession  of  deaths 
and  resurrections,  \Vc  must  die.  Christophe,  to  be  born  again 

KOMAIX    JJOLLAXD. 

October,  1912. 


LIFE  passes.  Body  and  soul  flow  onward  like  a  stream.  The 
years  are  written  in  the  flesh  of  the  ageing  tree.  The  whole, 
visible  world  of  form  is  forever  wearing  out  and  springing  to 
new  life.  Thou  only  dost  not  pass,  immortal  music.  Thou 
art  the  inward  sea.  Thou  art  the  profound  depths  of  the  soul. 
In  thy  clear  eyes  the  scowling  face  of  life  is  not  mirrored.  Far, 
far  from  thee,  like  the  herded  clouds,  flies  the  procession  of  days, 
burning,  icy,  feverish,  driven  by  uneasiness,  huddling,  moving  on, 
on,  never  for  one  moment  to  endure.  Thou  only  dost  not  pass. 
Thou  art  beyond  the  world.  Thou  art  a  whole  world  to  thyself. 
Thou  hast  thy  sun,  thy  laws,  thy  ebb  and  How.  Thou  hast  the 
peace  of  the  stars  in  the  great  spaces  of  the  field  of  night,  marking 
their  luminous  track — plows  of  silver  guided  by  the  sure  hand  of 
the  invisible  ox-herd. 

Music,  serene  music,  how  sweet  is  thy  moony  light  to  eyes 
wearied  of  the  harsh  brilliance  of  this  world's  sun!  The  soul 
that  has  lived  and  turned  away  from  the  common  horse-pond, 
where,  as  they  drink,  men  stir  up  the  mud  with  their  feel, 
nestles  to  thy  bosom,  and  from  thy  breasts  is  suckled  with  the 
clear  running  water  of  dreams.  Music,  thou  virgin  mother, 
who  in  thy  immaculate  womb  bcarest  the  fruit  of  all  passions, 
who  in  the  lake  of  thy  eyes,  whereof  the  color  is  as  the  color 
of  rushes,  or  as  the  pale  green  glacier  water,  enfoldest  good 
and  evil,  thou  art  beyond  evil,  thou  art  beyond  good  :  ho  that 
taketh  refuge  with  thee  is  raised  above  the  passing  of  time: 
the  succession  of  days  will  be  but  one  day:  and  death  that 
devours  everything  on  such  an  one  will  never  close  its  jaws. 

Music,  thou  who  bast  rocked  my  sorrow-laden  soul  :  music, 
thou  who  hast  made  me  firm  in  strength,  calm  and  jovous. — 
my  love  and  my  treasure. — i.  kiss  thy  pure  lips.  1  hide  my  face 

,340 


350         JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  :    JOURNEY'S  END 

in  thy  -honey-sweet  hair.  I  lay  my  burning  eyelids  upon  the 
cool  palms  of  thy  hands.  No  word  we  speak,  our  eyes  are 
closed,  and  I  see  the  ineffable  light  of  thine  eyes,  and  1  drink 
the  smile  of  thy  silent  lips :  and,  pressed  close  to  thy  heart,  I 
listen  to  the  throb  of  eternal  life. 


I 

CHRISTOPHE  loses  count  of  the  fleeting  years.  Drop  by  drop 
life  ebbs  away.  But  his  life  is  elsewhere.  It  has  no  history. 
His  history  lies  wholly  in  his  creative  work.  The  unceasing 
buzzing  song  of  music  fills  his  soul,  and  makes  him  insensible 
to  the  outward  tumult. 

Christophe  has  conquered.  His  name  has  been  forced  upon 
the  world.  He  is  ageing.  His  hair  is  white.  That  is  nothing 
to  him,  his  heart  is  ever  young:  he  has  surrendered  none  of  his 
force,  none  of  his  faith.  Once  more  he  is  calm,  but  not  as  he 
was  before  he  passed  by  the  Burning  Bush.  In  the  depths  of 
hir  soul  there  is  still  the  quivering  of  the  storm,  the  memory 
of  his  glimpse  into  the  abyss  of  the  raging  seas.  He  knows 
that  no  man  may  boast  of  being  master  of  himself  without  the 
permission  of  the  God  of  battle.  In  his  soul  there  are  two 
souls.  One  is  a  high  plateau  swept  by  winds  and  shrouded 
with  clouds.  The  other,  higher  still,  is  a  snowy  peak  bathed 
in  light.  There  it  is  impossible  to  dwell ;  but.  when  he  is 
frozen  by  the  mists  on  the  lower  ground,  well  he  knows  the 
path  that  leads  to  the  sun.  In  his  misty  soul  Christophe  is 
not  alone.  Near  him  he  ever  feels  the  presence  of  an  invisible 
friend,  the  sturdy  Saint  Cecilia,  listening  with  wide,  calm  eyes 
to  the  heavens;  and,  like  the  Apostle  Paul, — in  Raphael's  picture, 
— silent  and  dreaming,  leaning  on  his  sword,  he  is  beyond 
exasperation,  and  has  no  thought  of  fighting :  he  dreams,  and 
forges  his  dreams  into  form. 

During  this  period  of  his  life  he  mostly  wrote  piano  and 
chamber  music.  In  such  work  he  was  more  free  to  dare  and 
be  bold :  it  necessitated  fewer  intermediaries  between  his  ideas 
and  their  realization;  his  ideas  were  less  in  danger  of  losing 
force  in  the  course  of  their  percolation.  Frescobaldi,  Couperin, 
Schubert,  and  Chopin,  in  their  boldness  of  expression  and  style, 
anticipated  the  revolutionaries  in  orchestral  music  by  fifty  years. 
Out  of  the  crude  stuff  shaped  by  Christophe's  strong  hands  came 

351 


352         JEAN-CHRISTOPHE :    JOURNEY'S  END 

strange  and  unknown  agglomerations  of  harmony,  bewildering 
combinations  of  chords,  begotten  of  the  remotest  kinships  of 
sounds  accessible  to  the  senses  in  these  days;  they  cast  a  magical 
and  holy  spell  upon  the  mind. — But  the  public  must  have  time 
to  grow  accustomed  to  the  conquests  and  the  trophies  which  a 
great  artist  brings  back  with  him  from  his  quest  in  the  deep 
waters  of  the  ocean.  Very  few  would  follow  Christophe  in  the 
temerity  of  his  later  works.  His  fame  was  due  to  his  earlier 
compositions.  The  feeling  of  not  being  understood,  which  is 
even  more  painful  in  success  than  in  the  lack  of  it,  because 
there  seems  to  be  no  way  out  of  it,  had,  since  the  death  of  his 
only  friend,  aggravated  in  Christophe  his  rather  morbid  ten- 
dene  v  to  seek  isolation  from  the  world. 

iv 

However,  the  gates  of  Germany  were  open  to  him  once  more. 
In  France  the  tragic  brawl  had  been  forgotten.  Tie  was  free 
to  go  whithersoever  he  pleased.  But  he  was  afraid  of  the 
memories  that  would  lie  in  wait  for  him  in  Paris.  And, 
although  he  had  spent  a  few  mouths  in  Germany  and  returned 
there  from  time  to  time  to  conduct  performances  of  his  work, 
he  did  not  settle  there.  He  found  too  many  things  which 
hurt  him.  They  were  not  particular  to  Germany:  lie  found 
them  elsewhere.  But  a  man  expects  more  of  his  own  country 
than  any  other,  and  he  suffers  more  from  its  foibles.  It  was 
true,  too,  that  Germany  was  bearing  the  greatest  burden  of 
the  sins  of  Europe.  The  victor  incurs  the  responsibility  of 
his  victory,  a  debt  towards  the  vanquished:  tacitly  the  victor 
is  pledged  to  march  in  front  of  them  to  show  them  the  way. 
The  conquests  of  Louis  XIV.  gave  Europe  the  splendor  of 
French  reason.  What  light  has  the  Germany  of  Sedan  given 
to  the  world?  The  glitter  of  bayonets?  Thought  without 
wings,  action  without  generosity,  brutal  realism,  which  has  not 
even  the  excuse  of  being  the  realism  of  healthy  men:  force  and 
interest:  Mars  turned  bagman.  Forty  years  ago  Europe  was 
led  astray  into  the  night,  and  the  terrors  of  the  night.  The 
sun  was  hidden  beneath  the  conqueror's  helmet.  If  the  van- 
quished are  too  weak  to  raise  the  extinguisher,  and  can  claim 
only  pity  mingled  with  contempt,  what  shall  be  given  to  the 
victor  who  has  done  this  thing? 

A  little  while  ago,  day  began  to  peep:  little  shafts  of  light 


THE  NEW  DAWN  353 

shimmered  through  the  cracks.  Being  one  of  the  first  to  see 
the  rising  of  the  sun,  Christophe  had  come  out  of  the  shadow 
of  the  helmet:  gladly  he  returned  to  the  country  in  which  he 
had  heen  a  sojourner  perforce,  to  Switzerland.  Like  so  many 
of  the  spirits  of  that  time,  spirits  thirsting  for  liberty,  choking 
in  the  narrowing  circle  of  the  hostile  nations,  he  sought  a 
corner  of  the  earth  in  which  he  could  stand  above  Europe  and 
breathe  freely.  Formerly,  in  the  days  of  Goethe,  the  Home  of 
the  free  Popes  was  the  island  upon  which  all  the  winged  thought 
of  divers  nations  came  to  rest,  like  birds  taking  shelter  from 
the  storm.  Now  what  refuge  is  there?  The  island  has  been 
covered  by  the  sea.  Rome  is  no  more.  The  birds  have  fled 
from  the  Seven  Hills. — The  Alps  only  are  left  for  them.  There, 
amid  the  rapacity  of  Europe,  stands  (for  how  long?)  the  little 
island  of  twenty-four  cantons.  In  truth  it  lias  not  the  poetic 
radiance  and  glamor  of  the  Eternal  City:  history  has  not  tilled 
its  air  with  the  breath  of  gods  and  heroes;  but  a  mighty  music 
rises  from  the  naked  Earth ;  there  is  an  heroic  rhythm  in  the 
lines  of  the  mountains,  and  here,  more  than  anywhere  else,  a 
man  can  feel  himself  in  contact  with  elemental  forces.  Chris- 
tophe did  not  go  there  in  search  of  romantic  pleasure.  A  field, 
a  few  trees,  a  stream,  the  wide  sky,  were  enough  to  make  him 
feel  .alive.  The  calm  aspect  of  his  native  country  was  sweeter 
and  more  companionable  to  him  than  the  gigantic  grandeur  of 
the  Alps.  But  he  could  not  forget  that  it  was  here  that  he 
had  renewed  his  strength:  here  Cod  had  appeared  to  him  in 
the  Burning  Bush;  and  he  never  returned  thither  without  a 
thrill  of  gratitude  and  faith.  He  was  not  the  only  one.  ITow 
many  of  the  combatants  of  life,  ground  beneath  life's  heel,  have 
on  that  soil  renewed  their  energy  to  turn  again  to  the  light,  and 
believe  once  more  in  its  purpose ! 

Living  in  that  country  he  had  come  to  know  it  well.  The 
majority  of  those  who  pass  through  it  see  only  its  excrescences: 
the  leprosy  of  the  hotels  which  defiles  the  fairest  features  of 
that  sturdy  piece  of  earth,  the  stranger  cities,  the  monstrous 
marts  whither  all  the  fatted  people  of  the  world  come  to 
browse,  the  table  d'hote  meals,  the  masses  of  food  flung  into 
the  trough  for  the  nosing  beasts:  the  casino  bands  with  their 
silly  music  mingling  with  the  noise  of  the  little  horses,  the 


354         JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  :    JOURNEY'S  END 

Italian  scum  whose  disgusting  uproar  makes  the  bored  wealthy 
idiots  wriggle  with  pleasure,  the  fatuous  display  of  the  shops — • 
wooden  bears,  chalets,  silly  knick-knacks,  always  the  same,  re- 
peated time  and  again,  over  and  over  again,  with  no  fresh- 
ness or  invention;  the  worthy  booksellers  with  their  scandalous 
pamphlets, — all  the  moral  baseness  of  those  places  whither  every 
year  the  idle,  joyless  millions  come  who  are  incapable  of  rinding 
amusement  in  the  smallest  degree  finer  than  that  of  the  multi- 
tude, or  one  tithe  as  keen. 

And  they  know  nothing  of  the  people  in  whose  land  they 
stay.  They  have  no  notion  of  the  reserves  of  moral  force  and 
civic  liberty  which  for  centuries  have  been  hoarded  up  in  them, 
coals  of  the  fires  of  Calvin  and  Zwingli,  still  glowing  beneath 
the  ashes;  they  have  no  conception  of  the  vigorous  democratic 
spirit  which  will  always  ignore  the  Napoleonic  Republic,  of  the 
simplicity  of  their  institutions,  or  the  breadth  of  their  social 
undertakings,  or  the  example  given  to  the  world  by  these  United 
States  of  the  three  great  races  of  the  West,  the  model  of  the 
Europe  of  the  future.  Even  less  do  they  know  of  the  Daphne 
concealed  beneath  this  rugged  bark,  the  wild,  flashing  dreams 
of  Boecklin,  the  raucous  heroism  of  Hodler,  the  serene  vision 
and  humor  of  Gottfried  Keller,  the  living  tradition  of  the 
great  popular  festivals,  and  the  sap  of  springtime  swelling  the 
trees, — the  still  young  art,  sometimes  rasping  to  the  palate,  like 
the  hard  fruits  of  wild  pear-trees,  sometimes  with  the  sweetish 
insipidity  of  myrtles  black  and  blue,  but  at  least  something 
smacking  of  the  earth,  is  the  work  of  self-taught  men  not  cut 
off  from  the  people  by  an  archaic  culture,  but,  with  them, 
reading  in  the  same  book  of  life. 

Christophe  was  in  sympathy  with  those  men  who  strive  less 
to  seem  than  to  be,  and.  under  the  recent  veneer  of  an  ultra- 
modern industrialism,  keep  clearly  marked  the  most  reposeful 
features  of  the  old  Europe  of  peasants  and  townsmen.  Among 
them  he  had  found  a  few  good  friends,  grave,  serious,  and 
faithful,  who  hold  isolated  and  immured  in  them  regrets  for 
the  past;  they  were  looking  on  at  the  gradual  disappearance 
of  the  old  Switzerland  with  a  sort  of  religious  fatalism  and 
Calvinistic  pessimism;  great  gray  souls.  Christophe  seldom 
saw  them.  His  old  wounds  were  apparently  healed :  but  they 


THE  NEW  DAWN  355 

had  been  too  deep  wholly  to  be  cured.  He  was  fearful  of  form- 
ing new  ties  with  men.  It  was  something  for  this  reason  that 
he  liked  to  dwell  in  a  country  where  it  was  easy  to  live  apart, 
a  stranger  amid  a  throng  of  strangers.  For  the  rest  he  rarely 
stayed  long  in  any  one  place ;  often  he  changed  his  lair :  he 
was  like  an  old  migratory  bird  which  needs  space,  and  has  its 
country  in  the  air.  .  .  .  "  Mein  Reicli  ist  in  der  Luft." 

An  evening  in  summer. 

He  was  walking  in  the  mountains  above  a  village.  He  was 
striding  along  with  his  hat  in  his  hand,  up  a  winding  road. 
He  came  to  a  neck  where  the  road  took  a  double  turn,  and 
passed  into  shadow  between  two  slopes ;  on  either  side  were  nut- 
trees  and  pines.  It  was  like  a  little  shut-in  world.  On  either 
hand  the  road  seemed  to  come  to  an  end,  cut  off  at  the  edge 
of  the  void.  Beyond  were  blue  distance  and  the  gleaming  air. 
The  peace  of  evening  came  down  like  a  gentle  rain. 

They  came  together  each  at  the  same  moment  turning  the 
bend  at  either  end  of  the  neck.  She  was  dressed  in  black, 
and  stood  out  against  the  clear  sky:  behind  her  were  two 
children,  a  boy  and  a  girl,  between  six  and  eight,  who  were 
playing  and  picking  flowers.  They  recognized  each  other  at  a 
distance  of  a  few  yards.  Their  emotion  was  visible  in  their 
eyes;  but  neither  brought  it  into  words;  each  gave  only  an 
imperceptible  movement.  He  was  deeply  moved :  she  .  .  .  her 
lips  trembled  a  little.  They  stopped.  Almost  in  a  whisper: 

"  Grazia !  " 

"You  here!" 

They  held  out  their  hands  and  stood  without  a  word.  Grazia 
was  the  first  to  make  an  effort  to  break  the  silence.  She  told 
him  where  she  lived,  and  asked  him  where  he  was  staving. 
Question  and  answer  were  mechanical,  and  they  hardly  listened, 
heard  later,  when  their  hands  had  parted  :  they  were  absorbed 
in  gazing  at  each  other.  The  children  came  back  to  her.  She 
introduced  them.  He  felt  hostile  towards  them,  and  looked  at 
them  with  no  kindness,  and  said  nothing:  he  was  engrossed 
with  her,  occupied  only  in  studying  her  beautiful  face  that 
bore  some  marks  of  suffering  and  age.  She  was  embarrassed 
by  his  gaze,  and  said : 


356         JEAN-CHRISTOPHE :    JOURNEY'S  END 

"  Will  you  come,  this  evening  ?  " 

Arid  she  gave  the  name  of  her  hotel. 

He  asked  her  where  her  husband  was.  She  pointed  to  her 
black  dress.  He  was  too  much  moved  to  say  more,  and  left 
her  awkwardly.  But  when  he  had  taken  a  few  strides  he  came 
back  to  the  children,  who  were  picking  strawberries,  and  took 
them  roughly  in  his  arms  and  kissed  them,  and  went  away. 

In  the  evening  lie  went  to  the  horcl,  and  found  her  on  the 
veranda,  with  the  blinds  drawn.  They  sat,  apart.  There  were 
very  few  people  about,  only  two  or  three  old  people.  Christophe 
was  irritated  by  their  presence.  Cirazia  looked  at  him.  and  he 
looked  at  her,  and  murmured  her  name  over  and  over  again. 

"Don't  you  think  I  have  changed?"  she  asked. 

His  heart  grew  big. 

"  You  have  suffered,"  he  said. 

"  You  too,"  she  answered  pityingly,  scanning  the  deep  marks 
of  agony  and  passion  in  his  face. 

They  were  at  a  loss  for  words. 

"  Please,"  he  said,  a  moment  later,  "  let  us  go  somewhere 
else.  Could  we  not  find  somewhere  to  be  alone  and  talk?" 

"  No,  my  dear.  Let  us  stay  here.  It  is  good  enough  here. 
No  one  is  heeding  us  at  all." 

"I  cannot  talk  freely  here." 

"  That  is  all  the  better." 

He  could  not  understand  why.  Later,  when  in  memory  he 
went  over  their  conversation,  he  thought  she  had  not  trusted 
him.  But  she  was  instinctively  afraid  of  emotional  scenes: 
unconsciously  she  was  seeking  protection  from  anv  surprise  of 
their  hearts:  tbe  very  awkwardness  of  their  intimacv  in  a 
public  room,  so  sheltering  the  modesty  of  her  secret  emotions, 
was  dear  to  her. 

In  whispers,  with  long  intervals  of  silence,  they  sketched  their 
lives  in  outline.  Count  Bercny  had  been  killed  in  a  duel  a  few 
months  ago;  and  Christophe  saw  that  she  had  not  been  very 
happy  with  him.  Also,  she  had  lost  a  child,  her  first-born. 
She  made  no  complaint,  and  turned  the  conversation  from  her- 
self to  question  Christophe.  and.  as  he  told  her  of  his  tribula- 
tions, she  showed  the  most  affectionate  compassion.  Bells  rang, 
It  was  Sunday  evening.  Life  stood  still. 


THE  NEW  DAWN  357 

She  asked  him  to  come  again  next  day  but  one.  He  was 
hurt  that  she  should  be  so  little  eager  to  see  him  again.  In 
his  heart  happiness  and  sorrow  were  mingled. 

ISText  day,  on  some  pretext,  she  wrote  and  asked  him  to  come. 
He  was  delighted  with  her  little  note.  This  time  she  received 
him  in  her  private  room.  She  was  with  her  two  children.  He 
looked  at  them,  still  a  little  uneasily,  but  very  tenderly.  He 
thought  the  little  girl — the  elder  of  the  two — very  like  her 
mother :  but  he  did  not  try  to .  match  the  boy's  looks.  They 
talked  about  the  country,  the  times,  the  books  lying  open  on  the 
table : — but  their  eyes  spoke  of  other  things.  He  was  hoping  to 
be  able  to  talk  more  intimately  when  a  hotel  acquaintance  came 
in.  He  marked  the  pleasure  and  politeness  with  which  Grazia 
received  the  stranger :  she  seemed  to  make  no  difference  between 
her  two  visitors.  He  was  hurt  by  it,  but  could  not  be  angry 
with  her.  She  proposed  that  they  should  all  go  for  a  walk  and 
he  accepted;  the  presence  of  the  other  woman,  though  she  was 
young  and  charming,  paralyzed  him :  his  day  was  spoiled. 

He  did  not  see  Grazia  again  for  two  days.  During  that  time 
he  lived  but  for  the  hours  he  was  to  spend  with  her. — Once  more 
his  efforts  to  speak  to  her  were  doomed  to  failure.  While  she 
was  very  gentle  and  kind  with  him,  she  could  not  throw  off  her 
reserve.  All  unconsciously  Christophe  added  to  her  difficulty 
by  his  outbursts  of  German  sentimentality,  which  embarrassed 
her  and  forced  her  instinct  into  reaction. 

He  wrote  her  a  letter  which  touched  her,  saying  that  life 
was  so  short !  Their  lives  were  already  so  far  gone !  Perhaps 
they  would  have  only  a  very  little  time  in  which  to  see  each 
other,  and  it  was  pitiful,  almost  criminal,  not  to  employ  it  in 
frank  converse. 

She  replied  with  a  few  affectionate  words,  begging  him  to 
excuse  her  for  her  distrust,  which  she  could  not  avoid,  since 
she  had  been  so  much,  hurt  by  life :  she  could  not  break  her 
habitual  reserve:  any  excessive  display,  even  of  a  genuine  feel- 
ing, hurt  and  terrified  her.  But  well  she  knew  the  worth  of 
the  friendship  that  had  come  to  her  once  more :  and  she  was 
as  glad  of  it  as  he.  She  asked  him  to  dine  with  her  that 
evening. 

His  heart  was  brimming  with  gratitude.     In  his  room,  lying 


358         JEAN-CHRISTOPHE :    JOURNEY'S  END 

on  his  bed,  he  sobbed.  It  was  the  opening  of  the  flood-gates 
of  ten  years  of  solitude :  for,  sinee  Olivicr's  death,  he  had  been 
utterly  alone.  Her  letter  gave  the  word  of  resurrection  to  his 
heart  that  was  so  famished  for  tenderness.  Tenderness !  .  .  . 
He  thought  he  had  put  it  from  him :  he  had  been  forced  to 
learn  how  to  do  without  it!  Now  he  felt  how  sorely  he  needed 
it.  and  the  great  stores  of  love  that  had  accumulated  in  him.  .  .  . 

It  was  a  sweet  and  blessed  evening  that  they  spent  to- 
gether. ...  He  could  only,  speak  to  her  of  trivial  subjects, 
in  spite  of  their  intention  to  hide  nothing  from  each  other. 
But  what  goodly  things  he  told  her  through  the  piano,  which 
with  her  eyes  she  invited  him  to  use  to  tell  her  what  he  had  to 
say!  She  was  struck  by  the  humility  of  the  man  whom  she 
had  known  in  his  violence  and  pride.  When  he  went  away  the 
silent  pressure  of  their  hands  told  them  that  they  had  found 
each  other,  and  would  never  lose  what  they  had  regained. — It 
was  raining,  and  there  was  not  a  breath  of  wind.  His  heart 
was  singing. 

She  was  only  able  to  stay  a  few  days  longer,  and  she  did 
not  postpone  her  departure  for  an  hour.  He  dared  not  ask  her 
to  do  so,  nor  complain.  On  their  last  day  they  went  for  a  walk 
with  the  children;  there  came  a  moment  when  he  was  so  full 
of  love  and  happiness  that  he  tried  to  tell  her  so :  but,  with  a 
very  gentle  gesture,  she  stopped  him  and  smiled: 

"  Hush  !   I  feel  everything  that  you  could  say." 

They  sat  down  at  the  turn  of  the  road  where  they  had  met. 
Still  smiling  she  looked  down  into  the  valley  below:  but  it 
was  not  the  valley  that  she  saw.  He  looked  at  the  gentle  face 
marked  with  the  traces  of  bitter  suffering :  a  few  white  tresses 
shoAvcd  in  her  thick  black  hair.  He  was  filled  with  a  pitying, 
passionate  adoration  of  this  beloved  creature  who  had  travailed 
and  been  impregnated  with  the  suffering  of  the  soul.  In  every 
one  of  the  marks  of  time  upon  her  the  soul  was  visible. — And,  in 
a  low,  trembling  voice,  he  craved,  as  a  precious  favor,  which  she 
granted  him,  a  white  hair  from  her  head. 

She  went  away.  He  could  not  understand  why  she  would 
not  have  him  accompany  her.  He  had  no  doubt  of  her  feeling 
for  him,  but  her  reserve  disconcerted  him.  He  could  not  stay 


THE  NEW  DAWN  359 

alone  in  that  place,  and  set  out  in  another  direction.  He  tried 
to  occupy  his  mind  with  traveling  and  work.  He  wrote  to 
Grazia.  She  answered  him,  two  or  three  week  later,  with  very 
brief  letters,  in  which  she  showed  her  tranquil  friendship,  know- 
ing neither  impatience  nor  uneasiness.  They  hurt  him  and  lie 
loved  them.  He  would  not  admit  that  he  had  any  right  to  re- 
proach her;  their  affection  was  too  recent,  too  recently  renewed. 
He  was  fearful  of  losing  it.  And  yet  every  letter  he  had  from 
her  breathed  a  calm  loyalty  which  should  have  made  him  feel 
secure.  But  she  was  so  different  from  him !  .  .  . 

They  had  agreed  to  meet  in  Borne,  towards  the  end  of  the 
autumn.  Without  the  thought  of  seeing  her,  the  journey  would 
have  had  little  charm  for  Christophe.  His  long  isolation  had 
made  him  retiring:  he  had  no  taste  for  that  futile  hurrying 
from  place  to  place  which  is  so  dear  to  the  indolence  of  modern 
men  and  women.  He  was  fearful  of  a  change  of  habit,  which 
is  dangerous  to  the  regular  work  of  the  mind.  Besides,  Italy 
had  no  attractions  for  him.  He  knew  it  only  in  the  villainous 
music  of  the  Yerists  and  the  tenor  arias  to  which  every  now  and 
then  the  land  of  Virgil  inspires  men  of  letters  on  their  travels. 
He  felt  towards  Italy  the  hostility  of  an  advanced  artist,  who 
has  toe  often  heard  the  name  of  Rome  invoked  by  the  worst 
champions  of  academic  routine.  Finally,  the  old  leaven  of 
instinctive  antipathy  which  ever  lies  fermenting  in  the  hearts 
of  the  men  of  the  North  towards  the  men  of  the  South,  or  at 
least  towards  the  legendary  type  of  rhetorical  braggart  which, 
in  the  eyes  of  the  men  of  the  North,  represents  the  men  of  the 
South.  At  the  mere  thought  of  it  Christophe  disdainfully  curled 
his  lip.  .  .  .  No,  he  had  no  desire  for  the  more  acquaintance 
of  the  music-less  people — (for,  in  the  music  of  modern  Kurope. 
what  is  the  place  of  their  mandolin  tinkling  and  melodramatic 
posturing  declamation?). — And  yet  Crazia  belonged  to  this 
people.  To  join  her  again,  whither  and  by  what  devious  ways 
would  Christophe  not  have  gone;'  He  would  win  through  by 
shutting  his  eyes  until  he  came  to  her. 

He  was  used  to  shutting  his  eyes.  For  so  many  years  the 
shutters  of  his  soul  had  been  closed  upon  his  inward  life.  Now, 
in  this  late  autumn,  it  was  more  necessary  than  ever.  For 


3GO          JEAN-CHRISTOPHE :    JOURNEY'S  END 

three  weeks  together  it  had  rained  incessantly.  Then  a  gray 
pall  of  impenetrable  mists  had  hung  over  the  valleys  and  towns 
of  Switzerland,  dripping  and  wet.  His  eyes  had  forgotten  the 
sunlight.  To  rediscover  in  himself  its  concentrated  energy  he 
had  to  begin  by  clothing  himself  in  night,  and,  with  his  eyes 
closed,  to  descend  to  the  depths  of  the  mine,  the  subterranean 
galleries  of  his  dreams.  There  in  the  seams  of  coal  slept  the 
sun  of  days  gone  by.  But  as  the  result  of  spending  his  life 
crouching  there,  digging,  he  came  out  burned,  stiff  in  back  and 
knees,  with  limbs  deformed,  half  petrified,  dazed  eyes,  that,  like 
a  bird's,  could  see  keenly  in  the  night.  Many  a  time  Christophe 
had  brought  up  from  the  mine  the  fire  he  had  so  painfully 
extracted  to  warm  the  chill  of  heart.  But  the  dreams  of  the 
North  smack  of  the  warmth  of  the  fireside  and  the  closed  room. 
No  man  notices  it  while  he  lives  in  it:  dear  is  that  heavy  air, 
dear  the  half-light  and  the  soul's  dreams  in  the  drowsy  head. 
We  love  the  things  we  have.  We  must  be  satisfied  with 
them !  .  .  . 

When,  as  he  passed  the  barrier  of  the  Alps,  Christophej 
dozing  in  a  corner  of  the  carriage,  saw  the  stainless  sky  and 
the  limpid  light  falling  upon  the  slopes  of  the  mountains,  he 
thought  he  must  be  dreaming.  On  the  other  side  of  the  wall 
he  had  left  a  darkened  sky  and  a  fading  day.  So  sudden  was 
the  change  that  at  first  he  felt  more  surprise  than  joy.  It  was 
some  time  before  his  drowsy  soul  awoke  and  began  slowly  to 
expand  and  burst  the  crust  that  was  upon  it,  and  his  heart 
could  free  itself  from  the  shadows  of  the  past.  But  as  the 
day  wore  on,  the  mellow  light  took  his  soul  into  its  arms,  and, 
wholly  forgetting  all  that  had  been,  he  drank  greedily  of  the 
delight  of  seeing. 

Through  the  plains  of  Milan.  The  eye  of  day  mirrored  in 
the  blue  canals,  a  network  of  veins  through  the  downy  riccfields. 
Mountains  of  Vinci,  snowy  Alps  soft  in  their  brilliance,  ruggedly 
encircling  the  horizon,  fringed  with  red  and  orange  and  greenjr 
gold  and  pale  blue.  Evening  falling  on  the  Apennines.  A 
winding  descent  by  little  sheer  hills,  snakelike  curving,  in  a 
repeating,  involved  rhythm  like  a  farandole. — And  suddenly, 
at  the  bottom  of  the  slope,  like  a  kiss,  the  breath  of  the  sea  and 
the  smell  of  orange-trees.  The  sea,  the  Latin  sea  and  its  opal 


THE  NEW  DAWN  361 

light,  whereon,  swaying,  were  the  sails  of  little  boats  like  wings 
folded  back.  .  .  . 

By  the  sea,  at  a  fishing-village,  the  train  stopped  for  a  while. 
It  was  explained  to  the  passengers  that  there  had  been  a  landslip, 
as  a  result  of  the  heavy  rains,  in  a  tunnel  between  Genoa  and 
Pisa :  all  the  trains  were  several  hours  late.  Christophe,  who 
was  booked  through  to  Rome,  was  delighted  by  the  accident 
which  provoked  the  loud  lamentations  of  his  fellow-passengers. 
He  jumped  down  to  the  platform  and  made  use  of  the  stoppage 
to  go  down  to  the  sea,  which  drew  him  on  and  on.  The  sea 
charmed  him  so  that  when,  a  few  hours  later,  the  engine 
whistled  as  it  moved  on,  Christophe  was  in  a  boat,  and,  as  the 
train  passed,  shouted :  "  Good-by !  "  In  the  luminous  night, 
on  the  luminous  sea,  he  sat  rocking  in  the  boat,  as  it  passed 
along  the  scented  coast  with  its  promontories  fringed  with  tiny 
cypress-trees.  He  put  up  at  a  village  and  spent  there  five  days 
of  unbroken  joy.  He  was  like  a  man  issuing  from  a  long  fast, 
hungrily  eating.  With  all  his  famished  senses  he  gulped  down 
the  splendid  light.  .  .  .  Light,  the  blood  of  the  world,  that 
flows  in  space  like  a  river  of  life,  and  through  our  eyes,  our 
lips,  our  nostrils,  every  pore  of  our  skins,  filters  through  to  the 
depths  of  our  bodies,  light,  more  necessary  to  life  than  bread, — 
he  who  sees  thee  stripped  of  thy  northern  veils,  pure,  burning, 
naked,  marvels  how  ever  he  could  have  lived  without  knowing 
thee,  and  deeply  feels  that  he  can  never  live  more  without 
possessing  thee.  .  .  . 

For  five  days  Christophe  was  drunk  with  the  sun.  For  five 
days  he  forgot — for  the  first  time — that  he  was  a  musician.  The 
music  of  his  soul  was  merged  into  light.  The  air.  the  sea,  the 
earth :  the  brilliant  symphony  played  by  the  suir  s  orchestra. 
And  with  what  innate  art  does  Italy  know  how  to  use  that 
orchestra !  Other  peoples  paint  from  Nature :  the  Italians  col- 
laborate with  her:  they  paint  with  sunlight.  The  music  of 
color.  All  is  music,  everything  sings.  A  wall  by  the  roadside, 
red,  fissured  with  gold  :  above  it.  two  cypress-trees  with  their 
tufted  crests:  and  all  around  the  eager  blue  of  the  sky.  A 
marble  staircase,  white,  steep,  narrow,  climbing  between  pink 
walls  against  the  blue  front  of  a  church.  Any  one  of  their 
many-colored  houses,  apricot,  lemon,  cedrate,  shining  among  the 


362         JEAF-CHRISTOPHE :    JOURNEY'S  EXD 

olive-trees,  has  the  effect  of  a  marvelous  ripe  fruit  among  the 
leaves.  In  Italy  seeing  is  sensual:  the  eyes  enjoy  color,  as  the 
palate  and  the  tongue  delight  in  a  juicy,  scented  fruit.  Chris- 
tophe  flung  himself  at  this  new  repast  with  eager  childlike 
greed:  he  made  up  for  the  asceticism  of  the  gray  visions  to 
which  till  then  he  had  been  condemned.  His  abounding  nature, 
stifled  by  Fate,  suddenly  became  conscious  of  powers  of  enjoy- 
ment which  he  had  never  used :  they  pounced  on  the  prey  pre- 
sented to  them;  scents,  colors,  the  music  of  voices,  bells  and  the 
sea.  the  kisses  of  the  air,  the  warm  bath  of  light  in  which  his 
ageing,  weary' soul  began  to  expand.  „  .  .  Christophe  had 
no  thought  of  anything.  He  was  in  a  state  of  beatific  delight, 
and  only  left  it  to  share  his  joy  with  those  he  met :  his  boatman, 
an  old  fisherman,  with  quick  eyes  all  wrinkled  round,  who  wore 
a  red  cap  like  that  of  a  Venetian  senator; — -his  only  fellow- 
boarder,  a  Milanese,  who  ate  macaroni  and  rolled  his  eyes  like 
Othello:  fierce  black  eyes  filled  with  a  furious  hatred:  an  apa- 
thetic, sleepy  man; — the  waiter  in  the  restaurant,  who,  when  he 
carried  a  tray,  bent  his  neck,  and  twisted  his  arms  and  his  body 
like  an  angel  of  Bernini; — the  little  Saint  John,  with  sly,  wink- 
ing eyes,  who  begged  on  the  road,  and  offered  the  passers-by  an 
orange  on  a  green  branch.  He  would  hail  the  carriage-drivers, 
sitting  huddled  on  their  seats,  who  every  now  and  then  would, 
in  a  nasal,  droning,  throaty  voice,  intone  the  thousand  and  one 
couplets.  He  was  amazed  to  find  himself  humming  CavaUeria 
Tiiixticana.  lie  had  entirely  forgotten  the  end  of  his  journey. 
Forgotten,  too.  was  Jiis  haste  to  reach  the  end  and  Grazia.  .  .  . 

Forgotten  altogether  was  she  until  the  day  when  the  beloved 
image  rose  before  him.  Was  it  called  up  by  a  face  seen  on  the 
road  or  a  grave,  singing  note  in  a  voice?  He  did  not  know. 
But  a  time  came  when,  from  everything  about  him.  from  the 
circling,  olive-clad  hills,  from  the  high,  shining  peaks  of  the 
Apennines,  graven  by  the  dense  shadows  and  the  burning  sun, 
and  from  the  orange-groves  heavy  with  flowers  and  fruit,  and 
the  deep,  heaving  breath  of  the  sea,  there  shone  the  smiling 
face  of  the  beloved.  Through  the  countless  eyes  of  the  air, 
her  eyes  were  upon  him.  In  that  beloved  earth  she  flowered, 
like  a  rose  upon  a  rose-tree. 

Then  he  regained  possession  of  himself.     He  took  the  train 


THE  NEW  DAWN  363 

for  Rome  and  never  stopped.  He  had  no  interest  in  the  old 
memories  of  Italy,,  or  the  cities  of  the  art  of  past  ages.  He 
saw  nothing  of  Rome,  nor  wanted  to:  and  what  he  did  see  at 
first,  in  passing,  the  styleless  new  districts,  the  square  blocks 
of  buildings,  gave  him  no  desire  to  see  more. 

As  soon  as  he  arrived  he  went  to  see  Grazia.     She  asked  him : 

"  How  did  you  come  ?     Did  you  stop  at  Milan  or  Florence  ?  " 

"  No,"  he  said.     "  Why  should  I  ?  " 

She  laughed. 

"  That's  a  fine  thing  to  say !  And  what  do  you  think  of 
Rome?" 

"  Nothing,"  he  said.     "  I  haven't  seen  it !  " 

"  Not  yet  ?  " 

"  Nothing.  Not  a  single  monument.  I  came  straight  to  you 
from  my  hotel." 

"  You  don't  need  to  go  far  to  see  Rome.  .  .  .  Look  at  that 
wall  opposite.  .  .  .  You  only  need  to  see  its  light." 

"  I  only  see  you,"  he  said. 

"  You  are  a  barbarian.  You  only  see  your  own  ideas.  When 
did  you  leave  Switzerland  ?  " 

"  A  week  ago." 

"  What  have  you  been  doing  since  then  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  I  stopped,  by  chance,  at  a  place  by  the  sea. 
I  never  noticed  its  name.  I  slept  for  a  week.  Slept,  with  my 
eyes  open.  I  do  not  know  what  I  have  seen,  or  what  I  have 
dreamed.  I  think  I  was  dreaming  of  you.  I  know  that  it  was 
very  beautiful.  But  the  most  lovely  part  of  it  all  is  that  I 
forgot  everything.  ..." 

"  Thank  you  !  "  she  said. 

(He  did  not  listen.) 

"...  Everything,"  he  went  on.  "Everything  that  was 
then,  everything  that  had  been  before.  I  am  a  new  man.  I 
am  beginning  to  live  again." 

"  It  is  true,"  she  said,  looking  into  his  laughing  eyes.  "You 
have  changed  since  we  last  met." 

He  looked  at  her,  too.  and  found  her  no  less  different  from 
his  memory  of  her.  Not  that  she  had  changed  in  two  months, 
but  he  was  seeing  her  with  new  eyes.  Yonder,  in  Switzerland, 
the  image  of  old  days,  the  faint  shadow  of  the  girl  Grazia,  had 


364         JEAN-CHRISTOPHE :    JOURNEY'S  END 

flitted  between  his  gaze  and  this  new  actual  beloved.  Now,  in 
the  sun  of  Italy,  the  dreams  of  the  North  had  melted  away:  in 
the  clear  light  of  day  he  saw  her  real  soul  and  body.  How 
far  removed  she  was  from  the  little,  wild,  imprisoned  girl  of 
Paris,  how  far  from  the  woman  with  the  smile  like  Saint  John, 
whom  he  had  met  one  evening,  shortly  after  her  marriage,  only 
to  lose  her  again !  Out  of  the  little  Umbrian  Madonna  had 
flowered  a  lovely  Roman  lady : 

Color  verus,  corpus  solidum  et  sued  plenum. 

Her  figure  had  taken  on  an  harmonious  fullness :  her  body 
was  bathed  in  a  proud  languor.  The  very  genius  of  tranquillity 
hovered  in  her  presence.  She  had  that  greed  of  sunny  silence, 
and  still  contemplation,  the  delightful  joy  in  the  peace  of  living 
which  the  people  of  the  North  will  never  really  know.  What 
especially  she  had  preserved  out  of  the  past  was  her  great  kind- 
ness which  inspired  all  her  other  feelings.  But  in  her  luminous 
smile  many  new  things  were  to  be  read  :  a  melancholy  indulgence, 
a  little  weariness,  much  knowledge  of  the  Avays  of  men,  a  fine 
irony,  and  tranquil  common  sense.  The  years  had  veiled  her 
with  a  certain  coldness,  which  protected  her  against  the  illusions 
of  the  heart;  rarely  could  she  surrender  herself;  and  her  tender- 
ness was  ever  on  the  alert,  with  a  smile  that  seemed  to  know 
and  tell  everything,  against  the  passionate  impulses  that  Chris- 
tophe  found  it  hard  to  suppress.  She  had  her  weaknesses,  mo- 
ments of  abandonment  to  the  caprice  of  the  minute,  a  coquetry 
at  which  she  herself  mocked  but  never  fought  against.  She 
was  never  in  revolt  against  things,  nor  against  herself:  she  had 
come  to  a  gentle  fatalism,  and  she  was  altogether  kind,  but  a 
little  weary. 

She  entertained  a  great  deal,  and — at  least,  in  appearance — 
not  very  selectively:  but  as,  for  the  most  part,  her  intimates  be- 
longed to  the  same  world,  breathed  the  same  atmosphere,  had 
been  fashioned  by  the  same  habits,  they  were  homogeneous  and 
harmonious  enough,  and  very  different  from  the  polite  assem- 
blages that  Christophe  had  known  in  France  and  Germany.  The 
majority  were  of  old  Italian  families,  vivified  here  and  there 
by  foreign  marriages;  they  all  had  a  superficial  cosmopolitanism 
and  a  comfortable  mixture  of  the  four  chief  languages,  and  the 


THE  XEW  DAWX  365 

intellectual  baggage  of  the  four  great  nations  of  the  West. 
Each  nation  brought  into  the  pool  itr  personal  characteristic,  the 
Jews  their  restlessness  and  the  Anglo-Saxons  their  phlegm,  but 
everything  was  quickly  absorbed  in  the  Italian  melting-pot. 
When  centuries  of  great  plundering  barons  have  impressed  on  a 
race  the  haughty  and  rapacious  profile  of  a  bird  of  prey,  the 
metal  may  change,  but  the  imprint  remains  the  same.  Many 
of  the  faces  that  seemed  the  most  pronouncedly  Italian,  with  a 
Luini  smile,  or  the  voluptiuus,  calm  gaze  of  a  Titian,  flowers 
of  the  Adriatic,  or  the  plains  of  Lombardy,  had  blossomed  on 
the  shrubs  of  the  Xorth  transplanted  to  the  old  Latin  soil. 
Whatever  colors  be  spread  on  the  palette  of  Home,  the  color 
which  stands  out  is  always  Roman. 

Christophe  could  not  analyze  his  impressions,  but  he  admired 
the  perfume  of  an  age-old  culture,  an  ancient  civilization  exhaled 
by  these  people,  who  were  often  mediocre,  and,  in  some  cases, 
less  than  mediocre.  It  was  a  subtle  perfume,  springing  from 
the  smallest  trifles.  A  graceful  courtesy,  a  gentleness  of  man- 
ners that  could  be  charming  and  affectionate,  and  at  the  same 
time  malicious  and  consciously  superior,  an  elegant  finesse  in  the 
use  of  the  eyes,  the  smile,  the  alert,  nonchalant,- skeptical,  diverse, 
and  easy  intelligence.  There  was  nothing  either  stiff  or  familiar. 
Xothing  literary.  Here  there  was  no  fear  of  meeting  the  psycho- 
logues  of  a  Parisian  drawing-room,  ensconced  behind  their  eye- 
glasses, or  the  corporalism  of  a  German  pedant.  They  were 
men,  quite  simply,  and  very  human  men,  such  as  were  the 
friends  of  Terence  and  Scipio  the  ^Emilian.  .  .  . 

Homo  sum.   .    .    . 

'  It  was  fine  to  see.  It  was  a  life  more  of  appearance  than 
reality.  Beneath  it  lay  an  incurable  frivolity  which  is  common 
to  the  polite  society  of  every  country.  But  what  made  this 
society  characteristic  of  its  race  was  its  indolence.  The  frivolity 
of  the  French  is  accompanied  by  a  fever  of  the  nerves — a  per- 
petual agitation  of  the  mind,  even  when  it  is  empty.  The  brain 
of  the  Italian  knows  how  to  rest.  It  knows  it  only  too  well. 
It  is  sweet  to  sleep  in  the  warm  shadows,  on  the  soft  pillow 
of  a  padded  Epicureanism,  and  a  very  supple,  fairly  curious, 
and,  at  bottom,  prodigiously  indifferent  intelligence. 

All  the  men  of  this  society  were  entirely  lacking  in  decided 


366         JEAN-CHKISTOPHE :    JOUBN.EY'S  END 

opinions.  They  dabbled  in  politics  and  art  in  the  same  dilettante 
fashion.  Among  them  were  charming  natures,  handsome,  fine- 
featured  patrician,  Italian  faces,  with  soft,  intelligent  eyes,  men 
with  gentle,  quiet  manners,  who,  with  exquisite  taste  and  affec- 
tionate hearts,  loved  Nature,  the  old  masters,  flowers,  women, 
books,  good  food,  their  country,  music.  .  .  .  They  loved  every- 
thing. They  preferred  nothing.  Sometimes  one  felt  that  they 
loved  nothing.  Love  played  so  large  a  part  in  their  lives,  but 
only  on  condition  that  it  never  disturbed  them.  Their  love  was 
indolent  and  lazy,  like  themselves;  even  in  their  passion  it  was 
apt  to  take  on  a  domestic  character.  Their  solid,  harmonious 
intelligence  was  litted  with  an  inertia  in  which  all  the  opposites 
of  thought  met  without  collision,  were  tranquilly  yoked  together, 
smiling,  cushioned,  and  rendered  harmless.  They  were  afraid  of 
any  thorough  belief,  of  taking  sides,  and  were  at  their  ease  in 
semi-solutions  and  half-thoughts.  They  were  conservative-liberal 
in  temper  of  mind.  They  needed  politics  and  art  half-way  up 
the  hill,  like  those  health  resorts  where  there  is  no  danger  of 
asthma  or  palpitations.  They  recognized  themselves  in  the  lazy 
plays  of  Goldoni,  or  the  equally  diffused  light  of  Manzoni. 
Their  amiable  indifference  was  never  disturbed.  Never  could 
they  have  said  like  their  great  ancestors:  "  Primum  vivcre  ..." 
but  rather  "  Dapprima,  quicio  vivere." 

To  live  in  peace.  That  was  the  secret  vow,  the  aim  of  even 
the  most  energetic  of  those  who  controlled  politics.  A  little 
Machiavelli,  master  of  himself  and  others,  with  a  heart  as  cold 
as  his  head,  a  lucid,  bored  intelligence,  knowing  how  and  daring 
to  use  all  means  to  gain  his  ends,  ready  to  sacrifice  all  his 
friends  to  his  ambition,  would  be  capable  of  sacrificing  his 
ambition  to  one  thing  only:  his  c/itieto  'rircre.  They  needed 
long  periods  of  absolute  lassitude.  When  they  issued  from  them. 
as  from  a  good  sleep,  they  were  fresh  and  ready :  these  grave 
men,  these  tranquil  Madonnas  would  be  taken  with  a  sudden 
desire  to  talk,  to  be  gay,  to  plunge  into  social  life;  then  they 
would  break  out  into  a  profusion  of  gestures  and  words,  para- 
doxical sallies,  burlesque  humor:  they  were  always  playing  an 
opt'ra  bouffe.  In  that  gallery  of  Italian  portraits  rarely  would 
you  find  the  marks  of  thought,  the  metallic  brilliance  of  the 
eyes,  faces  stained  with  the  perpetual  labor  of  the  mind,  such 


THE  NEW  DAWN  367 

as  are  to  be  found  in  the  North.  And  yet,  here,  as  elsewhere, 
there  was  no  lack  of  souls  turned  in  upon  themselves,  to  feed 
upon  themselves,  concealing  their  woes,  and  desires  and  cares 
seething  beneath  the  mask  of  indifference,  and,  voluptuously, 
drawing  on  a  cloak  of  torpor.  And,  in  certain  faces  there 
would  peep  out,  qneerly,  disconcertingly,  indications  of  some 
obscure  malady  of  the  spirit  peculiar  to  very  ancient  races — like 
the  excavations  in  the  Roman  Campagna. 

There  was  great  charm  in  the  enigmatic  indifference  of  these 
people,  and  their  calm,  mocking  eyes,  wherein  there  slumbered 
hidden  tragedy.  But  Christophe  was  in  no  humor  to  recognize 
it.  He  was  furious  at  seeing  Grazia  surrounded  by  worldly 
people  with  their  courteous,  witty,  and  empty  manners.  He 
hated  them  for  it,  and  he  was  angry  with  her.  He  sulked  at 
her  just  as  he  sulked  at  Rome.  His  visits  to  her  became  less 
and  less  frequent,  and  he  began  to  make  up  his  mind  to  go. 

He  did  not  go.  Unknown  to  himself,  he  was  beginning  to 
feel  the  attraction  of  Italian  society,  though  it  irritate. 1  him  so 
much. 

For  the  time  being,  lie  isolated  himself  and  lounged  about 
Rome  and  the  environment.  The  Roman  light,  the  hanging 
gardens,  the  Campagna,  encircled,  as  by  a  golden  scarf,  by  the 
sunlit  sea,  little  by  little  delivered  up  to  him  the  secret  of  the 
enchanted  land.  He  had  sworn  not  to  move  a  step  to  see  the 
monuments  of  the  dead,  which  he  affected  to  despise:  he  used 
grumblingly  to  declare  that  he  would  wait  until  tliev  came  to 
look  for  him.  They  came:  he  happened  on  them  by  chance 
on  his  rambling  through  the  City  of  many  hills.  Without 
having  looked  for  it,  he  saw  the  Forum  red  under  the  setting 
sun,  and  the  half-ruined  arches  of  the  Palatine  and  behind 
them  the  deep  azure  vault  of  heaven,  a  gulf  of  blue  light. 
He  wandered  in  the  vast  Campagna,  near  the  ruddy  Tiber, 
thick  with  mud,  like  moving  earth.— and  along  the  ruined 
aqueducts,  like  the  gigantic  vertebra'  of  antediluvian  monsters. 
Thick  masses  of  black  clouds  rolled  across  the  blue  skv.  Peasants 
on  horseback  goaded  across  the  desert  great  herds  of  pearly- 
gray  cattle  with  long  horns ;  and  along  the  ancient  road,  straight, 
dusty,  and  bare,  goat-footed  shepherds,  clad  in  thick  skins, 


368        JEAN-CHEISTOPHE :   JOURNEY'S  END 

walked  in  silence.  On  the  far  horizon,  the  Sabine  Chain,  with 
its  Olympian  lines,  unfolded  its  hills;  and  on  the  other  edge 
of  the  cup  of  the  sky  the  old  walls  of  the  city,  the  front  of 
Saint  John's  Church,  surmounted  with  statues  which  danced 
in  black  silhouette.  .  .  .  Silence.  ...  A  fiery  sun.  .  .  . 
The  wind  passed  over  the  plain.  ...  On  a  headless,  armless 
statue,  almost  inundated  by  the  waving  grass,  a  lizard,  with  its 
heart  beating  tranquilly,  lay  motionless,  absorbed,  drinking  in 
its  fill  of  light.  And  Christophc,  with  his  head  buzzing  with 
the  sunshine  (sometimes  also  with  the  Castelli  wine),  sitting 
on  the  black  earth  near  the  broken  statue,  smiling,  sleepy,  lost 
in  forgetful  ness,  breathed  in  the  calm,  tremendous  force  of 
Koine. — Until  nightfall. — Then,  with  his  heart  full  of  a  sudden 
anguish,  he  fled  from  the  gloomy  solitude  in  which  the  tragic 
light  was  sinking.  ...  0  earth,  burning  earth,  earth  pas- 
sionate and  dumb !  Beneath  thy  fevered  peace  I  still  can  hear 
the  trumpeting  of  the  legions.  What  a  fury  of  life  is  shining 
in  thy  bosom!  What  a  mighty  desire  for  an  awakening! 

Christophe  found  men  in  whose  souls  there  burned  brands 
of  the  age-old  fire.  Beneath  the  rust  of  the  dead  they  had 
been  preserved.  It  might  be  thought  that  the  fire  had  died 
down  with  the  closing  of  Mazzini's  eyes.  It  was  springing  to 
life  again.  It  was  the  same.  Very  few  wished  to  see  it.  It 
troubled  the  quiet  of  those  who  were  asleep.  It  gave  a  clear 
and  brutal  light.  Those  who  bore  it  aloft, — young  men  (the 
eldest  was  not  thirty-five),  a  little  band  of  the  elect  come  from 
every  point  of  the  horizon,  men  of  free  intellect  who  were  all 
different  in  temperament,  education,  opinions,  and  faith — were 
all  united  in  worship  of  this  flame  of  the  new  life.  The  etiquette 
of  parties,  systems  of  thought,  mattered  not  to  them :  the  great 
thing  was  to  "  think  with  courage."  To  be  frank,  to  be  brave, 
in  mind  and  deed.  Kudely  they  disturbed  the  sleep  of  their 
race.  After  the  political  resurrection  of  Italy,  awakened  from 
death  by  the  summons  of  her  heroes,  after  her  recent  economic 
resurrection,  they  had  set  themselves  to  pluck  Italian  thought 
from  the  grave.  They  suffered,  as  from  an  insult,  from  the 
indolent  and  timid  indifference  of  the  elect,  their  cowardice 
of  mind  and  verbolatry.  Their  Voices  rang  hollow  in  the  midst 
of  rhetoric  and  the  moral  slavery  which  for  centuries  had  been 


THE  NEW  DAWN  3G9 

gathering  into  a  crust  upon  the  soul  of  their  country.  They 
breathed  into  it  their  merciless  realism  and  their  uncompromising 
loyalty.  Though  upon  occasion  they  were  capable  of  sacrificing 
their  own  personal  intellectual  preferences  to  the  duty  of  dis- 
cipline which  national  life  imposes  on  the  individual,  yet  they 
reserved  their  highest  altar  and  their  purest  ardor  for  the  truth. 
They  loved  truth  with  fiery,  pious  hearts.  Insulted  by  his 
adversaries,  defamed,  threatened,  one  of  the  leaders  of  these 
young  men  replied,  with  grand,  calm  dignity : 

"Respect  the  truth.  I  speak  to  you  now,  from  my  Jicart, 
with  no  shade  of  bitterness.  I  forget  the  ill  I  have  received 
at  your  hands  and  the  evil  that  I  may  have  done  you.  Be  true. 
There  is  no  conscience,  there  is  no  noble  life,  there  is  no  capacity 
for  sacrifice  where  there  is  not  a  religious,  a  rigid,  and  a  rigorous 
respect  for  truth.  Strive,  then,  to  fulfil  this  difficult  duty. 
Untruth  corrupts  whoever  makes  use  of  it  before  it  overcomes 
him  against  whom  it  is  used.  What  docs  it  matter  that  you 
gain  an  immediate  success?  The  roots  of  your  soul  will  remain 
withered  in  the  air  above  the  soil  that  is  crumbled  away  with 
untruth.  We  are  on  a  plane  superior  to  our  disagreements,  even 
though  on  your  lips  your  passion  brings  the  name  of  our 
country.  There  is  one  thing  greater  than  a  man's  country,  and 
that  is  the  human  conscience.  There  are  laws  which  you  must 
not  violate  on  pain  of  being  bad  Italians.  You  see  before  you 
now  only  a  man  who  is  a  seeker  after  truth:  you  must  hear  Jiis 
cry.  You  have  before  yon  now  only  a  man  u'ho  ardently  desires 
to  see  you  great  and  pure,  and  to  work  with  you.  For,  whether 
you  will  or  no,  we  all  work-  in  common  with  all  those  who  in 
this  world  work  truthfully.  That  which  comes  out  of  our  labors 
(and  we  cannot  foresee  what  it  will  be)  will  bear  our  common 
mark,  the  mark  of  us  all,  if  we  have  labored  iritJi  truth.  The 
essence  of  man  lies  in  this,  in  liis  marvelous  faculty  for  seeking 
truth,  seeing  it,  loving  it,  and  sacrificing  himself  to  it. — Truth, 
that  over  all  who  possess  it  spends  the  magic  breath  of  its  puissant 
health!  .  .  ."* 

The  first  time  Christophe  heard  these  words  they  seemed  to 
him  like  an  echo  of  his  own  voice:  and  he  felt  that  these  men 

*The  hymn  to  Truth  here  introduced  is  an  abridgment  of  an  article  by 
Giuseppe  Pre/zolini  (La  Voce,  April  13,  1911). 


370         JEAN-CHRISTOPHE :    JOURNEY'S  END 

and  he  were  brothers.  The  chances  of  the  conflict  of  the  nations 
and  ideas  might  one  day  fling  them  into  the  position  of  adver- 
saries in  the  melee;  hut,  friends  or  enemies,  they  were,  and 
would  always  he,  members  of  the  same  human  family.  They 
knew  it,  even  as  he.  They  knew  it,  before  he  did.  They  knew 
him  before  he  knew  them,  for  they  had  been  friends  of  Olivier's. 
Christophe  discovered  that  his  friend's  writings — (a  few  volumes 
of  verse  and  critical  essays) — -which  had  only  been  read  by  a 
very  few  in  Paris,  had  been  translated  by  these  Italians,  and 
were  as  familiar  to  them  as  to  himself. 

Later  on  he  was  to  discover  the  impassable  distance  which 
divided  these  men  from  Olivier.  In  their  way  of  judging  others 
they  were  entirely  Italian,  incapable  of  the  effort  necessary  to 
see  beyond  themselves,  rooted  in  the  ideas  of  their  race.  At 
bottom,  in  all  good  faith,  in  foreign  literature  they  only  sought 
what  their  national  instinct  was  willing  to  find  in  it;  often  they 
onl}-  took  out  of  it  what  they  themselves  had  unconsciously  read 
into  it.  Mediocre  as  critics,  and  as  psychologists  contemptible, 
they  were  too  single-minded,  too  full  of  themselves  and  their 
passions,  even  when  they  were  the  most  enamored  of  truth. 
Italian  idealism  cannot  forget  itself :  it  is  not  interested  in  the 
impersonal  dreams  of  the  North;  it  leads  everything  back  to 
itself,  its  desires,  its  pride  of  race,  and  transfigures  them.  Con- 
sciously or  unconsciously,  it  is  always  toiling  for  the  tcrza  Eoma. 
It  must  be  said  that  for  many  centuries  it  has  not  taken  much 
trouble  to  rcali/e  it.  These;  splendid  Italians,  who  are  cut  out 
for  action,  only  act  through  passion,  and  soon  weary  of  it:  but 
when  the  breath  of  passion  rushes  in  their  veins  it  raises  them 
higher  than  all  other  nations;  as  has  been  seen,  for  example,  in 
their  Risorgimento.- — Some  such  great  wind  as  that  had  begun 
to  pass  over  the  young  men  of  Italy  of  all  parties:  nationalists, 
socialists,  neo-Catholics,  free  idealists,  all  the  unyielding  Italians, 
all,  in  hope  and  will,  citizens  of  Imperial  Eome,  Queen  of  the 
universe. 

At  first  Christophe  saw  only  their  generous  ardor  and  the 
common  antipathies  which  united  him  and  them.  They  could 
not  but  join  with  him  in  their  contempt  for  the  fashionable 
society,  against  which  Christophe  raged  on  account  of  draxia's 
preferences.  More  than  he  they  hated  the  spirit  of  prudence, 


THE  NEW  DAWN  371 

the  apathy,  the  compromise,  and  bulfoonery,  the  things  half  said, 
the  amphibious  thoughts,  the  subtle  dawdling  of  the  mind  be- 
tween all  possibilities,  without  deciding  on  any  one,  the  line 
phrases,  the  sweetness  of  it  all.  They  were  all  self-taught  men 
who  had  pieced  themselves  together  with  everything  they  could 
lay  their  hands  on,  but  had  had  neither  means  nor  leisure  to 
put  the  finishing  touch  to  their  work,  and  they  were  prone  to 
exaggerate  their  natural  coarseness  and  their  rather  bitter  tone 
fitting  to  rough  contadini.  They  wished  to  provoke  active  hos- 
tility. Anything  rather  than  indifference.  In  order  to  rouse 
the  energy  of  their  race  they  would  gladly  have  consented  to 
be  among  the  first  victims  to  it. 

Meanwhile  they  were  not  liked,  and  they  did  nothing  to  gain 
liking.  Christophe  met  with  but  small  success  when  he  tried 
to  talk  to  Grazia  of  his  new  friends.  They  were  repugnant  to 
her  order-loving,  peace-loving  nature.  He  had  to  recognize  when 
he  was  with  her  that  they  had  a  way  of  upholding  the  best  of 
causes  which  sometimes  provoked  a  desire  in  the  best  of  people 
to  declare  themselves  hostile  to  it.  They  wore  ironical  and 
aggressive,  in  criticism  harsh  to  the  point  of  insult,  even  with 
people  whom  they  had  no  desire  to  hurt.  Having  reached  the 
sphere  of  publication  before  they  had  come  to  maturity,  they 
passed  with  equal  intolerance  from  one  infatuation  to  another. 
Passionately  sincere,  giving  themselves  unreservedly,  without 
stint  or  thought  of  economy,  they  were  consumed  by  their  ex- 
cessive intellectuality,  their  precocious  and  blindly  obstinate 
endeavors.  It  is  not  well  for  young  ideas,  hardly  out  of  the  pod, 
to  be  exposed  to  the  raw  sunlight.  The  soul  is  scorched  by  it. 
Nothing  is  made  fruitful  save  with  time  and  silence.  Time 
and  silence  these  men  had  not  allowed  themselves.  It  is  the 
misfortune  of  only  too  many  Italian  talents.  Violent,  hasty 
action  is  an  intoxicant.  The  mind  that  has  once  tasted  it  is 
hard  put  to  it  to  break  the  habit;  and  its  normal  growth  is 
then  in  great  peril  of  being  forced  and  forever  twisted. 

Christophe  appreciated  the  acid  freshness  of  such  green  frank- 
ness in  contrast  with  the  insipidity  of  the  people  who  frequented 
the  middle  way.  the  via  di  mezzo,  who  are  in  perpetual  fear  of 
being  compromised,  and  have  a  subtle  talent  for  saying  neither 
"  Yes "  nor  "  No."  But  very  soon  he  came  to  see  that  such 


372         JEAN-CHKISTOPHE  :    JOUBNEY'S  END 

people  also,  with  their  calm,  courteous  minds,  have  their  worth. 
The  perpetual  state  of  conflict  in  which  his  new  friends  lived 
was  very  tiring.  Christophe  began  by  thinking  it  his  duty  to 
go  to  Grazia's  house  to  defend  them.  Sometimes  he  went  there 
to  forget  them.  Xo  doubt  he  was  like  them,  too  much  like 
them.  They  were  now  what  he  had  been  twenty  years  ago. 
And  life  never  goes  back.  At  heart  Christophe  well  knew  that, 
for  his  own  part,  he  had  forever  said  good-by  to  such  violence, 
and  that  he  was  going  towards  peace,  whose  secret  seemed  to 
lie  for  him  in  Grazia's  eyes.  Why,  then,  was  he  in  revolt 
against  her  ?  .  .  .  Ah !  In  the  egoism  of  his  love  he  longed 
to  be  the  only  one  to  enjoy  her  peace.  He  could  not  bear  Grazia 
to  dispense  its  benefits  without  marking  how  to  all  comers  she 
extended  the  same  prodigally  gracious  welcome. 

She  read  his  thoughts,  and,  with  her  charming  frankness, 
she  said  to  him  one  day : 

"You  are  angry  with  me  for  being  what  I  am?  You  must 
not  idealize  me,  my  dear.  I  am  a  woman,  and  no  better  than 
another.  I  don't  go  out  of  my  way  for  society;  but  I  admit 
that  I  like  it,  just  as  I  like  going  sometimes  to  an  indiffer- 
ent play,  or  reading  foolish  books,  which  you  despise,  though 
I  find  them  soothing  and  amusing.  I  cannot  refuse  any- 
thing." 

"How  can  you  endure  these  idiots?" 

"  Life  has  taught  me  not  to  be  too  nice.  One  must  not  ask 
too  much.  It  is  a  good  deal,  I  assure  you,  when  one  finds 
honest  people,  with  no  harm  in  them,  kindly  people  .  .  . 
(naturally,  of  course,  supposing  one  expects  nothing  of  them; 
I  know  perfectly  well  that  if  I  had  need  of  them,  I  should  not 
find  many  to  help  me  .  .  .).  And  yet  they  are  fond  of  me, 
and  when  I  find  a  little  real  affection,  I  hold  the  rest  cheap. 
You  arc  angry  with  me?  Forgive  me  for  being  an  ordinary 
person.  I  can  at  least  see  the  difference  between  what  is  best 
and  what  is  not  so  good  in  myself.  And  what  you  have  is  the 
best." 

"  I  want  everything,"  he  said  gloweringly. 

However,  he  felt  that  what  she  said  was  true.     He  was  so 


THE  NEW  DAWN  373 

sure  of  her  affection  that,  after  long  hesitation,  over  many  weeks, 
he  asked  her  one  day : 

"  Will  you  ever   .    .    .  ?  " 

"What  is  it?" 

"  Be  mine." 

He  went  on : 

"...   and  I  yours." 

She  smiled: 

"  But  you  are  mine,  my  dear." 

"  You  know  what  I  mean." 

She  was  a  little  unhappy :  but  she  took  his  hands  and  looked 
at  him  frankly : 

"  No,  my  dear,"  she  said  tenderly. 

He  eould  not  speak.     She  saw  that  he  was  hurt. 

"  Forgive  me.  I  have  hurt  you.  I  knew  that  you  would 
say  that  to  me.  We  must  speak  out  frankly  and  in  all  truth, 
like  good  friends." 

"  Friends,"  he  said  sadly.     "  Nothing  more  ?  " 

"  You  are  ungrateful.  What  more  do  you  want  ?  To  marry 
me?  .  .  .  Do  you  remember  the  old  days  when  you  had  eyes 
only  for  my  pretty  cousin?  I  was  sad  then  because  you  would 
not  understand  what  I  felt  for  you.  Our  whole  lives  might 
have  been  changed.  Now  I  think  it  was  better  as  it  has  been; 
it  is  better  that  we  should  never  expose  our  friendship  to  the 
test  of  common  life,  the  daily  life,  in  which  even  the  purest  must 
be  debased.  ..." 

"  You  say  that  because  you  love  me  less." 

"  Oh  no !     I  love  you  just  the  same." 

"Ah!     That  is  the  first  time  you  have  told  me." 

"  There  must  be  nothing  hidden  from  us  now.  You  see.  I 
have  not  much  faith  in  marriage  left.  Mine,  T  know,  was  not 
a  very  good  example.  But  I  have  thought  and  looked  about  inc. 
Happy  marriages  are  very  rare.  It  is  a  little  against  nature. 
You  cannot  bind  together  the  wills  of  two  people  without  mutilat- 
ing one  of  them,  if  not  both,  and  it  does  not  even  bring  the 
suffering  through  which  it  is  well  and  profitable  for  the  soul 
to  pass." 

"Ah!"  he  said.  "But  I  can  see  in  it  a  fine  thing — the 
union  of  two  sacrifices,  two  souls  merged  into  one." 


374         JEAN-CHRISTOPHE :    JOURNEY'S  END 

"  A  fine  thing,  in  your  dreams.  In  reality  you  would  suffer 
more  than  any  one." 

"  What !  You  think  I  could  never  have  a  wife,  a  family, 
children?  .  .  .  Don't  say  that !  I  should  love  them  so !  You 
think  it  impossible  for  me  to  have  that  happiness?" 

"  I  don't  know.  1  don't  think  so.  Perhaps  with  a  good 
woman,  not  very  intelligent,  not  very  beautiful,  who  would  be 
devoted  to  you,  and  would  not  understand  you." 

"  How  unkind  of  you !  .  .  .  But  you  are  wrong  to  make 
fun  of  it.  A  good  woman  is  a  fine  thing,  even  if  she  has  no 
mind." 

"  I  agree.     Shall  I  find  you  one  ?  " 

"  Please !  No.  You  are  hurting  me.  How  can  you  talk 
like  that?" 

"  What  have  I  said  ?  " 

"  You  don't  love  me  at  all,  not  at  all.  You  can't  if  you 
can  think  of  my  marrying  another  woman." 

"  On  the  contrary,  it  is  because  I  love  you  that  I  should  be 
happy  to  do  anything  which  could  make  you  happy." 

"Then,  if  that  is  true   ..." 

"  No,  no.  Don't  go  back  to  that.  I  tell  you,  it  would  make 
you  miserable." 

"  Don't  worry  about  me.  I  swear  to  you  that  I  shall  be 
happy !  Speak  the  truth :  do  you  think  that  you  would  be 
unhappy  with  me?" 

"Oh!  Unhappy?  No,  my  dear.  I  respect  and  admire  you 
too  much  ever  to  be  unhappy  with  you.  .  .  .  But,  I  will  tell 
you:  I  don't  think  anything  could  make  me  very  unhappy  now. 
I  have  seen  too  much.  [  have  become  philosophical.  .  .  . 
But,  frankly — (You  want  me  to?  You  won't  be  angry?) — well. 
I  know  my  own  weakness.  I  should,  perhaps,  lie  foolish  enough, 
after  a  few  months,  not  to  he  perfectly  happy  with  you;  and  I  will 
not  have  that,  just  because  my  affection  for  you  is  the  most  holy 
thing  in  the  world,  and  I  will  not  have  it  tarnished." 

Sadly,  he  said: 

"Yes,  you  say  that,  to  sweeten  the  pill.  You  don't  like  me. 
There  are  things  in  me  which  are  odious  to  you." 

"  No,  no.  I  assure  you.  Don't  look  so  hang-dog.  You  are 
the  dearest,  kindest  man.  ..." 


THE  XEW  DAWN  375 

"  Then  I  don't  understand.     Why  couldn't  we  agree  ?  " 

"  Because  we  are  too  different — both  too  decided,  too  indi- 
vidual." 

"  That  is  why  1  love  you." 

"  I  too.  But  that  is  why  we  should  find  ourselves  conflict- 
ing." 

"  No." 

"  Yes.  Or,  rather,  as  I  know  that  you  are  bigger  than  T, 
I  should  reproach  myself  with  embarrassing  you  with  my  smaller 
personality,  and  then  I  should  be  stifled.  I  should  say  nothing, 
and  I  should  suffer." 

Tears  came  to  Christophe's  eyes. 

"  Oh !  I  won't  have  that,  Xever !  I  would  rather  be  utterly 
miserable  than  have  you  suffering  through  my  fault,  for  my 
sake." 

"  My  dear,  you  mustn't  feel  it  like  that.  .  .  .  You 
know,  I  say  all  that,  but  I  may  be  flattering  myself.  .  .  . 
Perhaps  I  should  not  be  so  good  as  to  sacrifice  myself  for 
you." 

"All  the  better." 

"But,  then,  I  should  sacrifice  you,  and  tha't  would  be  misery 
for  me.  .  .  .  You  see,  there  is  no  solving  the  difficulty  either 
way.  Let  us  stay  as  we  are.  Could  there  bo  anything  better 
than  our  friendship  ?  " 

He  nodded  his  head  and  smiled  a  little  bitterly. 

"Yes.  That  is  all  very  well.  But  at  bottom  you  don't  love 
me  enough." 

She  smiled  too,  gently,  with  a  little  melancholy,  and  said, 
with  a  sigh  : 

"  Perhaps.  You  are  right.  I  am  no  longer  young.  I  am 
tired.  Life  wears  one  out  unless  one  is  very  strong,  like 
you.  ...  Oh!  you,  there  arc  times  when  1  look  at  you  and 
you  seem  to  be  a  boy  of  eighteen." 

"Alas!     With  my  old  face,  my  wrinkles,  my  dull  skin!  " 

"I  know  that  you  have  suffered  as  much  as  I — perhaps  more. 
I  can  see  that.  But  sometimes  you  look  at  me  with  the  eyes  of 
a  boy,  and  I  feel  you  giving  out  a  fresh  stream  of  life.  I  am 
worn  out.  When  I  think  of  my  old  eagerness,  then — alas !  As 
some  one  said,  '  Those  were  great  days.  I  was  very  unhappy ! ' 


376         JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  :    JOURNEY'S  END 

I  hold  to  life  only  by  a  thread.  I  should  never  be  bold  enough 
to  try  marriage  again.  Ah!  Then!  Then!  .  .  .  If  you  had 
only  given  a  sign !  .  .  . " 

"Well,  then,  well,  tell  me   .    .    ." 

"No.     It  is  not  worth  the  trouble." 

"Then,  if  in  the  old  days,  if  I  had  ..." 

"  Yes.     If  you  had   .    .    .  ?     I  said  nothing." 

"  I  understood.     You  are  cruel." 

"  Take  it,  then,  that  in  the  old  days  I  was  a  fool." 

"  You  are  making  it  worse  and  worse." 

"  Poor  Christophe !  I  can't  say  a  word  but  it  hurts  you.  I 
shan't  say  any  more." 

"  You  must.   .    .    .     Tell  me.   .    .    .     Tell  me  something." 

"Something?" 

"  Something  kind." 

She  laughed. 

"  Don't  laugh." 

"  Then  you  must  not  be  sad." 

"  How  can  I  be  anything  else  ?  " 

"  You  have  no  reason  to  be  sad,  I  assure  you." 

"Why?" 

"  Because  you  have  a  friend  who  loves  you." 

"Truly?" 

"  If  I  tell  you  so,  won't  you  believe  me  ?  " 

"Tell  me/ then." 

"  You  won't  be  sad  any  longer  ?  You  won't  be  insatiable  ? 
You  will  be  content  with  our  dear  friendship  ?  " 

"  I  must." 

"  Oh !  Ungrateful !  And  you  say  you  love  me  ?  Really,  I 
think  I  love  you  better  than  you  love  me." 

"Ah!     If  "it  were  possible." 

He  said  that  with  such  an  outburst  of  lover's  egoism  that  she 
laughed.  He  too.  He  insisted : 

"Tell  me!    .    .    ." 

For  a  moment  she  was  silent,  looking  at  him,  then  suddenly 
she  brought  her  face  close  to  Christophe's  and  kissed  him.  It 
was  so  unexpected!  His  heart  leaped  within  him.  He  tried 
to  take  her  in  his  arms.  But  she  had  escaped.  At  the  door 


THE  NEW  DAWN  377 

of  the  little  room  she  laid  her  finger  on  her  lips. — "  Hush !  " — • 
and  disappeared. 

From  that  moment  on  he  did  not  again  speak  to  her  of  his 
love,  and  he  was  less  awkward  in  his  relation  with  her.  Their 
alternations  of  strained  silence  and  ill-suppressed  violence  were 
succeeded  by  a  simple  restful  intimacy.  That  is  the  advantage 
of  frankness  in  friendship.  No  more  hidden  meanings,  no  more 
illusions,  no  more  fears.  Each  knew  the  other's  innermost 
thoughts.  Now  when  Christophe  was  with  Grazia  in  the  com- 
pan}r  of  strangers  who  irritated  him  and  he  lost  patience  at 
hearing  her  exchange  with  them  the  empty  remarks  usual  in 
polite  society,  she  would  notice  it  and  look  at  him  and  smile. 
It  was  enough  to  let  him  know  that  they  were  together,  and 
he  would  find  his  peace  restored. 

The  presence  of  the  beloved  robs  the  imagination  of  its 
poisoned  dart :  the  fever  of  desire  is  cooled :  the  soul  becomes 
absorbed  in  the  chaste  possession  of  the  loved  presence. — Besides, 
Grazia  shed  on  all  about  her  the  silent  charm  of  her  harmonious 
nature.  Any  exaggeration  of  voice  or  gesture,  even  if  it  were 
involuntary,  wounded  her,  as  a  thing  that  was  not  simple  and 
beautiful.  In  this  way  she  influenced  Christophe  little  by  little. 
Though  at  first  he  tugged  at  the  bridle  put  upon  his  eager- 
ness, he  slowly  gained  the  mastery  of  himself,  and  he  was 
all  the  stronger  since  his  force  was  not  wasted  in  useless  vio- 
lence. 

Their  souls  met  and  mingled.  Grazia,  who  had  smilingly 
surrendered  to  the  sweetness  of  living,  was  awaked  from  her 
slumber  by  contact  with  Christophe's  moral  energy.  She  took  a 
more  direct  and  less  passive  interest  in  the  things  of  the  mind. 
She  used  to  read  very  little,  preferring  to  browse  indolently  over 
the  same  old  books,  but  now  she  began  to  be  curious  about  new 
ideas,  and  soon  came  to  feel  their  attraction.  The  wealth  of 
the  world  of  modern  ideas,  which  was  not  unknown  to  her 
though  she  had  never  cared  to  adventure  in  it  alone,  no  longer 
frightened  her  now  that  she  had  a  companion  and  guide.  In- 
sensibly she  suffered  herself,  while  she  protested  against  it,  to 
be  drawn  on  to  an  understanding  of  the  young  Italians,  whose 
ardent  iconoclasm  had  always  been  distasteful  to  her. 


378         JEAN-CHRISTOPHE :    JOURNEY'S  END 

But  Christophe  profited  the  more  by  this  mutual  perception. 
.It  has  often  been  observed  in  love  that  the  weaker  of  the  two 
gives  the  most:  it  is  not  that  the  other  loves  less,  but,  being 
stronger,  must  take  more.  So  Christophe  had  already  been  en- 
riched by  OHvier's  mind.  But  this  new  mystic  marriage  was 
far  more  fruitful:  for  Grazia  brought  him  for  her  dowry  the 
rarest  treasure,  that  Olivier  had  never  possessed — joy.  The  joy 
of  the  soul  and  of  the  eyes.  Light.  The  smile  of  the  Latin 
sky.  that  loves  the  ugliness  of  the  humblest  things,  and  sets  the 
stones  of  the  old  walls  flowering,  and  endows  even  sadness  with 
its  calm  radiance. 

The  budding  spring  entered  into  alliance  with  her.  The 
dream  of  new  life  was  teeming  in  the  warmth  of  the  slumbering 
air.  The  young  green  was  wedding  with  the  silver-gray  of  the 
olive-trees.  Beneath  the  dark  red  arches  of  the  ruined  aqueducts 
flowered  the  white  almond-trees.  In  the  awakening  (-ampagna 
waved  the  seas  of  grass  and  the  triumphant  flames  of  the  poppies. 
Down  the  lawns  of  the  villas  flowed  streams  of  purple  anemones 
and  sheets  of  violets.  The  ghvine  clambered  up  the  umbrella- 
shaped  pines,  and  the  wind  blowing  over  the  city  brought  the 
scent  of  the  roses  of  the  Palatine. 

They  went  for  walks  together.  When  she  was  able  to  shake 
off  the  almost  Oriental  torpor,  in  which  for  hours  together  she 
would  muse,  she  became  another  creature:  she  loved  walking; 
she  was  tall,  with  a  fine  length  of  leg,  and  a  strong,  supple 
figure,  and  she  looked  like  a  Diana  of  Primatice. — ^lost  often 
they  would  go  to  one  of  the  villas,  left  like  flotsam  from  the 
shipwreck  of  the  Splendid  Home  of  the  wtficenio  under  the 
assault  of  the  flood  of  the  Piedmontesc  barbarians.  They  pre- 
ferred, above  all,  the  Villa  ^laltei.  that  promontory  of  ancient 
Rome,  beneath  which  the  last  waves  of  the  deserted  Campagna 
sink  and  die.  They  used  to  go  down  the  avenue  of  oaks  that, 
with  its  deep  vault,  frames  the  blue,  the  pleasant  chains  of  the 
Alban  hills,  softly  swelling  like  a  heating  heart.  Along  the 
path  through  the  leaves  they  could  see  the  tombs  of  Roman 
husbands  and  wives,  lying  sadly  there,  with  hands  clasped  in 
fidelity.  They  used  to  sit  down  at  the  end  of  the  avenue,  under 
an  arbor  of  roses  against  a  white  sarcophagus.  Behind  them 
the  desert.  Profound  peace.  The  murmuring  of  a  slow-drop- 


THE  NEW  DAWN  379 

ping  fountain,  trickling  languidly,  so  languidly  that  it  seemed 
on  the  point  of  dying.  They  would  talk  in  whispers.  Grazia's 
eyes  would  trustfully  gaze  into  the  eyes  of  her  friend.  Chris- 
tophe  would  tell  her  of  his  life,  his  struggles,  his  past  sorrows; 
and  there  was  no  more  sadness  in  them.  In  her  presence,  with 
her  eyes  upon  him,  everything  was  simple,  everything  seemed 
inevitable.  .  .  .  She,  in  her  turn,  would  tell  of  her  life.  He 
hardly  heard  what  she  said,  hut  none  of  her  thoughts  were  lost 
upon  him.  His  soul  and  hers  were  wedded,  lie  saw  with  her 
eyes.  Everywhere  he  saw  her  eyes,  her  tranquil  eyes,  in  the 
depths  of  which  there  burned  an  ardent  fire;  he  saw  them  in 
the  fair,  mutilated  faces  of  the  antique  statues  and  in  the  riddle 
of  their  silent  gaze:  he  saw  them  in  the  sky  of  Kome,  loverly 
laughing  around  the  matted  crests  of  the  cypress-trees  and 
through  the  fingers  of  the  lecci,  black,  shining,  riddled  with  the 
sun's  arrows. 

Through  Grazia's  eyes  the  meaning  of  Latin  art  reached  his 
heart.  Till  then  Christophe  had  been  entirely  indifferent  to 
the  work  of  the  Italians.  The  barbarian  idealist,  the  great 
bear  from  the  German  forests,  had  not  yet  learned  to  taste  the 
delicious  savor  of  the  lovely  gilded  marbles,  golden  as  honey. 
The  antiques  of  the  Vatican  were  frankly  repulsive  to  him*. 
He  was  disgusted  by  their  stupid  faces,  their  effeminate  or 
massive  proportions,  their  banal,  rounded  modeling,  all  the 
Gitons  and  gladiators.  Hardly  more  than  a  few  portrait-statues 
found  favor  in  his  sight,  and  the  originals  had  absolutely  no 
interest  for  him.  He  was  no  more  kindly  towards  the  pale, 
grimacing  Florentines  and  their  sick  Madonnas  and  pre-Raphael- 
itc  \7enuses,  anaemic,  consumptive,  affected,  and  tormented.  And 
the  bestial  stupidity  of  the  red.  sweating  bullies  and  athletes  let 
loose  upon  the  world  by  the  example  of  the  Sistine  Chapel  made 
him  think  of  cast-iron.  Only  for  Michael  Angelo  did  he  have  a 
secret  feeling  of  pious  sympathy  with  his  tragic  sufferings,  his 
divine  contempt,  and  the  loftiness  of  his  chaste  passions.  With 
a  pure  barbaric  love,  like  that  of  the  master,  he  loved  the  re- 
ligious nudity  of  his  youths,  his  shv.  wild  virgins,  like  wild 
creatures  caught  in  a  trap,  the  sorrowful  Aurora,  the  wild-eyed 
Madonna,  with  her  Child  biting  at  her  breast,  and  the  lovely 
Lia,  whom  he  would  fain  have  had  to  wife.  But  in  the  soul 


380         JEAX-CHRISTOPHE:    JOURNEY'S  END 

of  the  tormented  hero  he  found  nothing  more  than  the  echo 
of  his  own. 

Grazia  opened  the  gates  of  a  new  world  of  art  for  him.  He 
entered  into  the  sovereign  serenity  of  Raphael  and  Titian.  He 
saw  the  imperial  splendor  of  the  classic  genius,  which,  like  a 
lion,  reigns  over  the  universe  of  form  conquered  and  mastered. 
The  flashing  vision  of  the  great  Venetian  which  goes  straight 
to  the  heart  of  life,  and  with  its  lightning  cleaves  the  hovering 
mists  that  veil  it,  the  masterful  might  of  these  Latin  minds 
that  cannot  only  conquer,  but  also  conquer  themselves,  and  in 
victory  impose  upon  themselves  the  straitest  discipline,  and.  on 
the  field  of  battle,  have  the  art  exactly  to  choose  their  rightful 
booty  from  among  the  spoils  of  the  enemy  overthrown — the 
Olympian  portraits  and  the  sianzc  of  Raphael  filled  Christophe's 
heart  with  music  richer  than  Wagner's,  the  music  of  serene 
lives,  noble  architecture,  harmonious  grouping,  the  music  which 
shines  forth  from  the  perfect  beauty  of  face,  hands,  feet, 
draperies,  and  gestures.  Intelligence.  Love.  The  stream  of 
love  which  springs  from  those  youthful  souls  and  bodies.  The 
might  of  the  spirit  and  delight.  Young  tenderness,  ironic  wis- 
dom, the  warm  obsessing  odor  of  amorous  bodies,  the  luminous 
smile  in  which  the  shadows  are  blotted  out  and  passion  slumbers. 
The  quivering  force  of  life  rearing  and  reined  in,  like  the  horses 
of  the  Sun,  by  the  sturdy  hand  of  the  master.  .  .  . 

And  Christophe  wondered : 

"  Is  it  impossible  to  unite,  as  they  have  done,  the  force  and 
the  peace  of  the  Romans?  Nowadays  the  best  men  aspire  only 
to  force  or  peace,  one  to  the  detriment  of  the  other.  Of  all 
men  the  Italians  seem  most  utterly  to  have  lost  the  sense  of 
harmony  which  Poussin,  Lorraine,  and  Goethe  understood.  Must 
a  stranger  once  more  reveal  to  them  its  work?  .  .  .  And  what 
man  shall  teach  it  to  our  musicians?  Music  has  not  yet  had  its 
Raphael.  Mo/art  is  only  a  child,  a  little  German  bourgeois, 
with  feverish  hands  and  sentimental  soul,  who  uses  too  many 
words,  too  many  gestures,  and  chatters  and  weeps  and  laughs 
over  nothing.  And  neither  the  Gothic  Bach  nor  the  Prometheus 
of  Bonn,  struggling  with  the  vulture,  nor  his  offspring  of  Titans 
piling  Pelion  on  Ossa,  and  hurling  imprecations  at  the  Heavens, 
have  ever  seen  the  smile  of  God. 


THE  XEW  DAWX  381 

After  he  had  seen  it,  Christophe  was  ashamed  of  his  own 
music;  his  vain  agitation,  his  turgid  passions,  his  indiscreet 
exclamations,  his  parade  of  himself,  his  lack  of  moderation, 
seemed  to  him  both  pitiable  and  shameful.  A  flock  of  sheep 
without  a  shepherd,  a  kingdom  without  a  king. — A  man  must 
be  the  king  of  his  tumultuous  soul.  .  .  . 

During  these  months  Christophe  seemed  to  have  forgotten 
music.  He  hardly  wrote  at  all,  feeling  no  need  for  it.  His 
mind,  fertilized  by  Rome,  was  in  a  period  of  gestation.  He 
spent  days  together  in  a  dreamy  state  of  semi-intoxication. 
Nature,  like  himself,  was  in  the  early  spring-time,  when  the 
languor  of  the  awakening  is  mixed  with  a  voluptuous  dizziness. 
Nature  and  he  lay  dreaming,  locked  in  each  other's  arms,  like 
lovers  embracing  in  their  sleep.  The  feverish  enigma  of  the 
Campagna  was  no  longer  hostile  and  disturbing  to  him ;  he  had 
made  himself  master  of  its  tragic  beauty;  in  his  arms  he  held 
Demeter,  sleeping. 

During  April  he  received  an  invitation  from  Paris  to  go  there 
and  conduct  a  series  of  concerts.  Without  troubling  to  think 
it  over,  he  decided  to  refuse,  but  thought  it  better  to  mention 
it  to  Grazia.  It  was  very  sweet  to  him  to  consult  her  about 
his  life,  for  it  gave  him  the  illusion  that  she  shared  it. 

This  time  she  gave  him  a  shock  of  disillusion.  She  made 
him  explain  the  whole  matter  to  her,  and  advised  him  to  accept. 
He  was  very  hurt,  and  saw  in  her  advice  the  proof  of  her 
indifference. 

Probably  Grazia  was  sorry  to  give  him  such  advice.  But 
why  did  Christophe  ask  her  for  it?  The  more  ho  turned  to 
her  and  asked  her  to  decide  for  him,  the  more  she  thought 
herself  responsible  for  her  friend's  actions.  As  a  result  of  their 
interchange  of  ideas  she  had  gained  from  Christophe  a  little  of 
his  will-power:  he  had  revealed  to  her  duty  and  the  beauty  of 
action.  At  least  she  had  recognized  duty  as  far  as  her  friend 
was  concerned,  and  she  would  not  have  him  fail  in  it.  Bet- 
ter than  he,  she  knew  the  power  of  languor  given  off  by 
the  Italian  soil,  which,  like  the  insidious  poison  of  its  warm 
scirocco.  creeps  into  the  veins  and  sends  the  will  to  sleep.  How 


382         JEAN-CHRISTOPHE :    JOURNEY'S  EXD 

often  had  she  not  felt  its  maleficent  charm,  and  had  no  power 
to  resist  it!  All  her  friends  were  more  or  less  tainted  by  this 
malaria  of  the  soul.  Stronger  men  than  they  had  in  old  days 
fallen  victim  to  it :  it  had  rusted  away  the  brass  of  the  Roman 
she-wolf.  Rome  breathes  forth  death :  it  is  too  full  of  graves. 
It  is  healthier  to  stay  there  for  a  little  time  than  to  live  there. 
Too  easily  docs  one  slip  out  of  one's  own  time,  a  dangerous 
taste  for  the  still  young  forces  that  have  a  vast  duty  to  accom- 
plish. Grazia  saw  clearly  that  the  society  about  her  had  not  a 
life-giving  air  for  an  artist.  And  although  she  had  more  friend- 
ship for  Christophe  than  for  any  other  .  .  .  (dared  she  con- 
fess it?)  .  .  .  she  was  not,  at  heart,  sorry  for  him  to  go. 
Alas !  He  wearied  her  with  the  very  qualities  that  she  most 
loved  in  him,  his  overflowing  intelligence,  his  abundance  of 
vitality,  accumulated  for  years,  and  now  brimming  over:  her 
tranquillity  was  disturbed  by  it.  And  be  wearied  her,  too,  per- 
haps, because  she  was  always  conscious  of  the  menace  of  his 
love,  beautiful  and  touching,  but  ever-present:  so  that  she  had 
always  to  be  on  her  guard  against  it;  it  was  more  prudent  to 
keep  him  at  a  distance.  She  did  not  admit  it  to  herself,  and 
thought  she  had  no  consideration  for  anything  but  Christophe's 
interests. 

There  was  no  lack  of  sound  reasons  at  hand.  In  Italy  just 
then  it  was  difficult  for  a  musician  to  live:  the  air  was  circum- 
scribed. The  musical  life  of  the  country  was  suppressed  and 
deformed.  The  factory  of  the  theater  scattered  its  heavy  ashes 
and  its  burning  smoke  upon  the  soil,  whose  flowers  in  old  days 
had  perfumed  all  Kuropo.  If  a  man  refused  to  enroll  himself 
in  the  train  of  the  brawlers,  and  could  not,  or  would  not.  enter 
the  factory,  he  was  condemned  to  exile  or  a  stifled  existence. 
Genius  was  by  no  means  dried  up.  'Hut  it  was  left  to  stagnate 
unprofitably  and  to  go  to  ruin.  Christophe  had  met  more  than 
one  young  musician  in  whom  there  lived  again  the  soul  of  the 
melodious  masters  of  the  race  and  the  instinct  of  beauty  which 
filled  the  wise  and  simple  art  of  the  past.  But  who  gave  a 
thought  to  them?  They  could  neither  get  their  work  played 
nor  published.  Xo  interest  was  taken  in  the  symphony.  There 
were  no  ears  for  music  except  it  were  presented  with  a  painted 
face!  .  So  discouraged,  thev  sans;  for  themselves,  and 


THE  NEW  DAWN  383 

soon  sang  no  more.  What  was  the  good  of  it?  Sleep  .  .  . 
— Christophe  would  have  asked  nothing  better  than  to  help 
them.  While  they  admitted  that  he  could  do  so,  their  um- 
brageous pride  would  not  consent  to  it.  Whatever  he  did,  lie 
was  a  foreigner  to  them;  and  for  Italians  of  long  descent,  in 
spite  of  the  warm  welcome  they  will  give  him,  every  foreigner 
is  really  a  barbarian.  They  thought  that  the  wretched  condition 
of  their  art  was  a  question  to  be  threshed  out  among  themselves, 
and  while  they  extended  all  kind  of  friendly  tributes  to  Chris- 
tophe, they  could  not  admit  him  as  one  of  themselves. — What 
could  he  do?  He  could  not  compete  with  them  and  dispute 
with  them  their  meager  place  in  the  sun,  where  they  were  by  no 
means  secure !  .  .  . 

Besides,  genius  cannot  do  without  its  food.  The  musician 
must  have  music — music  to  hear,  music  to  make  heard.  A  tem- 
porary withdrawal  is  valuable  to  the  mind  by  forcing  it  to 
recuperate.  But  this  can  only  be  on  condition  that  it  will 
return.  Solitude  is  noble,  but  fatal  to  an  artist  who  has  not 
the  strength  to  break  out  of  it.  An  artist  must  live  the  life  of  his 
own  time,  even  if  it  be  clamorous  and  impure:  he  must  forever 
be  giving  and  receiving,  and  giving,  and  giving,  and  again  re- 
ceiving.— Italy,  at  the  time  of  Christophe's  sojourn,  was  no 
longer  the  great  market  of  the  arts  that  once  it  was,  and  perhaps 
will  be  again.  Nowadays  the  meeting-place  of  ideas,  the  ex- 
change of  the  thought  and  spirit  of  the  nations,  are  in 
the  North.  He  who  has  the  will  to  live  must  live  in  the 
North. 

Left  to  himself,  Christophe  would  have  shuddered  away  from 
the  rout.  But  Grazia  felt  his  duty  more  clearly  than  he  could 
see  it.  And  she  demanded  more  of  him  than  of  herself:  no 
doubt  because  she  valued  him  more  highly,  but  also  because  it 
suited  her.  She  delegated  her  energy  upon  him,  and  so  main- 
tained her  tranquillity. — He  had  not  the  heari  to  be  angry  with 
her  for  it.  Like  .Mary,  hers  was  the  better  part.  Each  of  us 
has  his  part  to  play  in  life.  Christophe's  was  action.  For  her 
it  was  enough  to  be.  He  asked  no  more  of  her. 

He  asked  nothing  but  to  love  her,  if  it  were  possible,  a  little 
less  for  himself,  and  a  little  more  for  her.  For  he  did  not 
altogether  like  her  having  so  little  egoism  in  her  friendship  as 


384         JEAN-CHRIST  OPHE :    JOURXEY'S  EXD 

to  think  only  of  the  interests  of  her   friend — who  asked  only 
to  be  allowed  to  give  no  thought  to  them. 

He  went  away  from  her.  And  yet  he  did  not  leave  her. 
As  an  old  trouvere  says:  "The  lover  does  not  leave  his  beloved 
but  with  the  sanction  of  his  soul." 


II 

HE  was  sick  at  heart  as  he  reached  Paris.  It  was  the  first 
time  he  had  been  there  since  the  death  of  Olivier.  He  had 
wished  never  to  see  the  city  again.  In  the  cab  which  took  him 
from  the  station  to  his  hotel  he  hardly  dared  look  out  of  the 
window;  for  the  first  few  days  he  stayed  in  his  room  and  could 
not  bring  himself  to  go  out.  He  was  fearful  of  the  memories 
lying  in  wait  for  him  outside.  But  what  exactly  did  he  dread? 
Did  he  really  know?  Was  it,  as  he  tried  to  believe,  the  terror 
of  seeing  the  dead  spring  to  life  again  exactly  as  they  had  been? 
Or  was  it — the  greater  sorrow  of  being  forced  to  know  that 
they  were  dead?  .  .  .  Against  this  renewal  of  grief  all  the 
half-unconscious  ruses  of  instinct  had  taken  up  arms.  It  was 
for  this  reason — (though  perhaps  he  knew  it  not) — that  he  had 
chosen  a  hotel  in  a  district  far  removed  from  that  in  which  he 
had  lived.  And  when  for  the  first  time  he  went  out  into  the 
streets,  having  to  conduct  rehearsals  at  the  concert-hall,  when 
once  more  he  came  in  contact  with  the  life  of  Paris,  he  walked 
for  a  long  time  with  his  eyes  closed,  refusing  to  see  what  he  did 
see,  insisting  on  seeing  only  what  he  had  seen  in  old  days.  He 
kept  on  saying  to  himself: 

"I  know  that.     I  know  that.    ..." 

In  art  as  in  politics  there  was  the  same  intolerant  anarchy. 
The  same  Fair  in  the  market-place.  Only  the  actors  had  changed 
their  parts.  The  revolutionaries  of  his  day  had  become  bour- 
geois, and  the  supermen  had  become  men  of  fashion.  The  old 
independents  were  trying  to  stifle  the  new  independents.  The 
young  men  of  twenty  years  ago  were  now  more  conservative 
than  the  old  conservatives  whom  they  had  fought,  and  their 


THE  NEW  DAWN  385 

critics  refused  the   newcomers  the   right  to   live.     Apparently 
nothing  was  different. 

But  everything  had  changed.   .    .    . 


"  My  dear,  forgive  me.  It  is  good  of  you  not  to  be  angry 
with  me  for  my  silence.  Your  letter  has  helped  me  greatly. 
I  have  been  through  several  weeks  of  terrible  distress.  I  had 
nothing.  I  had  lost  you.  Here  I  was  feeling  terribly  the 
absence  of  those  whom  I  have  lost.  All  my  old  friends  of 
whom  I  used  to  tell  you  have  disappeared — Philomela — (you 
remember  the  singing  voice  that  dear,  sad  night  when,  as  I 
wandered  through  a  gay  crowd,  I  saw  your  eyes  in  a  mirror 
gazing  at  me) — Philomela  has  realized  her  very  reasonable 
dream :  she  inherited  a  little  money,  and  has  a  farm  in  Nor- 
mandy. M.  Arnaud  has  retired  and  gone  back  to  the  provinces 
with  his  wife,  to  a  little  town  near  Angers.  Of  the  famous  men 
of  my  day  many  are  dead  or  gone  under;  none  are  left  save  the 
same  old  puppets  who  twenty  years  ago  were  playing  the  juvenile 
lead  in  art  and  politics,  and  with  the  same  false  faces  are  still 
playing  it.  Outside  these  masks  there  are  none  whom  I  recog- 
nize. They  seem  to  me  to  be  grimacing  over  a  grave.  It  is  a 
terrible  feeling. — More  than  this:  during  the  first  few  days 
after  my  arrival  I  suffered  physically  from  the  ugliness  of  things, 
from  the  gray  light  of  the  North  after  your  golden  sun :  the 
masses  of  dull  houses,  the  vulgar  lines  of  certain  domes 
and  monuments.,  which  had  never  struck  me  before,  hurt 
me  cruelly.  Nor  was  the  moral  atmosphere  any  more  to  my 
taste. 

"  And  yet  T  have  no  complaint  to  make  of  the  Parisians. 
They  have  given  me  a  welcome  altogether  different  from  that 
which  I  received  before.  Tn  my  absence  1  seem  to  have  become 
a  kind  of  celebrity.  I  will  say  nothing  of  that,  for  I  know 
what  it  is  worth.  I  am  touched  by  all  the  pleasant  things  which 
these  people  say  and  write  of  me.  and  am  obliged  to  them. 
But  what  shall  1  say  to  you?  [  felt  much  nearer  the  people 
who  attacked  me  in  old  days  than  1  do  to  the  people  who  laud 
me  now.  ...  It  is  my  own  fault,  I  know.  Don't  scold  me. 


386       JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  :  JOURNEY'S  END 

I  had  a  moment  of  uneasiness,  it  was  to  be  expected.  It  is 
done  now.  1  understand.  Yes.  You  are  right  to  have  sent 
me  back  among  men.  I  was  in  a  fair  way  to  be  buried  in  my 
solitude.  Jt  is  unhealthy  to  play  at  Zaratlmstra.  The  Hood 
of  life  moves  on,  moves  on  away  from  us.  There  comes  a  time 
when  one  is  as  a  desert.  Many  weary  days  in  the  burning  sun 
are  needed  to  dig  a  new  channel  in  the  sand,  to  dig  down  to 
the  river. — It  has  been  done.  I  am  no  longer  dizzy.  I  am  in 
the  current  again.  I  look  and  see. 

"My  dear,  what  a  strange  people  are  the  French!  Twenty 
years  ago  I  thought  they  were  finished.  .  .  .  They  are  just 
beginning  again.  My  dear  comrade,  Jeaimin,  foretold  it.  But 
I  thought  he  was  deceiving  himself.  Bow  could  one  believe  it 
then!  France  was,  like  their  Paris,  full  of  broken  houses, 
plaster,  and  holes.  1  said :  '  They  have  destroyed  every- 
thing. .  .  .  What  a  race  of  rodents ! ' — a  race  of  beavers. 
Just  when  you  think  them  prostrate  on  their  ruins,  lo,  they 
are  using  the  ruins  to  lay  the  foundations  of  a  new  city.  1 
can  see  it  now  in  the  scaffoldings  which  are  springing  up  on 
all  sides  .  .  . 

' '  Wcnn  ein  Dimj  gescJiehen 
Selbst  die  Narren  cs  verstelien,  .  .  ."* 

"In  truth  there  is  just  the  same  French  disorder.  One  needs 
to  be  used  to  it  to  see  in  the  rout  seething  up  from  all  directions, 
the  bands  of  workmen,  each  going  about  his  appointed  task. 
There  are  also  people  who  can  do  nothing  without  vilifying  what 
their  neighbors  are  doing.  All  this  is  calculated  to  upset  the 
stoutest  head.  But  when  you  have  Jived,  as  I  have,  nearly  ten 
years  with  them,  you  cannot  be  deceived  by  their  uproar.  You 
see  then  that  it  is  their  way  of  spurring  themselves  on  to  work. 
They  talk,  but  they  work,  and  as  each  builder's  yard  sets  about 
building  a  house,  in  the  end  you  find  thai  the  citv  has  been  re- 
builded.  What  is  most  remarkable  is  that,  taken  together,  all 
these  buildings  are  not  discordant.  Thev  may  maintain  oppos- 
ing theses,  but  all  their  minds  are  cast  in  the  same  mold.  So 
that,  beneath  their  anarchy,  there  are  common  instincts,  a  racial 
logic  which  takes  the  place  of  discipline,  and  this  discipline  is, 

*  "  When  a  thiiig  has  happened,  even  the  fools  can  see  it." 


THE  XEW  DAWN  387 

when  all  is  told,  probably  more  solid  than  that  of  a  Prussian 
regiment. 

"  Everywhere  the  same  enthusiasm,  the  same  constructive 
fever:  in  politics,,  where  Socialists  and  Nationalists  vie  with 
one  another  in  tightening  up  the  wheels  of  slackened  power;  iu 
art,  which  some  wish  to  make  into  an  old  aristocratic  mansion 
for  the  privileged  few,  and  others  a  vast  hall  open  to  the  people, 
a  hall  where  the  collective  soul  can  sing;  they  are  reconstructors 
of  the  past,  or  constructors  of  the  future.  But  whatever  they 
do.  these  ingenious  creatures  are  forever  building  the  same  cells. 
They  have  the  instincts  of  beavers  or  bees,  and  through  the  ages 
are  forever  doing  the  same  things,  returning  to  the  same  forms. 
The  most  revolutionary  among  them  are  perhaps  those  who  most 
closely  cling,  though  they  may  not  know  it,  to  the  most  ancient 
traditions.  Among  the  syndicates  and  the  most  striking  of 
the  young  writers  I  have  found  purely  medieval  souls. 

"  Xow  that  I  have  grown  used  to  their  tumultuous  ways,  I 
can  watch  them  working  with  pleasure.  Let  us  be  frank :  I 
am  too  old  a  bear  ever  to  feel  at  ease  in  any  of  their  houses: 
1  need  the  open  air.  But  what  good  workers  they  are!  That 
is  their  highest  virtue.  It  laves  the  most  mediocre  and  the 
most  corrupt:  and  then,  in  their  artists,  what  a  sense  of  beauty! 
1  remarked  that  much  less  in  the  old  days.  You  taught  me 
to  see.  My  eyes  were  opened  in  the  light  of  Rome.  Your 
Eenaissance  men  have  helped  me  to  understand  these.  A  page 
of  Debussy,  a  torso  of  Kodin,  a  phrase  of  Snares,  these  are  all 
in  the  direct  line  from  your  cinquecestenti. 

"  Not  that  there  is  not  much  that  is  distasteful  to  me  here. 
I  have  found  my  old  friends  of  the  market-place,  who  used  to 
drive  me  to  fury.  They  have  not  changed.  But.  alas!  1  have 
changed.  T  cannot  be  severe.  When  T  fee!  myself  wanting  to 
judge  one  of  them  harshly  I  say  to  myself:  'You  have  no  right. 
Y'ou  have  done  worse  than  these  men,  though  you  thought  your- 
self so  strong/  Also.  I  have  learned  that  nothing  exists  in  vain. 
and  that  even  the  vilest  have  their  place  in  the  scheme  of  the 
tragedy.  The  depraved  dilettantists.  the  fo-tid  amoralists.  have 
accomplished  their  termitic  task;  the  tottering  ruins  must  be 
brought  down  before  they  can  be  built  up  again.  The  Jews 
have  been  true  to  their  sacred  mission,  which  is,  in  the  midst 


388         JEAN-CHRISTOPHE :    JOURNEY'S  END 

of  other  races,  to  be  a  foreign  race,  the  race  which,  from  end  to 
end  of  the  world,  is  to  link  up  the  network  of  human  unity. 
They  break  down  the  intellectual  barriers  between  the  nations, 
to  give  Divine  Reason  an  open  Held.  The  worst  agents  of  cor- 
ruption, the  ironic  destroyers  who  ruin  our  old  beliefs  and  kill 
our  well-beloved  dead,  toil,  unwittingly,  in  the  holy  work  of 
new  life.  So  the  ferocious  self-interest  of  the  cosmopolitan 
bankers,  whose  labors  are  attended  with  such  and  so  many 
disasters,  build,  whether  they  will  or  no,  the  future  peace  of 
the  world,  side  by  side  with  the  revolutionaries  who  combat 
them,  far  more  surely  than  the  idiotic  pacifists. 

"  You  see,  I  am  getting  old.  I  have  lost  .my  bite.  My  teeth 
have  lost  their  sharpness.  When  I  go  to  the  theater  I  am  now 
only  one  of  those  simple  spectators  who  apostrophize  the  actors 
and  cry  shame  on  the  traitor. 

"  My  tranquil  Grace,  I  am  only  talking  about  myself :  and 
yet  I  think  only  of  you.  If  you  knew  how  importunate  is  my 
ego!  Tt  is  oppressive  and  absorbing.  It  is  like  a  millstone 
that  God  has  tied  round  my  neck.  How  I  should  have  loved 
to  lay  it  at  your  feet!  But  what  would  you  have  done  with  it? 
It  is  a  poor  kind  of  present.  .  .  .  Your  feet  were  made 
to  tread  the  soft  earth  and  the  sand  sinking  beneath  the 
tread.  I  see  your  feet  carelessly  passing  over  the  lawns  dappled 
with  anemones.  .  .  .  (Have  you  been  again  to  the  Villa 
Doria?).  .  .  .  And  you  are  tired!  I  see  you  now  half- 
reclining  in  your  favorite  retreat,  in  your  drawing-room,  propped 
up  on  your  elbow,  holding  a  book  which  you  do  not  read.  You 
listen  to  me  kindly,  without  paying  much  attention  to  what  I 
say;  for  1  am  tiresome,  and.  for  patience,  you  turn  every  now 
and  then  to  your  own  thoughts ;  but  you  are  courteous,  and, 
taking  care  not  to  upset  me,  when  a  chance  word  brings  you 
back  from  your  distant  journeying,  your  eves,  so  absent  before, 
quickly  take  on  an  expression  of  interest.  And  I  am  as  far 
from  what  I  am  saving  as  you  :  I,  too.  hardly  hear  the  sound 
of  my  words:  and  while  [  follow  their  reflection  in  your  lovely 
face,  in  my  heart  I  listen  to  other  words  which  I  do  not  speak 
to  you.  Those  words,  my  tranquil  Grace,  unlike  the  others,  you 
hear  quite  clearly,  but  you  pretend  not  to  hear  them. 

"  Adieu.     I  think  vou  will  see  me  again  in  a  little  while. 


THE  NEW  DAWN  389 

I  shall  not  languish  here.  What  should  I  do  now  that  my 
concerts  are  over? — I  kiss  your  children  on  their  little  checks. 
They  are  yours  and  you.  1  must  be  content!  .  .  . 

"  CimisTornE." 
* 
*  * 

"  Tranquil  Grace  "  replied : 
"  MY  DEAR, 

"  I  received  your  letter  in  the  little  corner  of  the  drawing- 
room  that  you  remember  so  well,  and  I  read  it,  as  I  am 
clever  at  reading,  by  letting  your  letter  fall  every  now  and 
then  and  resting.  Don't  laugh  at  me.  I  did  that  to  make  it 
last  a  long  time.  In  that  way  we  spent  a  whole  afternoon  to- 
gether. The  children  asked  me  what  it  was  I  kept  on  reading. 
I  told  them  it  was  a  letter  from  you.  Aurora  looked  at  the 
paper  pityingly  and  said :  '  How  tiresome  it  must  be  to  write 
such  a  long  letter ! '  I  tried  to  make  her  understand  that  it 
was  not  an  imposition  I  had  set  you,  but  a  conversation  we  were 
having  together.  She  listened  without  a  word,  then  ran  away 
with  her  brother  to  play  in  the  next  room,  and  a  little  later, 
when  Lionello  began  to  shout.  I  heard  Aurora  say :  '  You  mustn't 
make  such  a  noise:  mamma  is  talking  to  M.  Christophe.' 

."What  you  tell  me  about  the  French  interests  me.  but  it 
does  not  surprise  me.  You  remember  that  I  often  used  to 
reproach  you  with  being  unjust  towards  them.  It  is  impossible 
to  like  them.  But  what  an  intelligent  people  they  are!  There 
arc  mediocre  nations  who  are  preserved  by  their  goodness  of 
heart  or  their  physical  vigor.  The  French  are  saved  by  their 
intelligence.  Tt  laves  all  their  weaknesses,  and  regenerates  them. 
When  you  think  they  are  down,  beaten,  perverted,  they  find 
new  youth  in  the  ever-bubbling  spring  of  their  minds. 

"But  I  must  scold  you.  You  ask  mv  pardon  for  speaking 
only  of  yourself.  You  are  an  iii>jaiiiifrfon'.  You  tell  me  nothing 
about  yourself.  Nothing  of  what  vou  have  been  doing.  Noth- 
ing of  what  you  have  been  seeing.  1\Fy  cousin  Colette — (why 
did  not  you  go  and  see  her?) — had  to  send  me  press-cuttings 
about  }our  concerts,  or  1  should  have  known  nothing  of  your 
success.  You  onlv  mentioned  H  bv  the  wav.  Are  vou  so  de- 


390         JEAN-CHRISTOPHE :   JOURNEY'S  END 

tached  from  everything?  ...  It  is  not  true.  Tell  me  that 
it  pleased  you.  ...  It  must  please  you,  if  only  because  it 
pleases  me.  I  don't  like  you  to  have  a  disillusioned  air.  The 
tone  of  your  letter  is  melancholic.  That  must  not  be.  ... 
It  is  good  that  you  are  more  just  to  others.  But  that  is  no 
reason  why  you  should  abase  yourself,  as  you  do,  by  saying 
that  you  are  worse  than  the  worst  of  them.  A  good  Christian 
would  applaud  you.  I  tell  you  it  is  a  bad  thing.  I  am  not  a 
good  Christian.  I  am  a  good  Italian,  and  I  don't  like  you 
tormenting  yourself  with  the  past.  The  present  is  quite  enough. 
I  don't  know  exactly  what  it  was  that  you  did.  You  told  me 
the  story  in  a  very  few  words,  and  I  think  I  guessed  the  rest. 
It  was  not  a  nice  story,  but  you  are  none  the  less  dear  to  me 
for  it.  My  poor,  dear  Christophe,  a  woman  does  not  reach  my 
age  without  knowing  that  an  honest  man  is  often  very  weak. 
If  one  did  not  know  his  weakness  one  would  not  love  him  so 
much.  Don't  think  any  more  about  what  you  have  done.  Think 
of  what  you  are  going  to  do.  Repentance  is  quite  useless.  Re- 
pentance means  going  back.  And  in  good  as  in  evil,  we  must 
always  go  forward.  Sempre  avanti,  Savoia!  ...  So  you 
think  I  am  going  to  let  you  come  back  to  Rome!  You  have 
nothing  to  do  here.  Stay  in  Paris,  work,  do :  play  your  part 
in  its  artistic  life.  I  will  not  have  you  throw  it  all  up.  I  want 
you  to  make  beautiful  things,  I  want  them  to  succeed,  I  want 
you  to  be  strong  and  to  help  the  new  young  Christophes  who 
are  setting  out  on  the  same  struggles,  and  passing  through  the 
same  trials.  Look  for  them,  help  them,  be  kinder  to  your 
juniors  than  your  seniors  were  to  you. — In  fine,  I  want  you  to 
be  strong  because  I  know  that  you  are  strong:  you  have  no 
idea  of  the  strength  that  gives  me. 

"  Almost  every  day  I  go  with  the  children  to  the  Villa 
Borghese.  Yesterday  we  drove  to  Ponte  Molle,  and  walked 
round  the  tower  of  Monte  Mario.  You  slander  my  powers  of 
walking  and  my  legs  cry  out  against  you :  (  What  did  the  fellow 
mean  by  saying  at  the  Villa  Doria  that  we  get  tired  in  ten 
paces?  He  knows  nothing  about  it.  If  we  are  not  prone  to 
give  ourselves  trouble,  it  is  because  we  are  lazy,  and  not  because 
we  cannot.  .  .  .'  You  forget,  my  dear,  that  I  am  a  little 
peasant.  .  .  . 


THE  NEW  DAWN  391 

"  Go  and  see  my  cousin  Colette.  Are  you  still  angry  with 
her  ?  She  is  a  good  creature  at  heart,  and  she  swears  by  you  ! 
Apparently  the  Parisian  women  are  crazy  about  your  music. 
(Perhaps  they  were  in  the  old  days.)  My  Berne  bear  may, 
and  he  will,  be  the  lion  of  Paris.  Have  you  had  letters?  And 
declarations?  You  don't  mention  any  woman.  Can  you  be  in 
love?  Tell  me.  I  am  not  jealous.  Your  friend, 

"  G." 


".  .  .So  you  think  I  am  likely  to  be  pleased  with  your 
last  sentence  !  I  would  to  God  you  were  jealous  !  But  don't 
look  to  me  to  make  you  so.  I  have  no  taste  for  these  mad 
Parisiennes,  as  you  call  them.  Mad?  They  would  like  to  be 
so.  But  they  are  nothing  like  it.  You  need  not  hope  that  they 
will  turn  my  head.  There  would  be  more  chance  of  it  perhaps 
if  they  were  indifferent  to  my  music.  But  it  is  only  too  true 
that  they  love  it;  and  how  am  I  to  keep  my  illusions?  Wlien 
any  one  tells  you  that  he  understands  you,  you  may  be  very  sure 
that  he  will  never  do  so.  ... 

"  Don't  take  my  joking  too  seriously.  The  feeling  I  have 
for  you  does  not  make  me  unjust  to  other  women.  I  have  never 
had  such  true  sympathy  for  them  as  I  have  now  since  I  ceased 
to  look  at  them  with  lover's  eyes.  The  tremendous  effort  they 
have  been  making  during  the  last  thirty  years  to  escape  from 
the  degrading  and  unwholesome  semi-domesticity,  to  which  our 
stupid  male  egoism  condemned  them,  to  their  and  our  unhappi- 
ness,  seems  to  me  to  be  one  of  the  most  splendid  facts  of  our  time. 
In  a  town  like  this  one  learns  to  admire  the  new  generation 
of  young  women,  who,  in  spite  of  so  many  obstacles,  with  so 
much  fresh  ardor  rush  on  to  the  conquest  of  knowledge  and 
diplomas,  —  the  knowledge,  the  diplomas  which,  they  think,  must 
liberate  them,  open  to  them  the  arcana  of  the  unknown  world 
and  make  them  the  equals  of  men.  .  .  . 

"  Xo  doubt  their  faith  is  illusory  and  rather  ridiculous.  But 
progress  is  never  realized  as  we  expect  it  to  be:  it  is  none  the 
less  realized  because  it  takes  entirely  different  paths  from  those 
we  have  marked  out  for  it.  This  effort  of  the  women  will  not 


392         JEAX-CHBISTOPIIE:    JOUIIXEY'S  END 

be  wasted.  It  will  make  women  completer  and  more  human, 
as  they  were  in  the  great  ages.  They  will  no  longer  be  without 
interest  in  the  living  questions  of  the  world,  as  most  scandalously 
and  monstrously  they  have  been,  for  it  is  intolerable  that  a 
woman,  though  she  be  never  so  careful  in  her  domestic  duties, 
should  think  herself  absolved  from  thinking  of  her  civic  duties 
in  the  modern  city.  Their  great-great-grandmothers  of  the  time 
of  Joan  of  Arc  and  Catherine  Sforza  were  not  of  this  way  of 
thinking.  Woman  has  withered.  We  have  refused  her  air  and 
sun.  She  is  taking  them  from  us  again  by  force.  Ah!  the 
brave  little  creatures!  ...  Of  course,  many  of  those  who  are 
now  struggling  will  die  and  many  will  be  led  astray.  It  is  an 
age  of  crisis.  The  effort  is  too  violent  for  those  whose  strength 
has  too  much  gone  to  seed.  When  a  plant  has  been  for  a  long 
time  without  water,  the  first  shower  of  rain  is  apt  to  scald  it. 
But  what  would  you?  It  is  the  price  of  progress.  Those  who 
come  after  will  flourish  through  their  sufferings.  The  poor  little 
warlike  virgins  of  our  time,  many  of  whom  will  never  marry, 
will  be  more  fruitful  for  posterity  than  the  generations  of 
matrons  who  gave  birth  before  them;  for,  at  the  cost  of  their 
sacrifices,  there  will  issue  from  them  the  women  of  a  new  classic 
age. 

"  I  have  not  found  these  working  bees  in  your  cousin  Colette's 
drawing-room.  What  whim  was  it  made  you  send  me  to  her? 
I  had  to  obey  you;  but  it  is  not  well:  you  are  abusing  your 
power.  I  had  refused  three  of  her  invitations,  left  two  of  her 
letters  unanswered.  She  came  and  hunted  me  up  at  one  of 
my  rehearsals — (they  were  going  through  my  sixth  symphony). 
I  saw  her,  during  the  interval,  come  in  with  her  nose  in  the 
air,  sniffing  and  crying:  'That  smacks  of  love!  Ah!  How  I 
love  such  music !  .  .  .' 

"She  has  changed,  physically:  only  her  cat-like  eyes  with 
their  bulging  pupils,  and  her  fantastic1  nose,  always  wrinkling- 
tip  and  never  still,  are  the  same.  But  her  face  is  wider,  big- 
boned,  highly  colored,  and  coarsened.  Sport  has  transformed 
her.  She  gives  herself  up  to  sport  of  all  kinds.  .Her  husband, 
as  you  know,  is  one  of  the  swells  at  the  Automobile  Club  and 
the  Aero  Club.  There  is  not  an  aviation  meeting,  nor  a  race 
by  air,  land,  or  water,  but  the  Stevens-Delestrades  think  them- 


THE  NEW  DAWN  393 

selves  compelled  to  be  present  at  it.  They  are  always  out  on 
the  highways  and  byways.  Conversation  is  quite  impossible; 
they  talk  of  nothing  but  Racing,  Rowing,  Rugby,  and  the  Derby. 
They  belong  to  a  new  race  of  people.  The  days  of  PeUeas  are 
forever  gone  for  the  women.  Souls  are  no  longer  in  fashion. 
All  the  girls  hoist  a  red,  swarthy  complexion,  tanned  by  driving 
in  the  open  air  and  playing  games  in  the  sun:  they  look  at  you 
with  eyes  like  men's  eyes:  they  laugh  and  their  laughter  is  a 
little  coarse.  In  tone  they  have  become  more  brutal,  more 
crude.  Every  now  and  then  your  cousin  will  quite  calmly  say 
the  most  shocking  things.  She  is  a  great  eater,  where  she  used 
to  eat  hardly  anything.  She  still  complains  about  her  digestion, 
merely  out  of  habit,  but  she  never  misses  a  mouthful  for  it. 
She  reads  nothing.  Xo  one  reads  among  these  people.  Only 
music  has  found  favor  in  their  sight.  Music  has  even  profited 
by  the  neglect  of  literature.  When  these  people  are  worn  out, 
music  is  a  Turkish  bath  to  them,  a  warm  vapor,  massage,  to- 
bacco. They  have  no  need  to  think.  They  pass  from  sport  to 
love,  and  love  also  is  a  sport.  But  the  most  popular  sport  among 
their  esthetic  entertainments  is  dancing.  Russian  dancing, 
Greek  dancing,  Swiss  dancing,  American  dancing,  everything  is 
set  to  a  dance  in  Paris :  Beethoven's  symphonies,  the  tragedies 
of  ^Eschylus,  the  Clavecin  bicn  Tcmptre,  the  antiques  of  the 
Vatican,  Orpheus,  Tristan,  the  Passion,  and  gymnastics.  These 
people  are  suffering  from  vertigo. 

""  The  queer  thing  is  to  see  how  your  cousin  reconciles  every- 
thing, her  estheticism,  her  sport,  and  her  practical  sense  (for 
she  has  inherited  from  her  mother  her  sense  of  business  and 
her  domestic  despotism).  All  these  things  ought  to  make  an 
incredible  mixture,  but  she  is  quite  at  her  ease  with  them  all : 
her  most  foolish  eccentricities  leave  her  mind  quite  clear,  just 
as  she  keeps  her  eyes  and  hands  sure  when  she  goes  whirling 
along  in  her  motor.  She  is  a  masterful  woman :  her  husband, 
her  guests,  her  servants,  she  leads  them  all.  with  drums  beating 
and  colors  flying.  She  is  also  busy  with  politics:  she  is  for 
'  Monseigneur  ' ;  not  that  J  believe  her  to  be  a  royalist,  but  it 
is  another  excuse  for  bestirring  herself.  And  although  she  is  in- 
capable of  reading  more  than  ten  pages  of  a  book,  she  arranges 
the  elections  to  the  Academies. — She  set  about  extending  her 


394         JEAN-CHKISTOPHE :    JOURNEY'S  EXD 

patronage  to  me.  You  may  guess  that  that  was  not  at  all  to  my 
liking.  What  is  most  exasperating  is  that  the  fact  of  my 
having  visited  her  in  obedience  to  you  has  absolutely  convinced 
her  of  her  power  over  me.  I  take  my  revenge  in  thrusting 
home  truths  at  her.  She  only  laughs,  and  is  never  at  a  loss 
for  a  reply.  '  She  is  a  good  creature  at  heart,  .  .  .'  Yes, 
provided  she  is  occupied.  She  admits  that  herself :  if  the 
machine  has  nothing  to  grind  she  is  capable  of  anything  and 
everything  to  keep  it  going. — I  have  been  to  her  house  twice. 
I  shall  not  go  again.  Twice  is  enough  to  prove  my  obedience 
to  you.  You  don't  want  me  to  die  ?  I  leave  her  house  broken, 
crushed,  cramped.  Last  time  I  saw  her  I  had  a  frightful  night- 
mare after  it:  I  dreamed  I  was  her  husband,  all  my  life  tied 
to  that  living  whirlwind.  ...  A  foolish  dream,  and  it  need 
not  trouble  her  real  husband.,  for  of  all  who  go  to  the  house 
he  is  the  last  to  be  seen  with  her,  and  when  they  are  together 
they  only  talk  of  sport.  They  get  on  very  well. 

"  How  could  these  people  make  my  music  a  success  ?  I  try 
not  to  understand.  I  suppose  it  shocked  them  in  a  new  way. 
They  liked  it  for  brutalizing  them.  For  the  time  being  they 
like  art  with  a  body  to  it.  But  they  have  not  the  faintest  con- 
ception of  the  soul  in  the  body :  they  will  pass  from  the  infatua- 
tion of  to-day  to  the  indifference  of  to-morrow,  from  the  in- 
difference of  to-morrow  to  the  abuse  of  the  day  after,  without 
ever  having  known  it.  That  is  the  history  of  all  artists.  I 
am  under  no  illusion  as  to  my  success,  and  have  not  been  for 
a  long  time:  and  they  will  make  me  pay  for  it. — Meanwhile 
I  see  the  most  curious  tilings  going  on.  The  most  enthusiastic 
of  my  admirers  is  .  .  .  (I  give  him.  you  among  a  thousand) 
.  .  .  our  friend  Levy-Coeur.  You  remember  the  gentleman 
with  whom  I  fought  a  ridiculous  duel  ?  Xow  he  instructs  those 
who  used  not  to  understand  me.  He  does  it  very  well  too.  He 
is  the  most  intelligent  of  all  the  men  talking  about  me.  You 
may  judge  what  the  others  are  worth.  There  is  nothing  to  be 
proud  of,  I  assure  you. 

"  I  don't  want  to  be  proud  of  it.  I  am  too  humiliated  when 
I  hear  the  work  for  which  I  am  belauded.  I  see  myself  in  it, 
and  what  I  see  is  not  beautiful.  What  a  merciless  mirror  is  a 
piece  of  music  to  those  who  can  see  into  it !  Happily  they  are 


THE  NEW  DAWX  395 

blind  and  deaf.  I  have  put  so  much  of  my  troubles  and  weak- 
nesses into  my  work  that  sometimes  it  seems  to  me  wicked  to 
let  loose  upon  the  world  such  hordes  of  demons.  I  am  com- 
forted when  I  see  the  tranquillity  of  the  audience:  they  are 
trebly  armored :  nothing  can  reach  them :  were  it  not  so,  I 
should  be  damned.  .  .  .  You  reproach  me  with  being  too  hard 
on  myself.  You  do  not  know  me  as  I  know  myself.  They 
see  what  we  are:  they  do  not  see  what  we  might  have  been, 
and  we  are  honored  for  what  is  not  so  much  the  effect  of  our 
qualities  as  of  the  events  that  bear  us  along,  and  the  forces 
which  control  us.  Let  me  tell  you  a  story.  .  .  . 

"  The  other  evening  I  was  in  one  of  the  cafes  where  they 
play  fairly  good  music,  though  in  a  queer  way:  with  five  or 
six  instruments,  filled  out  with  a  piano,  they  play  all  the 
symphonies,  the  masses,  the  oratorios.  It  is  just  like  the  stone- 
cutters in  Eome,  where  they  sell  the  Medici  chapel  as  an  orna- 
ment for  the  mantelpiece.  Apparently  this  is  useful  to  art, 
which,  if  it  is  to  circulate  among  men,  must  be  turned  into  base 
coin.  For  the  rest  there  is  no  deception  in  these  concerts.  The 
programs  are  copious,  the  musicians  conscientious.  I  found  a 
violoncellist  there  and  entered  into  conversation  with  him :  his 
eyes  reminded  me  strangely  of  my  father's;  he  told  me  the 
story  of  his  life.  He  was  the  grandson  of  a  peasant,  the  son 
of  a  small  official,  a  clerk  in  a  mairie  in  a  village  in  the  Xorth. 
They  wanted  to  make  him  a  gentleman,  a  lawyer,  and  he  was 
sent  to  school  in  the  neighboring  town.  He  was  a  sturdy  country 
boy,  not  at  all  fitted  for  being  cooped  up  over  the  small  work 
of  a  notary's  office,  and  he  could  not  stay  caged  in:  he  used 
to  jump  over  the  wall,  and  wander  through  the  fields,  and  run 
after  the  girls,  and  spend  his  strength  in  brawling :  the  rest  of 
the  time  he  lounged  and  dreamed  of  things  he  would  never  do. 
Only  one  thing  had  any  attraction  for  him  :  music.  God  knows 
why !  There  was  not  a  single  musician  in  his  family,  except  a 
rather  cracked  great-uncle,  one  of  those  odd,  provincial  charac- 
ters, whose  often  remarkable  intelligence  and  gifts  are  spent, 
in  their  proud  isolation,  on  whims,  and  cranks,  and  trivialities. 
This  great-uncle  had  invented  a  new  system  of  notation — (yet 
another!) — which  was  to  revolutionize  music;  he  even  claimed 
to  have  found  a  system  of  stenography  by  which  words,  tune, 


JEAN-CHRISTOPHE :    JOURNEY'S  EXT) 

and  accompaniment  could  be  written  sinniltaneously;  but  he 
never  managed  to  transcribe  it  correctly  himself.  They  just 
laughed  at  the  old  man  in  the  family,  but  all  the  same,  they 
were  proud  of  him.  They  thought:  'He  is  an  old  madman. 
Who  knows?  Perhaps  he  is  a  genius.' — It  was  no  doubt  from 
him  that  the  graudnephew  had  his  mania  for  music.  What 
music  could  lie  hear  in  the  little  town?  .  .  .  But  bad  music 
can  inspire  a  love  as  pure  as  good  music. 

"  The  unhappy  part  of  it  was  that  there  seemed  no  possibility 
of  confessing  to  such  a  passion  in  such  surroundings :  and  the 
boy  had  not  his  great-uncle's  cracked  brains.  He  hid  away  to 
read  the  old  lunatic's  lucubrations  which  formed  the  basis  of 
his  queer  musical  education.  Vain  and  fearful  of  his  father 
and  of  public  opinion,  he  would  say  nothing  of  his  ambitions 
until  he  had  succeeded.  He  was  crushed  by  his  family,  and 
did  as  so  many  French  people  of  the  middle-class  have  to  do 
when,  out  of  weakness  or  kindness,  they  dare  not  oppose  the 
will  of  their  relations:  they  submit  to  all  appearance,  and  live 
their  true  life  in  perpetual  secrecy.  Instead  of  following  his 
bent,  he  struggled  on,  against  his  inclination,  in  the  work  they 
had  marked  out  for  him.  He  was  as  incapable  of  succeeding 
in  it  as  he  was  of  coming  to  grief.  Somehow  or  other  he  man- 
aged to  pass  the  necessary  examinations.  The  main  advantage 
to  him  was  that  he  escaped  from  the  spying  of  Ids  father  and  the 
neighbors.  The  law  crushed  him :  he  was  determined  not  to 
spend  his  life  in  it.  But  while  his  father  was  alive  he  dared 
not  declare  his  desire.  Perhaps  it  was  not  altogether  distasteful 
to  him  to  have  to  wait  a  little  before  he  took  the  decisive  step. 
He  was  one  of  those  men  who  all  their  lives  long  dazzle  them- 
selves with  what  they  will  do  later  on,  with  the  tilings  they 
could  do.  For  the  moment  he  did  nothing.  He  lost  his  bear- 
ings, and,  intoxicated  by  his  new  life  in  Paris,  gave  himself  up 
with  all  his  young  peasant  brutality  to  his  two  passions,  woman 
and  music;  he  was  crazed  with  the  concerts  he  went  to,  no  less 
than  with  pleasure.  lie  wasted  years  doing  this  without  even 
turning  to  account  the  means  at  hand  of  completing  his  musical 
education.  His  umbrageous  pride,  his  unfortunate  independent 
and  susceptible  character  kept  him  from  taking  any  course  of 
lessons  or  asking  anybody's  advice. 


THE  NEW  DAWN  397 

"  When  his  father  died  he  sent  Themis  and  Justinian  packing. 
He  began  to  compose  without  having  had  the  courage  to  acquire 
the  necessary  technique.  His  inveterate  habit  of  idle  lounging 
and  his  taste  for  pleasure  had  made  him  incapable  of  any  serious 
effort.  He  felt  keenly:  but  his  idea,  and  its  form,  would  at  once 
slip  away:  when  all  was  told  he  expressed  nothing  but  the 
commonplace.  The  worst  of  all  was  that  there  was  really  some- 
thing great  in  this  mediocrity.  I  read  two  of  his  old  composi- 
tions. Here  and  there  were  striking  ideas,  left  in  the  rough 
and  then  deformed.  They  were  like  fireflies  over  a  bog.  .  .  . 
And  what  a  strange  mind  he  had !  He  tried  to  explain 
Beethoven's  sonatas  to  me.  He  saw  them  as  absurd,  childish 
stories.  But  such  passion  as  there  was  in  him,  such  profound 
seriousness!  Tears  would  come  to  his  eyes  as  he  talked.  lie 
would  die  for  the  thing  he  loves.  He  is  touching  and  grotesque. 
Just  as  I  was  on  the  point  of  laughing  in  his  face.  T  wanted  to 
take  him  to  my  arms.  .  .  .  He  is  fundamentally  honest,  and 
has  a  healthy  contempt  for  the  charlatanry  of  the  Parisian  groups 
and  their  sham  reputations, —  (though  at  the  same  time  he 
cannot  help  having  the  bourgeois  admiration  for  successful 
men).  .  .  . 

"  He  had  a  small  legacy.  In  a  few  months  it  was  all  gone, 
and,  finding  himself  without  resources,  he  had.  like  so  many 
others  of  his  kind,  the  criminal  honesty  to  marry  a  girl,  also 
without  resources,  whom  he  had  seduced;  she  had  a  fine  voice, 
and  played  music  without  any  love  for  it.  He  had  to  live  on 
her  voice  and  her  mediocre  talent  until  he  had  learned  how 
to  play  the  'cello.  Naturally  it  was  not  long  before  they  saw 
their  mediocrity,  and  could  not  bear  each  other.  Tbey  had  a 
little  girl.  The  father  transferred  his  power  of  illusion  to  the 
child,  and'  thought  that  she  would  be  what  he  bad  failed  to  be. 
The  little  girl  took  after  her  mother:  she  was  made  to  play  the 
piano,  though  she  had  not  a  shadow  of  talent ;  she  adored  her 
father,  and  applied  herself  to  her  work  to  please  him.  For 
several  years  they  plied  the  hotels  in  the  watering-places,  picking 
up  more  insults  than  money.  The  child  was  ailing  and  over- 
worked, and  died.  The  wife  grew  desperate,  and  became  more 
shrewish  every  day.  So  his  life  became  one  of  endless  misery, 


398         JEAN-CHEISTOPHE  :    JOURNEY'S  END 

with  no  hope  of  escape,  brightened  only  by  an  ideal  which  he 
knew  himself  to  be  incapable  of  attaining.   .    .    . 

"  And,  my  dear,  when  I  saw  that  poor  broken  devil,  whose 
life  has  been  nothing  but  a  series  of  disappointments,  I  thought  : 
'  That  is  what  I  might  have  been.'  There  was  much  in  common 
in  our  boyhood,  and  certain  adventures  in  our  two  lives  are  the 
same;  I  have  even  found  a  certain  kinship  in  some  of  our 
musical  ideas  :  but  his  have  stopped  short.  What  is  it  that  has 
kept  me  from  foundering  as  he  has  done?  My  will,  no  doubt. 
But  also  the  chances  of  life.  And  even  taking  my  will,  is 
that  due  only  to  my  merits  ?  Is  it  not  rather  due  to  my  descent, 
my  friends,  and  God  who  has  aided  me?  .  .  .  Such  thoughts 
make  a  man  humble.  With  such  thoughts  he  feels  brotherly  to 
all  who  love  his  art,  and  suffer  for  it. 

"  From  lowest  to  highest  the  distance  is  not  so  great.   .    .    . 

"  On  that  I  thought  of  what  you  said  in  your  letter.  You 
are  right  :  an  artist  has  no  right  to  hold  aloof,  so  long  as  he 
can  help  others.  So  I  shall  stay  :  I  shall  force  myself  to  spend 
a  few  months  in  every  year  here,  or  in  Vienna,  or  Berlin, 
although  it  is  hard  for  me  to  grow  accustomed  to  these  cities 
again.  But  I  must  not  abdicate.  If  I  do  not  succeed  in  being 
of  any  great  service,  as  I  have  good  reason  to  think  I  shall  not, 
perhaps  my  sojourn  in  these  cities  will  be  useful  to  me,  myself. 
And  I  shall  console  myself  with  the  thought  that  it  was  your 
wish.  Besides  ...  (I  will  not  lie)  .  .  .  I  am  beginning  to 
find  it  pleasant.  Adieu,  tyrant.  You  have  triumphed.  I  am 
beginning  not  only  to  do  what  you  want  me  to  do,  but  to  love 
doing  it. 

"  CHRISTOPHE." 


So  he  stayed,  partly  to  please  her,  but  also  because  his  artistic 
curiosity  was  reawakened,  and  was  drawn  on  to  contemplation 
of  the  renewal  of  art.  Everything  that  he  saw  and  did  he  pre- 
sented for  Grazia's  scrutiny  in  his  letters.  He  knew  that  he 
was  deceiving  himself  as  to  the  interest  she  would  take  in  it 
all;  he  suspected  her  of  a  certain  indifference.  But  he  was 
grateful  to  her  for  not  letting  him  see  it  too  clearly. 


THE  XEW  DAWN  399 

She  answered  him  regularly  once  a  fortnight.  Affectionate, 
composed  letters,  like  her  gestures.  When  she  told  him  of  her 
life  she  never  discarded  her  tender,  proud  reserve.  She  knew 
the  violence  with  which  her  words  went  resounding  through 
Christophe's  heart.  She  preferred  that  he  should  think  her, 
cold,  rather  than  to  send  him  flying  to  heights  whither  she  did 
not  wish  to  follow  him.  But  she  was  too  womanly  not  to  know 
the  secret  of  not  discouraging  her  friend's  love,  and  of,  at  once, 
by  gentle  words,  soothing  the  dismay  and  disappointment  caused 
by  her  indifferent  words.  Christophe  soon  divined  her  tactics, 
and  by  a  counter-trick  tried  in  his  turn  to  control  his  warmth 
and  to  write  more  composedly,  so  that  Grazia's  replies  should 
not  be  so  studiously  restrained. 

The  longer  he  stayed  in  Paris  the  greater  grew  his  interest 
in  the  new  activity  stirring  in  that  gigantic  ant-heap.  He  was 
the  more  interested  in  it  all  as  in  the  young  ants  he  found 
less  sympathy  with  himself.  He  was  not  deceived:  his  success 
was  a  Pyrrhic  victory.  After  an  absence  of  ten  years  his  return 
had  created  a  sensation  in  Parisian  society.  But  by  an  ironic 
turn  of  events,  such  as  is  by  no  means  rare,  he  found  himself 
patronized  by  his  old  enemies  the  snobs,  and  people  of  fashion : 
the  artists  were  either  mutely  hostile  or  distrustful  of  him.  He 
won  his  way  by  his  name,  which  already  belonged  to  the  past, 
by  his  considerable  accomplishment,  by  his  tone  of  passionate 
conviction,  and  the  violence  of  his  sincerity.  But  if  people  were 
forced  to  reckon  with  him,  to  admire  or  respect  him,  they  did 
not  understand  or  love  him.  He  was  outside  the  art  of  the 
time.  A  monster,  a  living  anachronism.  He  had  always  been 
that.  His  ten  years  of  solitude  had  accentuated  the  contrast. 
During  his  absence  in  Europe,  and  especially  in  Paris,  a  great 
work  of  reconstruction  had  been  carried  through.  A  new  order 
was  springing  to  life.  A  generation  was  arising,  desirous  rather 
of  action  than  of  understanding,  hungry  rather  for  happiness 
than  for  truth.  It  wished  to  live,  to  grasp  life,  even  at  the 
cost  of  a  lie.  Lies  of  pride — all  manner  of  pride:  pride  of  race, 
pride  of  caste,  pride  of  religion,  pride  of  culture  and  art — all 
were  food  to  this  generation,  provided  that  they  were  armor 
of  steel,  provided  that  they  could  be  turned  to  sword  and  buckler, 
and  that,  sheltered  by  them,  they  could  inarch  on  to  victory. 


400         JEAN-CHEISTOPHE :    JOURNEY'S  EXD 

So  to  this  generation  it  was  distasteful  to  hear  the  great  voice 
of  torment  reminding  it  of  the  existence  of  sorrow  and  doubt, 
those  whirlwinds  that  had  troubled  the  night  that  was  hardly 
gone,  and,  in  spite  of  its  denials,  went  on  menacing  the  universe, 
the  whirlwinds  that  it  wished  to  forget.  These  young  people 
turned  away  in  despite,  and  they  shouted  at  the  top  of  their 
voices  to  deafen  themselves.  But  the  voice  was  heard  above 
them  all.  And  the}*  were  angry. 

Christophe,  on  the  other  hand,  regarded  them  with  a  friendly 
eye.  He  hailed  the  upward  movement  of  the  world  towards 
happiness.  The  deliberate  narrowness  of  its  impulse  affected 
him  not  at  all.  When  a  man  wishes  to  go  straight  to  his  goal, 
he  must  look  straight  in  front  of  him.  For  his  part,  sitting 
at  the  turning  of  the  world,  he  was  rejoiced  to  see  behind  him 
the  tragic  splendor  of  the  night,  and,  in  front  of  him,  the  smile 
of  young  hope,  the  uncertain  beauty  of  the  fresh,  fevered  dawn. 
And  he  was  at  the  stationary  point  of  the  axis  of  the  pendulum 
while  the  clock  was  beginning  to  go  again.  Without  following 
its  onward  march,  he  listened  joyfully  to  the  beating  of  the 
rhythm  of  life.  Pie  joined  in  the  hope  of  those  who  denied 
his  past  agonies.  What  would  be,  would  be,  as  he  had  dreamed. 
Ten  years  before,  in  night  and  suffering,  Olivier — the  little 
Gallic  cock — had  with  his  frail  song  announced  the  distant 
day.  The  singer  was  no  more;  but  his  song  was  coining  to 
pass.  In  the  garden  of  France  the  birds  were  singing.  And, 
above  all  the  singing,  clearer,  louder,  happier,  Christophe  sud- 
denly heard  the  voice  of  Olivier  come  to  life  again. 

He  was  absently  reading  a  book  of  poems  at  a  bookstall.  The 
name  of  the  author  was  unknown  to  him.  Certain  words  struck 
him  and  be  went  on  reading.  As  he  read  on  between  the  uncut 
pages  he  seemed  to  recognize  a  friendly  voice,  the  features  of  a 
friend.  ...  lie  could  not  define  his  feeling,  nor  could  he 
bring  himself  to  put  the  book  down,  and  so  he  bought  it.  When 
he  reached  his  room  he  resumed  his  reading.  At  once  the  old 
obsession  descended  on  him.  The  impetuous  rhythm  of  the  poem 
evoked,  with  a  visionary  precision,  the  universe  and  age-old 
souls — the  gigantic  trees  of  which  we  are  all  the  leaves  and  the 
fruit — the  nations.  From  the  pages  there  arose  the  superhuman 


THE  NEW  DAWN  401 

figure  of  the  Mother — she  who  was  before  us,  she  who  will  lie 
after  us.  She  who  reigns,  like  the  Byzantine  Madonnas,  lofty 
as  the  mountain?,  at  whose  feet  kneel  and  pray  ant-like  human 
beings.  The  poet  was  hymning  the  homeric  struggle  of  the 
great  goddesses,  whose  lances  had  clashed  together  since  the 
beginning  of  the  ages:  the  eternal  Iliad  which  is  to  that  of 
Troy  what  the  Alps  are  to  the  little  hills  of  Greece. 

Such  an  epie  of  warlike  pride  and  action  was  far  removed 
from  the  ideas  of  a  European  soul  like  Christophe's.  And  yet, 
in  gleams,  in  the  vision  of  the  French  soul — the  graceful  virgin, 
who  hears  the  -Egis,  Athena,  with  blue  eyes  shining  through 
the  darkness,  the  goddess  of  work,  the  incomparable  artist, 
sovereign  reason,  whose  glittering  lance  hurls  down  the  tumultu- 
ously  shouting  barbarians — Christophe  perceived  an  expression, 
a  smile  that  he  knew  and  had  loved.  But  just  as  he  was  on 
the  point  of  fixing  it  the  vision  died  away.  And  while  he 
was  exasperated  by  this  vain  pursuit,  lo !  as  he  turned  a  page, 
he  came  on  a  story  which  Olivier  had  told  him  a  few  days 
before  his  death.  .  .  . 

He  was  struck  dumb.  He  ran  to  the  publishers,  and  asked 
for  the  poet's  address.  It  was  refused,  as  is  the  custom.  lie 
lost  his  temper.  In  vain.  Finally  he  remembered  that  he 
could  find  what  he  wanted  in  a  year-book.  He  did  find  it, 
and  went  at  once  to  the  author's  house.  When  he  wanted  any- 
thing he  found  it  impossible  to  wait., 

It  was  in  the  Batignolles  district  on  the  top  floor.  There 
were  several  doors  opening  on  to  a  common  landing.  Christophe 
knocked  at  the  door  which  had  been  pointed  out  to  him.  The 
next  door  opened.  A  young  woman,  not  at  all  pretty,  very 
dark,  with  low-growing  hair  and  a  sallow  complexion — a  shriv- 
eled face  with  very  sharp  eyes— asked  what  he  wanted.  She 
looked  suspicious.  Christophe  told  her  why  he  had  come,  and. 
in  answer  to  her  next  question,  gave  his  name.  She  came  out 
of  her  room  and  opened  the  other  door  with  a  key  which  she 
had  in  her  pocket.  But  she  did  not  let  Christophe  enter  im- 
mediately. She  told  him  to  wait  in  the  corridor,  and  went  in 
alone,  shutting  the  door  in  his  face.  At  last  Christophe  reached 
the  well-guarded  sanctum.  He  crossed  a  half-empty  room  which 
served  as  a  dining-room  and  contained  only  a  few  shabby  pieces 


402         JEAN-CHBISTOPHE  :    JOURNEY'S  END 

of  furniture,  while  near  the  curtainless  window  several  birds 
were  twittering  in  an  aviary.  In  the  next  room,  on  a  thread- 
bare divan,  lay  a  man.  He  sat  up  to  welcome  Christophe.  At 
once  Christophe  recognized  the  emaciated  face,  lit  up  by  the 
soul,  the  lovely  velvety  black  eyes  burning  with  a  feverish  flame, 
the  long,  intelligent  hands,  the  misshapen  body,  the  shrill,  husky 
voice.  .  .  .  Emmanuel !  The  little  cripple  boy  who  had  been 
the  innocent  cause.  .  .  .  And  Emmanuel,  suddenly  rising  to 
his  feet,  had  also  recognized  Christophe. 

They  stood  for  a  moment  without  speaking.  Both  of  them 
saw  Olivier.  .  .  .  They  could  not  bring  themselves  to  shake 
hands.  Emmanuel  had  stepped  backward.  After  ten  long  years, 
an  unconfessed  rancor,  the  old  jealousy  that  he  had  had  of 
Christophe,  leaped  forth  from  the  obscure  depths  of  instinct. 
He  stood  still,  defiant  and  hostile. — But  when  he  sawr  Chris- 
tophe's  emotion,  when  on  his  lips  he  read  the  name  that  was 
in  their  thoughts :  "  Olivier " — it  was  stronger  than  he :  he 
flung  himself  into  the  arms  held  out  towards  him. 

Emmanuel  asked : 

"  I  knew  you  were  in  Paris.     But  how  did  you  find  me  ?  " 

Christophe  said: 

"  I  read  your  last  book :  through  it  I  heard  his  voice." 

"Yes,"  said  Emmanuel.  "  You  recognized  it?  I  owe  every- 
thing that  I  am  now  to  him." 

(He  avoided  pronouncing  the  name.) 

After  a  moment  he  went  on  gloomily: 

"  He  loved  you  more  than  me." 

Christophe  smiled : 

"  If  a  man  loves  truly  there  is  neither  more  nor  less :  he  gives 
himself  to  all  those  whom  he  loves." 

Emmanuel  looked  at  Christophe :  the  tragic  seriousness  of 
his  stubborn  eyes  was  suddenly  lit  up  witli  a  profound  sweet- 
ness. He  took  Christophe's  hand  and  made  him  sit  on  the 
divan  by  his  side. 

Each  told  the  story  of  his  life.  From  fourteen  to  twenty-five 
Emmanuel  had  practised  many  trades :  printer,  upholsterer, 
pedlar,  bookseller's  assistant,  lawyer's  clerk,  secretary  to  a  poli- 
tician, journalist.  ...  In  all  of  them  he  had  found  the 
means  of  learning  feverishly,  here  and  there  finding  the  support 


THE  NEW  DAWN  403 

of  good  people  who  were  struck  by  the  little  man's  energy,  more 
often  falling  into  the  hands  of  people  who  exploited  his  poverty 
and  his  gifts,  turning  his  worst  experiences  to  profit,  and  suc- 
ceeding in  fighting  his  way  through  without  too  much  bitterness, 
leaving  behind  him  only  the  remains  of  his  feeble  health.  His 
singular  aptitude  for  the  dead  languages  (not  so  rare  as  one 
is  inclined  to  believe  in  a  race  imbued  with  humanistic  tradi- 
tions) gained  him  the  interest  and  support  of  an  old  Hellenizing 
priest.  These  studies,  which  he  had  no  time  to  push  very  far, 
served  him  as  mental  discipline  and  a  school  of  style.  This 
man,  who  had  risen  from  the  dregs  of  the  people,  whose  whole 
education  had  been  won  by  his  own  efforts,  haphazard,  so  that 
there  were  great  gaps  in  it,  had  acquired  a  gift  of  verbal  ex- 
pression, a  mastery  of  thought  over  form,  such  as  ten  years  of 
a  university  education  cannot  give  to  the  young  bourgeois.  He 
attributed  it  all  to  Olivier.  And  yet  others  had  helped  him  more 
effectively.  But  from  Olivier  came  the  spark  which  in  the 
night  of  this  man's  soul  had  lighted  the  eternal  flame.  The 
rest  had  but  poured  oil  into  the  lamp. 

He  said : 

"  I  only  began  to  understand  him  from  the  moment  when 
he  passed  away.  But  everything  he  ever  said  had  become  a 
part  of  me.  His  light  never  left  me." 

He  spoke  of  his  work  and  the  task  which  he  declared  had 
been  left  to  him  by  Olivier;  the  awakening  of  the  French,  the 
kindling  of  that  torch  of  heroic  idealism  of  which  Olivier  had 
been  the  herald :  he  wished  to  make  himself  the  resounding  voice 
which  should  hover  above  the  battlefield  and  declare  the  approach- 
ing victory:  he  sang  the  epic  of  the  new-birth  of  his  race. 

His  poems  were  the  product  of  that  strange  race  that,  through 
the  ages,  has  so  strongly  preserved  its  old  Celtic  aroma,  while 
it  has  ever  taken  a  bizarre  pride  in  clothing  its  ideas  with  the 
cast-off  clothes  and  laws  of  the  Eoman  conqueror.  There  were 
to  be  found  in  it  absolutely  pure  the  Gallic  audacity,  the  spirit 
of  heroic  reason,  of  irony,  the  mixture  of  braggadocio  and  crazy 
bravura,  which  set  out  to  pluck  the  beards  of  the  Roman  senators, 
and  pillaged  the  temple  of  Delphi,  and  laughingly  hurled  its 
javelins  at  the  sky.  But  this  little  Parisian  dwarf  had  had 
to  shape  his  passions,  as  his  periwigged  grandfathers  had  done, 


404         JEAN-CHRISTOPHE :    JOURNEY'S  END 

and  as  no  doubt  his  great-grandnephews  would  do,  in  the  bodies 
of  the  heroes  and  gods  of  Greece,  two  thousand  years  dead.  It 
is  a  curious  instinct  in  these  people  which  accords  well  with  their 
need  of  the  absolute:  as  the}-  impose  their  ideas  on  the  remains 
of  the  ages,  they  seem  to  themselves  to  be  imposing  them  on 
the  ages.  The  constraint  of  his  classic  form  only  gave  Emman- 
uel's passions  a  more  violent  impulse.  Olivier's  calm  confidence 
in  the  destinies  of  France  had  been  transformed  in  his  little 
protege  into  a  burning  faith,  hungering  for  action  and  sure  of 
triumph.  He  willed  it,  he  said  it,  he  clamored  for  it.  Tt  was 
by  his  exalted  faith  and  his  optimism  that  he  had  uplifted  the 
souls  of  the  French  public.  His  book  had  been  as  effective  as 
a  battle.  He  had  made  a  breach  in  the  ranks  of  skepticism  and 
fear.  The  whole  younger  generation  had  thronged  to  follow 
him  towards  the  new  destiny.  .  .  . 

He  grew  excited  as  he  talked :  his  eyes  burned,  his  pale  face 
glowed  pink  in  patches,  and  his  voice  rose  to  a  scream.  Chris- 
tophe  could  not  help  noticing  the  contrast  between  the  devouring 
fire  and  the  wretched  body  that  was  its  pyre.  He  was  only 
half-conscious  of  the  irony  of  this  stroke  of  fate.  The  singer 
of  energy,  the  poet  who  hymned  the  generation  of  intrepid  sport, 
of  action,  Avar,  could  hardly  walk  without  losing  his  breath,  was 
extremely  temperate,  lived  on  a  strict  diet,  drank  water,  could 
not  smoke,  lived  without  women,  bore  every  passion  in  his  body, 
and  was  reduced  by  his  health  to  asceticism. 

Christophe  watched  Emmanuel,  and  he  felt  a  mixture  of 
admiration  and  brotherly  pity.  He  tried  not  to  show  it:  but 
no  doubt  his  eyes  betrayed  his  feeling.  Emmanuel's  pride,  which 
ever  kept  an  open  wound  in  his  side,  made  him  think  he  read 
commiseration  in  Christophe's  eyes,  and  that  Avas  more  odious 
to  him  than  hatred.  The  fire  in  him  suddenly  died  doAvn.  He 
stopped  talking.  Christophe  tried  in  vain  to  win  back  his 
confidence.  His  soul  had  closed  up.  Christophe  saAv  that  he 
was  wounded. 

The  hostile  silence  dragged  on.  Christophe  got  up.  Em- 
manuel took  him  to  the  door  without  a  Avord.  His  step  declared 
his  infirmity:  he  knew  it:  it  Avas  a  point  of  pride  Avith  him  to 
appear  indifferent:  but  lie  thought  Christophe  Avas  watching 
him,  and  his  rancor  grew. 


THE  NEW  DAWN  405 

Just  as  he  was  coldly  shaking  hands  with  his  guest,  and 
saying  good-by,  an  elegant  young  lady  rang  at  the  door.  She 
was  escorted  by  a  pretentious  nincompoop  whom  Christophe 
recognized  as  a  man  lie  had  seen  at  theatrical  first-nights,  smiling, 
chattering,  waving  his  hand,  kissing  the  hands'  of  the  ladies, 
and  from  his  stall  shedding  smiles  all  over  the  theater:  not 
knowing  his  name,  he  had  called  him  "  the  buck." — The  buck 
and  his  companion,  on  seeing  Emmanuel,  flung  themselves  on 
the  "  clier  niallre"  with  obsequious  and  familiar  effusiveness. 
As  Christophe  walked  away  he  heard  Emmanuel  in  his  dry  voice 
saying  that  he  was  too  busy  to  see  any  one.  He  admired  the 
man's  gift  of  being  disagreeable.  He  did  not  know  Emmanuel's 
reasons  for  scowling  at  the  rich  snobs  who  came  to  gratify  him 
with  their  indiscreet  visits;  they  were  prodigal  of  fine  phrases 
and  eulogy;  but  they  no  more  thought  of  helping  him  in  his 
poverty  than  the  famous  friends  of  Cesar  Franck  ever  dreamed 
of  releasing  him  from  the  piano-lessons  which  he  had  to  give 
up  to  the  last  to  make  a  living. 

Christophe  went  several  times  again  to  see  Emmanuel.  He 
never  succeeded  in  restoring  the  intimacy  of  his  first  visit. 
Emmanuel  showed  no  pleasure  in  seeing  him,  and  maintained 
a  suspicious  reserve.  Every  now  and  then  he  would  lie  carried 
away  by  the  generous  need  of  expansion  of  his  genius:  a  remark 
of  Christophe's  would  shake  him  to  the  very  roots  of  his  being: 
then  he  would  abandon  himself  to  a  fit  of  enthusiastic  con- 
fidence: and  over  his  secret  soul  his  idealism  Avould  cast  the 
glowing  light  of  a  flashing  poetry.  Then,  suddenly,  he  would 
fall  back:  he  would  shrivel  up  into  sulky  silence:  and  Christophe 
would  find  him  hostile  once  more. 

They  were  divided  by  too  many  things.  Not  the  least  was  the 
difference  in  their  ages.  Christophe  was  on  the  way  to  full 
consciousness  and  mastery  of  himself.  Emmanuel  was  still  in 
process  of  formation  and  more  chaotic  than  Christophe  had 
ever  been.  The  originality  of  his  face  came  from  the  contra- 
dictory elements  that  were  at  grips  in  him  :  a  mighty  stoic  ism, 
struggling  to  tame  a  nature  consumed  by  atavistic  desires. —  (he 
was  the  sou  of  a  drunkard  and  a  prostitute)  ; — a  frantic  imagi- 
nation which  tugged  against  the  bit  of  a  will  of  steel;  an 
immense  egoism,  and  an  immense  love  for  others,  and  of  the 


40G         JEAX-CHRISTOPHE  :   JOURNEY'S  END 

two  it  were  impossible  to  tell  which  would  be  the  conqueror; 
an  heroic  idealism  and  a  morbid  thirst  for  glory  which  made 
him  impatient  of  other  superiorities.  If  Olivier's  ideas,  and 
his  independence,  and  his  disinterestedness  were  in  him,  if 
Emmanuel  was  superior  to  his  master  by  his  plebeian  vitality 
which  knew  not  disgust  in  the  face  of  action,  by  his  poetic 
genius  and  his  thicker  skin,,  which  protected  him  from  disgust 
of  all  kinds,  yet  he  was  very  far  from  reaching  the  serenity  of 
Antoinette's  brother :  his  character  was  vain  and  uneasy :  and 
the  restlessness  of  other  people  only  augmented  his  own. 

He  lived  in  a  stormy  alliance  with  a  young  woman  who  was 
his  neighbor,  the  woman  who  had  received  Christophe  on  his 
first  visit.  She  loved  Emmanuel,  and  was  jealously  busy  over 
him,  looked  after  his  house,  copied  out  his  work,  and  wrote  to 
his  dictation.  She  was  not  beautiful,  and  she  bore  the  burden 
of  a  passionate  soul.  She  came  of  the  people,  and  for  a  long 
time  worked  in  a  bookbinding  workshop,  then  in  the  post-office. 
Her  childhood  had  been  spent  in  the  stifling  atmosphere  common 
to  all  the  poor  workpeople  of  Paris :  souls  and  bodies  all  huddled 
together,  harassing  work,  perpetual  promiscuity,  no  air,  no 
silence,  never  any  solitude,,  no  opportunity  for  recuperation  or 
of  defending  the  inner  sanctuary  of  the  heart.  She  was  proud 
in  spirit,  with  .her  mind  ever  seething  with  a  religious  fervor 
for  a  confused  ideal  of  truth.  Her  eyes  were  worn  out  with 
copying  out  at  night,  sometimes  without  a  lamp,  by  moonlight, 
Les  Miserable?;  of  Hugo.  She  had  met  Emmanuel  at  a  time 
when  he  was  more  unhappy  than  she,  ill  and  without  resources; 
and  she  had  devoted  herself  to  him.  This  passion  was  the 
first,  the  only  living  love  of  her  life.  So  she  attached  herself 
to  him  with  a  hungry  tenacity.  Her  affection  was  a  terrible 
trial  to  Emmanuel,  who  rather  submitted  to  than  shared  it. 
He  was  touched  by  her  devotion :  he  knew  that  she  was  his  best 
friend,  the  only  creature  to  whom  he  was  everything,  who  could 
not  do  without  him.  But  this  very  feeling  overwhelmed  him. 
He  needed  liberty  and  isolation;  her  eyes  always  greedily  be- 
seeching a  look  obsessed  him :  he  used  to  speak  harshly  to  her, 
and  longed  to  say:  "Go!"  He  was  irritated  by  her  ugliness 
and  her  clumsy  manners.  Though  lie  had  seen  but  little  of 
fashionable  society,  and  though  he  heartily  despised  it, —  (for  he 


THE  NEW  DAWN  407 

suffered  at  appearing  even  uglier  and  more  ridiculous  there), — 
he  was  sensitive  to  elegance,  and  alive  to  the  attraction  of  women 
who  felt  towards  him  (he  had  no  doubt  of  it)  exactly  as  he 
felt  towards  his  friend.  He  tried  to  show  her  an  affection 
which  he  did  not  possess  or,  at  least,  which  was  continually 
obscured  by  gusts  of  involuntary  hatred.  He  could  not  do  it: 
he  had  a  great  generous  heart  in  his  bosom,  hungering  to  do 
good,  and  also  a  demon  of  violence,  capable  of  much  evil.  This 
inward  struggle  and  his  consciousness  of  his  inability  to  end  it 
to  his  advantage  plunged  him  into  a  state  of  acute  irritation, 
which  he  vented  on  Christophe. 

Emmanuel  could  not  help  feeling  a  double  antipathy  towards 
Christophe;  firstly  because  of  his  old  jealousy  (one  of  those 
childish  passions  which  still  subsist,  though  we  may  forget  the 
cause  of  them)  :  secondly,  because  of  his  fierce  nationalism. 
In  France  he  had  embodied  all  the  dreams  of  justice,  pity,  and 
human  brotherhood  conceived  by  the  best  men  of  the  preceding 
age.  He  did  not  set  France  against  the  rest  of  Europe  as  an 
enemy  whose  fortune  is  swelled  by  the  ruin  of  the  other  nations, 
but  placed  her  at  their  head,  as  the  legitimate  sovereign  who 
reigns  for  the  good  of  all — the  sword  of  the  ideal,  the  guide 
of  the  human  race.  Rather  than  see  her  commit  an  injustice 
he  would  have  preferred  to  see  her  dead.  But  he  had  no  doubt 
of  her.  He  was  exclusively  French  in  culture  and  in  heart, 
nourished  wholly  by  the  French  tradition,  the  profound  reasons 
of  which  he  found  in  his  own  instinct.  Quite  sincerely  he 
ignored  foreign  thought,  for  which  he  had  a  sort  of  disdainful 
condescension, — and  was  exasperated  if  a  foreigner  did  not 
accept  his  lowly  position. 

Christophe  saw  all  that,  but,  being  older  and  better  versed 
in  life,  lie  did  not  worry  about  it.  If  such  pride  of  race  could 
not  but  be  injurious,  Christophe  was  not  touched  by  it:  he 
could  appreciate  the  illusions  of  filial  love,  and  never  dreamed 
of  criticising  the  exaggerations  of  a  sacred  feeling.  Besides, 
humanity  is  profited  by  the  vain  belief  of  the  nations  in  their 
mission.  Of  all  the  reasons  at  hand  for  feeling  himself  estranged 
from  Emmanuel  only  one  hurt  him :  Emmanuel's  voice,  which 
at  times  rose  to  a  shrill,  piercing  scream.  Christophers  ears 
suffered  cruelly.  He  could  not  help  making  a  face  when  it 


408         JEAN-CHRISTOPIIE:    JOURNEY'S  END 

happened.  He  tried  to  prevent  Emmanuel's  seeing  it.  He  en- 
deavored to  hear  the  music  and  not  the  instrument.  There 
was  such  a  beauty  of  heroism  shining  forth  from  the  crippled 
poet  when  he  evoked  the  victories  of  the  mind,  the  forerunners 
of  other  victories,  the  conquest  of  the  air,  the  "flying  Cod'' 
who  should  upraise  the  peoples,  and,  like  the  star  of  Bethlehem, 
lead  them  in  his  train,  in  ecstasies,  towards  far  distant  spaces 
or  near  revenge.  The  splendor  of  these  visions  of  energy  did 
not  prevent  Christophers  seeing  their  danger,  and  foreknowing 
whither  this  change  and  the  growing  clamor  of  the  new  Marseil- 
laise would  lead.  He  thought,  with  a  little  irony,  (with  no 
regret  for  past  or  fear  of  the  future),  that  the  song  would 
find  an  echo  that  the  singer  could  not  foresee,  and  that  a 
day  would  come  when  men  would  sigh  for  the  vanished  days 
of  ^the  Market-Place. — How  free  they  were  then !  The  golden 
age  of  liberty !  Never  would  its  like  be  known  again.  The 
world  was  moving  on  to  the  age  of  strength,  of  health,  of  virile 
action,  and  perhaps  of  glory,  but  also  of  harsh  authority  and 
narrow  order.  We  shall  have  called  it  enough  with  our  prayers, 
the  age  .of  iron,  the  classic  age !  The  great  classic  ages — 
Louis  XIV.  or  Napoleon — seem  now  at  a  distance  the  peaks  of 
humanity.  And  perhaps  the  nation  therein  most  victoriously 
realized  its  ideal  State.  But  go  and  ask  the  heroes  of  those 
times  what  they  thought  of  them!  Your  Nicolas  Poussin  Avent 
to  live  and  die  in  Rome;  he  was  stifled  in  your  midst.  Your 
Pascal,  your  Racine,  said  farewell  to  the  world.  And  among 
the  greatest,  how  many  others  lived  apart  in  disgrace,  and 
oppressed !  Even  the  soul  of  a  man  like  Moliere  hid  much 
bitterness. — For  your  Napoleon,  whom  you  so  greatly  regret, 
•  your  fathers  do  not  seem  to  have  had  any  doubt  as  to  their  hap- 
piness, and  the  master  himself  was  under  no  illusion;  he  knew 
that  when  he  disappeared  the  world  would  say:  "Out'!"  .  .  . 
What  a  wilderness  of  thought  surrounds  the  Impcrator!  Over 
the  immensity  of  the  sands,  the  African  sun.  .  .  . 

Christophe  did  not  say  all  that  was  in  his  mind.  A  few 
hints  were  enough  to  set  Emmanuel  in  a  fury,  and  he  did  not 
try  the  experiment  again.  But  it  was  in  vain  that  he  kept  his 
thoughts  to  himself:  Emmanuel  knew  what  he  was  thinking. 
More  than  that,  he  was  obscurely  conscious  that  Christophe  saw 


THE  NEW  DAWN  409 

farther  than  ho.  And  lie  was  only  irritated  by  it.  Young 
people  never  forgive  their  elders  for  forcing  them  to  see  what 
they  will  see  in  twenty  .years'  time. 

Christophe  read  his  heart,  and  said  to  himself: 

"  He  is  right.  Every  man  his  own  faith.  A  man  must 
believe  what  he  believes.  God  keep  me  from  disturbing  his 
eonfidence  in  the  future!'' 

But  his  mere  presence  upset  Emmanuel.  When  two  per- 
sonalities are  together,  however  hard  they  try  to  efface  them- 
selves, one  always  crushes  the  other,  and  the  other  always  feels 
rancor  and  humiliation.  Emmanuel's  pride  was  hurt  by  Chris- 
tophe's  superiority  in  experience  and  character.  And  perhaps 
also  he  was  keeping  back  the  love  which  he  felt  growing  in 
himself  for  him. 

He  became  more  and  more  shy.  He  locked  his  door,  and 
did  not  answer  letters. — Christophe  had  to  give  up  seeing  him. 

During  the  first  days  of  July  Christophe  reckoned  up  what 
he  had  gained  by  his  few  months'  stay  in  Paris:  many  new 
ideas,  but  few  friends.  Brilliant  and  derisory  successes,  in 
which  he  saw  his  own  image  and  the  image  of  his  work  weak- 
ened or  caricatured  in  mediocre  minds;  and  there  is  but  scant 
pleasure  in  that.  And  he  failed  to  win  the  sympathy  of  those 
by  whom  he  would  have  loved  to  be  understood;  they  had  not 
welcomed  his  advances;  he  could  not  throw  in  his  lot  with 
them,  however  much  he  desired  to  share  their  hopes  and  to  be 
their  ally;  it  was  as  though  their  uneasy  vanity  shunned  his 
friendship  and  found  more  satisfaction  in  having  him  for  an 
enemy.  In  short,  he  had  let  the  tide  of  his  own  generation 
pass  without  passing  with  it.  and  the  tide  of  the  next  generation 
would  have  nothing  to  do  with  him.  He  was  isolated,  and 
was  not  surprised,  for  all  his  life  he  had  been  accustomed 
to  it.  But  now  he  thought  he  had  won  the  right,  after  this 
fresh  attempt,  to  return  to  his  Swiss  hermitage,  until  he  had 
realized  a  project  which  for  some  time  past  had  been  taking 
shape.  As  he  grew  older  he  was  tormented  with  the  desire  to 
return  and  settle  down  in  his  own  country.  He  knew  nobody 
there,  and  would  find  even  less  intellectual  kinship  than  in 
this  foreign  city:  but  none  the  less  it  was  his  country:  you 


410         JEAN-CHRISTOPHE:   JOURNEY'S  END 

do  not  ask  those  of  your  blood  to  think  your  thoughts :  between 
them  and  you  there  are  a  thousand  secret  ties ;  the  senses  learned 
to  read  in  the  same  book  of  sky  and  earth,  and  the  heart  speaks 
the  same  language. 

He  gaily  narrated  his  disappointments  to  Grazia,  and  told 
her  of  his  intention  of  returning  to  Switzerland:  jokingly  he 
asked  her  permission  to  leave  Paris,  and  assured  her  that  he 
was  going  during  the  following  week.  But  at  the  end  of  the 
letter  there  was  a  postscript  saying : 

"  I  have  changed  my  mind.     My  departure  is  postponed." 

Christophe  had  entire  confidence  in  Grazia :  he  gave  into  her 
hands  the  secret  of  his  inmost  thoughts.  And  yet  there  was  a 
room  in  his  heart  of  which  he  kept  the  key:  it  contained  the 
memories  which  did  not  belong  only  to  himself,  but  to  those 
whom  he  had  loved.  He  kept  back  everything  concerning  Olivier. 
His  reserve  was  not  deliberate.  The  words  would  not  come  from 
his  lips  whenever  he  tried  to  talk  to  Grazia  about  Olivier.  She 
had  never  known  him.  .  .  . 

Now,  on  the  morning  when  he  was  writing  to  his  friend,  there 
came  a  knock  on  the  door.  He  went  to  open  it,  cursing  at  being 
interrupted.  A  boy  of  fourteen  or  fifteen  asked  for  M.  Krafft. 
Christophe  gruffly  bade  him  come  in.  He  was  fair,  with  blue 
eyes,  fine  features,  not  very  tall,  with  a  slender,  erect  figure. 
He  stood  in  front  of  Christophe,  rather  shyly,  and  said  not  a 
word.  Quickly  he  pulled  himself  together,  and  raised  his  limpid 
eyes,  and  looked  at  him  with  keen  interest.  Christophe  smiled 
as  he  scanned  the  boy's  charming  face,  and  the  boy  smiled 
too. 

"  Well  ?  "  said  Christophe.     "  What  do  you  want  ?  " 

"  I  came,"  said  the  boy.   .    .    . 

(And  once  more  he  became  confused,  blushed,  and  was  silent.) 

"  I  can  see  that  you  have  come,"  said  Christophe,  laughing. 
"  But  why  have  you  come  ?  Look  at  me.  Are  you  afraid 
of  me?" 

The  bov  smiled  once  more,  shook  his  head,  and  said : 

"  No/' " 
'     "  Bravo !     Then  tell  me  who  you  are." 

"  I  am   ..."  said  the  boy. 

He  stopped  once  more.     His  eyes  wandered  curiously  round 


THE  NEW  DAWN  411 

the  room,  and  lighted  on  a  photograph  of  Olivier  on  the  mantel- 
piece. 

"  Come !  "  said  Christophe.     "  Courage !  " 

The  boy  said : 

"  I  am  his  son." 

Christophe  started :  he  got  up  from  his  chair,  took  hold  of 
the  boy's  arm,  and  drew  him  to  him;  he  sank  back  into  his 
chair  and  held  him  in  a  close  embrace:  their  faces  almost 
touched;  and  he  gazed  and  gazed  at  him,  saying: 

"  My  boy.    .    .    .     My  poor  boy.    ..." 

Suddenly  he  took  his  face  in  his  hands  and  kissed  his  brow, 
eyes,  cheeks,  nose,  hair.  The  boy  was  frightened  and  shocked 
by  such  a  violent  demonstration,  and  broke  away  from  him. 
Christophe  let  him  go.  He  hid  his  face  in  his  hand,  and 
leaned  his  brow  against  the  wall,  and  sat  so  for  the  space  of  a 
few  moments.  The  boy  had  withdrawn  to  the  other  end  of 
the  room.  Christophe  raised  his  head.  His  face  was  at  -rest: 
he  looked  at  the  boy  with  an  affectionate  smile. 

"  I  frightened  you,"  he  said.  "  Forgive  me.  .  .  .  You  see, 
I  loved  him." 

The  boy  was  still  frightened,  and  said  nothing. 

"  How  like  you  are  to  him  !  "  said  Christophe.  ..."  And 
yet  I  should  not  have  recognized  you.  What  is  it  that  has 
changed?  ..." 

He  asked : 

"  What  is  your  name  ?  " 

"  Georges." 

"  Oh !  yes.  I  remember.  Christophe  Olivier  Georges.  .  .  . 
How  old  are  you  ?  " 

"  Fourteen." 

"Fourteen!  Is  it  so  long  ago?  ...  It  is  as  though  it 
were  yesterday — or  far  back  in  the  darkness  of  time.  .  .  . 
How  like  you  are  to  him!  The  same  features.  It  is  the  same, 
and  yet  another.  The  same  colored  eyes,  but  not  the  same  eyes. 
The  same  smile,  the  same  lips,  but  not  the  same  voice.  You 
are  stronger.  You  hold  yourself  more  erect:  your  face  is  fuller, 
but  you  blush  just  as  he  used  to  do.  Come,  sit  down,  let  us 
talk.  Who  sent  you  to  me  ?  " 

"  No  one." 


412         JEAN-CHEISTOPHE:    JOURNEY'S  END 

"  You  came  of  your  own  accord  ?  How  do  you  know  about 
me?" 

"  People  have  talked  to  me  about  you." 

"  Who  ?  " 

"  My  mother." 

"  Ah !  "  said  Christophe.  "  Does  she  know  that  you  came  to 
see  me  ?  " 

"  No." 

Christophe  said  nothing  for  a  moment;  then  he  asked: 

"  Where  do  you  live  ?  " 

"  Near  the  Pare  Mongeau." 

"  You  walked  here  ?  Yes  ?  It  is  a  long  way.  You  must  be 
tired." 

"  I  am  never  tired." 

"  Good !     Show  me  your  arms." 

(He  felt  them.) 

"  You  are  a  strong  boy.  .  .  .  What  put  it  into  your  head 
to  come  and  see  me  ?  " 

"  My  father  loved  you  more  than  any  one." 

"  Did  she  tell  you  so  ?  " 

(He  corrected  himself.) 

"  Did  your  mother  tell  you  so  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

Christophe  smiled  pensively.  He  thought :  "  She  too !  .  .  . 
How  they  all  loved  him !  Why  did  they  not  let  him  see 
it?  .  .  .'" 

He  went  on : 

"Why  did  you  wait  so  long  before  you  came?" 

"  I  wanted  to  come  sooner.  But  I  thought  you  would  not 
want  to  see  me." 

"  I !  " 

"I  saw  you  several  weeks  ago  at  the  Chevillard  concerts: 
I  was  with  my  mother,  sitting  a  little  away  from  you:  I  bowed 
to  you:  you  looked  through  me,  and  frowned,  and  took  no 
notice." 

"T  looked  at  you?  .  .  „  My  poor  boy,  how  could  you  think 
that?  ...  I  did  not  see  you.  My  eyes  are  tired.  That  is 
why  I  frown.  .  .  .  You  don't  think  me  so  cruel  as  that?" 

"  I  think  you  could  be  cruel  too,  if  you  wanted  to  be." 


THE  XEW  DAWN  413 

"Really?"  said  Christophe.  "In  that  case,  if  you  thought 
I  did  not  want  to  see  you,  how  did  you  dare  to  come?" 

"  Because  I  wanted  to  sec  you." 

"And  if  1  had  refused  to  see  you?" 

"I  shouldn't  have  let  you  do  that." 

He  said  this  with  a  little  decided  air,  at  once  shy  and  pro- 
voking. 

Christophe  hurst  out  laughing,  and  Georges  laughed  too. 

"You  would  have  sent  me  packing!  Think  of  that!  You 
rogue!  .  .  .  Xo,  decidedly,  you  are  not  like  your  father." 

A  shadow  passed  over  the  hoy's  mobile  face. 

"You  think  I  am  not  like  him?  But  you  said,  just 
now  .  .  .  ?  You  don't  think  he  would  have  loved  me?  You 
don't  love  me  ?  " 

"  What  difference  docs  it  make  to  you  whether  I  love  you  or 
not?" 

"  A  great  deal  of  difference." 

"  Because  .    .    .  ?  " 

"  Because  I  love  you." 

In  a  moment  his  eyes,  his  lips,  all  his  features,  took  on  a 
dozen  different  expressions,  like  the  shadows  of  the  clouds  on 
an  April  day  chasing  over  the  fields  before  the  spring  winds. 
Christophe  had  the  most  lovely  joy  in  gazing  at  him  and  listening 
to  him;  it  seemed  to  him  that  all  the  cares  of  the  past  were 
washed  away;  his  sorrowful  experiences,  his  trials,  his  sufferings 
and  Olivier's  sufferings,  all  were  wiped  out:  he  was  born  again 
in  this  young  shoot  of  Olivier's  life. 

They  talked  on.  Georges  knew  nothing  of  Christophe' s  music 
until  the  last  few  months,  but  since  Christophe  had  been  in 
Paris,  he  had  never  missed  a  concert  at  which  his  work  was 
played.  He  spoke  of  it  with  an  eager  expression,  his  eyes  shining 
and  laughing,  with  the  tears  not  far  behind:  lie  was  like  a  lover. 
He  told  Christophe  that  he  adored  musie,  and  lhat  he  wanted 
to  be  a  composer.  But  after  a  question  or  two,  Christophe  saw 
that  the  boy  knew  not  even  the  elements  of  music.  He  asked 
about  his  work.  Young  Jeannin  was  at  the  lycee ;  he  said 
cheerfully  that  he  was  not  a.  good  scholar. 

"  What  are  you  best  at?     Literature  or  science?" 

"  Very  much  the  same." 


414         JEAN-CHRISTOPHE :    JOURNEY'S  END 

"What?     What?     Are  you  a  dunce  ?" 

The  boy  laughed  frankly  and  said: 

"  I  think  so." 

Then  he  added  confidentially : 

"  But  I  know  that  I  am  not,  all  the  same." 

Christophe  could  not  help  laughing. 

"  Then  why  don't  you  work  ?  Aren't  you  interested  in  any- 
thing?" 

"  No.     I'm  interested  in  everything." 

"Well,  then,  why?" 

"Everything  is  so  interesting  that  there  is  no  time.   ..." 

"  No  time  ?     What  the  devil  do  you  do  ?  " 

He  made  a  vague  gesture : 

"  Many  things.  I  play  music,  and  games,  and  I  go  to  ex- 
hibitions. I  read.  ..." 

"  You  would  do  better  to  read  your  school-books." 

"  We  never  read  anything  interesting  in  school.  .  .  .  Be- 
sides, we  travel.  Last  month  I  went  to  England  to  see  the 
Oxford  and  Cambridge  match." 

"  That  must  help  your  work  a  great  deal !  " 

"  Bah !  You  learn  much  more  that  way  than  by  staying  at 
the  lycee." 

"And  what  does  your  mother  say  to  that?" 

"  Mother  is  very  reasonable.     She  docs  whatever  I  want." 

"  You  bad  boy !  .  .  .  You  can  thank  your  stars  I  am  not 
your  father.  .  .  ." 

"  You  wouldn't  have  had  a  chance.   ..." 

It  was  impossible  to  resist  his  banter. 

"  Tell  me,  you  traveler,"  said  Christophe.  "  Do  you  know 
my  country  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  I  bet  you  don't  know  a  word  of  (rerman." 

"  Yes,  I  do.     I  know  it  quite  well." 

"  Let  us  see." 

They  began  to  talk  German.  The  boy  jabbered  on  quite 
ungrammatically  with  the  most  droll  coolness;  he  was  very 
intelligent  and  wide  awake,  and  guessed  more  than  he  under- 
stood :  often  he  guessed  wrong ;  but  he  was  the  first  to  laugh 
at  his  mistakes.  He  talked  eagerly  about  his  travels  and  his 


THE  NEW  DAWN  41-5 

reading.  He  had  read  a  great  deal,  hastily,  superficially,  skip- 
ping half  the  pages,  and  inventing  what  he  had  left  unread, 
but  he  was  always  urged  on  by  a  keen  curiosity,  forever  seeking 
reasons  for  enthusiasin.  He  jumped  from  one  subject  to  an- 
other, and  his  face  grew  animated  as  he  talked  of  plays  or 
books  that  had  moved  him.  There  was  no  sort  of  order  in  his 
knowledge.  It  was  impossible  to  tell  how  he  could  read  right 
through  a  tenth-rate  book,  and  yet  know  nothing  of  the  greatest 
masterpieces. 

"  That  is  all  very  well,"  said  Christophe.  "  But  you  will 
never  do  anything  if  you  do  not  work." 

"  Oh !     I  don't  need  to.     We  are  rich." 

"  The  devil !  Then  it  is  a  very  serious  state  of  things.  Do 
you  want  to  be  a  man  who  docs  nothing  and  is  good  for 
nothing  ?  " 

"  No.  I  should  like  to  do  everything.  It  is  stupid  to  shut 
yourself  up  all  your  life  in  a  profession." 

"  But  it  is  the  only  means  yet  discovered  of  doing  any 
good." 

"  So  they  say  !  " 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  '  So  they  say ! '  .  .  .  I  say  so. 
I've  been  working  at  my  profession  for  forty  years,  and  I  am 
just  beginning  to  get  a  glimmer  of  it." 

"  Forty  years,  to  learn  a  profession !  When  can  you  begin 
to  practise  it  ?  " 

Christophe  began  to  laugh. 

"You  little  disputatious  Frenchman!" 

"  I  want  to  be  a  musician,"  said  Georges. 

"  Well,  it  is  not  too  earlv  for  you  to  begin.  Shall  I  teach 
you  ?  " 

"  Oh  !     I  should  be  so  glad  !  " 

"  Come  to-morrow.  I'll  see  what  you  are  worth.  If  you 
are  worth  nothing,  I  shall  forbid  you  ever  to  lay  hands  on  a 
piano.  If  you  have  a  real  inclination  for  it,  we'll  try  and  make 
something  of  you.  .  .  .  But,  I  warn  you,  1  shall  make  you 
work."  - 

"  I  will  work,"  said  Georges  delightedly. 

They  said  good-by  until  the  morrow.  As  he  was  going, 
Georges  remembered  that  he  had  other  engasements  on  the 


410         JEAN-CHRISTOPHE :    JOURNEY'S  END 

morrow,  and  also  for  Hie  day  after.  Yes,  he  was  not 
free  until  the  end  of  the  week.  They  arranged  day  and 
hour. 

But  when  the  day  and  hour  came,  (Miristophe  waited  in  vain. 
He  was  disappointed.  He  had  been  looking  forward  with  child- 
like glee  to  seeing  Georges  again.  His  unexpected  visit  had 
brightened  his  life.  Jt  had  made  him  so  happy,  and  moved 
him  so  much  that  lie  had  not  slept  the  night  after  it,  With 
tender  gratitude  lie  thought  of  the  young  friend  who  had  sought 
him  out  for  his  friend's  sake.  His  natural  grace,  his  malicious 
and  ingenuous  frankness  had  delighted  him:  he  sank  back  into 
the  mute  intoxication,  the  buzzing  of  happiness,  which  had 
filled  his  cars  and  his  heart  during  the  first  days  of  his  friend- 
ship with  Olivier.  It  was  allied  now  with  a  graver  and  almost 
religious  feeling  which,  through  the  living,  saw  the  smile  of 
the  past.- — He  waited  all  the  next  day  and  the  day  after.  No- 
body came.  Not  even  a  letter  of  excuse.  Christophc  was  very 
mournful,  and  cast  about  for  excuses  for  the  boy.  He  did  not 
know  whore  to  write  to  him.  and  he  did  not  know  his  address. 
Had  he  had  it  he  would  not  have  dared  to  write.  When  the 
heart  of  an  older  man  is  filled  with  love  for  a  young  creature. 
he  feels  a  certain  modesty  about  letting  him  see  the  need  he 
has  of  him:  he  knows  that  the  young  man  has  not  the  same 
need:  they  are  not  evenly  matched:  and  nothing  is  so  much 
dreaded  as  to  seem  to  be  imposing  oneself  on  a  person  who  cares 
not  a  jot. 

The  silence  dragged  on.  Although  Christophe  suffered  under 
it,  he  forced  himself  to  take  no  step  to  hunt  up  the  Jcannins. 
But  every  day  he  expected  the  boy,  who  never  came.  He  did 
not  go  to  Switzerland,  but  stayed  through  the  summer  in  "Paris. 
He  thought  himself  absurd,  but  he  had  no  taste  for  traveling. 
Only  when  September  came  did  he  decide  to  spend  a  few  days 
at  Fontainebleau. 

About  the  end  of  October  Georges  Jeannin  came  and  knocked 
at  his  door.  He  excused  himself  calmly,  without  being  in  the 
least  put  out  by  his  long  silence. 

"I  could  not  come,"  he  said.  "And  then  we  went  away  to 
stay  in  Brittany." 

"  You  might  have  written  to  me,"  said   Christophe. 


THE  NEW  DAWN  417 

"Yes.  I  did  try.  But  I  never  had  the  time.  .  .  .  Be- 
sides," he  said,,  laughing,  "  I  forgot  all  about  it." 

"  When  did  you  come  hack  ?  " 

"  At  the  beginning  of  October." 

"And  it  has  taken  you  three  weeks  to  come?  .  .  .  Listen. 
Tell  me  frankly:  Did  your  mother  prevent  you?  .  .  .  Does 
she  dislike  your  seeing  me  ?  " 

"  No/    Not  at  all.     She  told  me  to  come  to-day." 

"What?" 

"  The  last  time  I  saw  you  before  the  holidays  I  told  her 
everything  when  I  got  home.  She  told  me  I  had  done  right, 
and  she  asked  about  you,  and  pestered  me  with  a  great  many 
questions.  When  we  came  home  from  Brittany,  three  weeks  ago, 
she  made  me  promise  to  go  and  see  you  again.  A  week  ago  she 
reminded  me  again.  This  morning,  when  she  found  that  I  had 
not  been,  she  was  angry  with  me,  and  wanted  me  to  go  directly 
after  breakfast,  without  more  ado." 

"And  aren't  you  ashamed  to  tell  me  that?  Must  you  be 
forced  to  come  and  see  me  ?  " 

"  No.  You  mustn't  think  that.  ...  Oh  !  I  have  annoyed 
you.  Forgive  me.  ...  I  am  a  muddle-headed  idiot.  .  .  . 
Scold  me.  but  don't  be  angry  with  me.  1  love  you.  If  I  did 
not  love  you  1  should  not  have  come.  I  was  not  forced  to 
come.  I  can't  be  forced  to  do  anything  but  what  1  want  to  do." 

"You  rascal!"  said  Christophe.  laughing  in  spite  of  himself. 
"And  your  musical  projects,  what  about  them?" 

"Oh!   I  am  still  thinking  about  it." 

"  That  won't  take  you  very  far." 

"  I  want  to  begin  now.  I  couldn't  begin  these  last  few 
months.  1  have  had  so  much  to  do!  But  now  you  shall  see 
how  T  will  work,  if  you  still  want  to  have  anything  to  do  with 
me.  .  .  ." 

(He  looked  slyly  at  Christophe.) 

"You  are  an   impostor,"  said   Christophe. 

"  You  don't  take  me  seriously." 

"No,   I   don't." 

"  It  is  too  dreadful.  Nobody  takes  me  seriously.  I  lose 
all  heart." 

"  I  shall  take  you  seriously  when  I  see  you  working." 


418         JEAN-CHRISTOPHE :    JOURNEY'S  END 

"  At  once,  then." 

"  I  have  no  time  now.     To-morrow." 

"  No.  To-morrow  is  too  far  off.  I  can't  bear  you  to  despise 
me  for  a  whole  day." 

"  You  bore  me." 

"Please!    ..." 

Smiling  at  his  weakness,  Christophe  made  him  sit  at  the 
piano,  and  talked  to  him  about  music.  He  asked  him  many 
questions,  and  made  him  solve  several  little  problems  of  har- 
mony. Georges  did  not  know  much  about  it,  but  his  musical 
instinct  supplied  the  gaps  of  his  ignorance;  without  knowing 
their  names,  he  found  the  chords  Christophe  wanted  ;  and  even 
his  mistakes  in  their  awkwardness  showed  a  curiosity  of  taste 
and  a  singularly  acute  sensibility.  He  did  not  accept  Chris- 
tophe's  remarks  without  discussion;  and  the  intelligent  ques- 
tions he  asked  in  his  turn  bore  witness  to  the  sincerity  of  a 
mind  that  would  not  accept  art  as  a  devout  formula  to  be  re- 
peated with  the  lips,  but  desired  to  live  it  for  its  own  sake. — 
They  did  not  only  talk  of  music.  In  reference  to  harmony 
Georges  would  summon  up  pictures,  the  country,  people.  It 
was  difficult  to  hold  him  in  check :  it  was  constantly  necessary 
to  bring  him  back  to  the  middle  of  the  road:  and  Christophe 
had  not  always  the  heart  to  do  so.  It  amused  him  to  hoar  the 
boy's  joyous  chatter,  so  full  of  wit  and  life.  What  a  difference 
there  was  between  his  nature  and  Olivicr's !  With  the  one  life 
was  a  subterranean  river  that  flowed  silently:  with  the  other 
all  was  above  ground:  a  capricious  stream  disporting  itself  in 
the  sun.  And  yet  it  was  the  same  lovely,  pure  water,  like  their 
eyes.  With  a  smile,  Christophe  recognized  in  Georges  certain 
instinctive  antipathies,  likings  and  dislikings,  which  he  well 
knew,  and  the  naive  intolerance,  the  generosity  of  heart  which 
gives  itself  entirely  to  whatsoever  it  loves.  .  .  .  Only  Georges 
loved  so  many  things  that  he  had  no  time  to  love  any  one 
thing  for  long. 

He  came  back  the  next  day  and  the  days  following.  He 
was  filled  with  a  youthful  passion  for  Christophe.  and  he  worked 
enthusiastically  at  his  lessons.  .  .  . — Then  his  enthusiasm 
palled,  his  visits  grew  less  frequent.  lie  came  less  and  less 
often.  Then  he  came  no  more,  and  disappeared  for  weeks. 


THE  NEW  DAWN  419 

He  was  light-hearted,  forgetful,  naively  selfish,  and  sincerely 
affectionate;  he  had  a  good  heart  and  a  quick  intelligence  which 
he  expended  piecemeal  day  by  day.  People  forgave  him  every- 
thing because  they  were  so  glad  to  see  him ;  he  was  happy.  .  .  . 

Christophe  refused  to  judge  him.  He  did  not  complain. 
He  wrote  to  Jacqueline  to  thank  her  for  having  sent  her  son 
to  him.  Jacqueline  replied  with  a  short  letter  filled  with  re- 
strained emotion :  she  expressed  a  hope  that  Christophe  would 
be  interested  in  Georges  and  help  him  in  his  life.  Through 
shame  and  pride  she  could  not  bring  herself  to  see  him  again. 
And  Christophe  thought  he  could  not  visit  her  without  being 
invited. — So  they  stayed  apart,  seeing  each  other  at  a  distance 
at  concerts,  bound  together  only  by  the  boy's  infrequent  visits. 

The  winter  passed.  Grazia  wrote  but  seldom.  She  was  still 
faithful  in  her  friendship  for  Christophe.  But,  like  a  true 
Italian,  she  was  hardly  at  all  sentimental,  attached  to  reality, 
and  needed  to  see  people  if  she  were,  perhaps  not  to  think  of 
them,  but  certainly  to  take  pleasure  in  talking  to  them.  Her 
heart's  memory  needed  to  be  supported  by  having  her  sight's 
memory  refreshed  from  time  to  time.  Her  letters  became  brief 
and  distant.  She  was  as  sure  of  Christophe  as  Christophe  was 
of  her.  But  their  security  gave  out  more  light  than  warmth. 

Christophe  did  not  feel  his  new  disappointments  very  keenly. 
His  musical  activity  was  enough  to  fill  his  life.  When  he 
reaches  a  certain  age  a  vigorous  artist  lives  much  more  in  his 
art  than  in  his  life;  his  life  has  become  the  dream,  his  art  the 
reality.  His  creative  powers  had  been  reawakened  by  contact 
with  Paris.  There  is  no  stronger  stimulant  in  the  world  than 
the  sight  of  that  city  of  work.  The  most  phlegmatic  natures 
are  touched  by  its  fever.  Christophe,  being  rested  by  years  of 
healthy  solitude,  brought  to  his  work  an  enormous  accumulation 
of  force.  Enriched  by  the  new  conquests  forever  being  made 
in  the  fields  of  musical  technique  by  the  intrepid  curiosity  of  the 
French,  he  hurled  himself  in  his  turn  along  the  road  to  dis- 
covery :  being  more  violent  and  barbarous  than  they,  he  went 
farther.  But  nothing  in  his  new  audacities  was  left  to  the 
hazardous  mercies  of  his  instinct.  Christophe  had  begun  to 
feel  the  need  of  clarity;  all  his  life  his  genius  had  obeyed  the 


420         JEAN-CHRISTOPHE :    JOURXEY'S  EXD 

rhythm  of  alternate  currents:  it  was  its  law  to  pass  from  one 
pole  to  the  other,  and  to  fill  everything  between  them.  Having 
greedily  surrendered  in  his  last  period  to  "  the  eyes  of  chaos 
shining  through  the  veil  of  order,"  even  to  rending  the  veil  so 
as  to  see  them  more  clearly,  he  was  now  striving  to  tear  himself 
away  from  their  fascination,  and  once  more  to  throw  over  the 
face  of  the  sphinx  the  magic  net  of  the  master  mind.  The 
imperial  inspiration  of  Rome  had  passed  over  him.  Like  the 
Parisian  art  of  that  time,  by  the  spirit  of  which  he  was  in- 
fected, he  was  aspiring  to  order.  But  not — like  the  reactionaries 
who  spent  what  was  left  of  their  energies  in  protecting  their 
slumber — to  order  in  Varsovia:  the  good  people  who  are  always 
going  back  to  Brahms — the  Brahmses  of  all  the  arts,  the 
thematics,  the  insipid  neo-elassics,  in  search  of:  solace!  Might 
one  not  say  that  they  are  enfeebled  with  passion !  You  are  soon 
done  for,  my  friends.  .  .  .  Xo.  it  is  not  of  your  order  that 
I  speak.  Mine  has  no  kinship  with  yours.  Mine  is  the  order 
in  harmony  of  the  free  passions  and  the  free  will.  .  .  .  Cliris- 
tophe  was  studying  how  in  his  art  to  maintain  the  just  balance 
between  the  forces  of  life.  These  new  chords,  the  new  musical 
daimons  that  he  had  summoned  from  the  abyss  of  sounds,  were 
used  to  build  clear  symphonies,  vast,  sunlit  buildings,  like  the 
Italian  cupola'd  basilicas. 

These  plays  and  battles  of  the  mind  occupied  him  all  winter. 
And  the  winter  passed  quickly,  although,  in  the  evening,  as  he 
ended  his  day's  work  and  looked  behind  him  at  the  tale  of  days, 
he  could  not  have  told  whether  it  had  been  long  or  short,  or 
whether  he  was  still  young  or  very  old. 

Then  a  new  ray  of  human  sunshine  pierced  the  veil  of  his 
dreams,  and  once  more  brought  in  the  springtime.  Christophe 
received  a  letter  from  Grazia,  telling  him  that  she  was  coming 
to  Paris  with  her  two  children.  For  a  long  time  she  had  planned 
to  do  so.  Her  cousin  Colette  had  often  invited  her.  Her  dread 
of  the  elf'ort  necessary  to  interrupt  her  habits  and  to  tear  herself 
away  from  her  careless  tranquillity  and  the  home  she  loved  in 
order  to  plunge  into  the  Parisian  whirligig  that  she  knew  so 
well,  had  made  her  postpone  the  journey  from  year  to  year. 
This  spring  she  was  filled  with  melancholy,  perhaps  with  a 
secret  disappointment — (how  many  unspoken  romances  there 


THE  NEW  DAWN 

are  in  the  heart  of  a  woman,  unknown  to  others,  often  uncon- 
fessed  to  herself!) — and  she  longed  to  go  right  away  from 
Rome.  A  threatened  epidemic  gave  her  an  excuse  for  hurrying 
on  her  children's  departure.  She  followed  her  letter  to  Chris- 
tophe  in  a  very  few  days. 

Christophe  hastened  to  her  as  soon  as  he  heard  she  was  at 
Colette's.  He  found  her  still  absorbed  and  distant.  He  was 
hurt,  but  did  not  show  it.  By  now  he  was  almost  rid  of  his 
egoism,  and  that  gave  him  the  insight  of  affection.  He  saw 
that  she  had  some  grief  which  she  wished  to  conceal,  and  he 
suppressed  his  longing  to  know  its  nature.  Only  he  strove  to 
keep  her  amused  by  giving  her  a  gay  account  of  his  misadven- 
tures and  sharing  with  her  his  work  and  his  plans,  and  he 
wrapped  her  round  with  his  affection.  Her  mournful  heart 
rested  in  the  heart  of  her  friend,  and  he  spoke  to  her  always 
of  things  other  than  that  which  was  in  both  their  minds.  And 
gradually  he  saw  the  shadow  of  melancholy  fade  from  her  eyes, 
and  their  expression  became  nearly,  and  ever  more  nearly,  in- 
timate. So  much  so,  that  one  day,  as  he  was  talking  to  her, 
he  stopped  suddenly,  and  in  silence  looked  at  her. 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked. 

"  To-day,"  he  said,  "  you  have  come  back  to  me." 

She  smiled,  and  in  a  low  voice  she  replied : 

"  Yes." 

It  was  not  easy  for  them  to  talk  quietly  together.  They  were 
very  rarely  alone.  Colette  gave  them  the  pleasure  of  her  pres- 
ence more  often  than  they  wished.  In  spite  of  her  eccentricities 
she  was  extremely  kind  and  sincerely  attached  to  Graxia  and 
Christophe;  but  she  never  dreamed  that  she  could  be  a  nuisance 
to  them.  She  had,  of  course,  noticed— (for  her  eyes  saw  every- 
thing)— what  she  was  pleased  to  call  Christophe's  flirtation 
with  Graxia;  flirtation  was  her  element,  and  she  was  delighted, 
and  asked  nothing  better  than  to  encourage  it.  But  that  was 
precisely  what  she  was  not  required  to  do;  she  was  only  desired 
not  to  meddle  with  things  that  did  not  concern  her.  It  was 
enough  for  her  to  appeal1  or  to  make  an  (indiscreet)  discreet 
allusion  to  their  friendship  to  one  of  them,  to  make  Christophe 
and  Grazia  freeze  and  turn  the  conversation.  Colette  cast  about 
among  all  the  possible  reasons,  except  one,  and  that  the  true  one. 


422         JEAN-CHRISTOPHE:    JOUKNEY'S  END 

for  their  reserve.  Fortunately  for  them,  she  could  never  stay 
long.  She  was  always  coming  and  going,  coming  in,  going 
out,  superintending  everything  in  her  house,  doing  a  dozen 
things  at  a  time.  In  the  intervals  between  her  appearances 
Christophe  and  Graxia,  left  alone  with  the  children,  would 
resume  the  thread  of  their  innocent  conversation.  They  never 
spoke  of  the  feelings  that  bound  them  together.  Unrestrainedly 
they  confided  to  each  other  their  little  daily  happenings.  Grazia, 
with  feminine  interest,  inquired  into  Christophe's  domestic 
affairs.  They  were  in  a  very  bad  way :  he  was  always  having 
ruptures  with  his  housekeepers ;  he  was  continually  being  cheated 
and  robbed  by  his  servants.  She  laughed  heartily  but  very 
kindly,  and  with  motherly  compassion  for  the  great  child's  small 
practical  sense.  One  day,  when  Colette  left  them  after  a  longer 
visitation  than  usual,  Grazia  sighed : 

"  Poor  Colette !  I  love  her  dearly.  .  .  .  But  how  she 
bores  me !  " 

"  I  love  her  too,"  said  Christophe,  "  if  you  mean  by  that  that 
she  bores  us." 

Graxia  laughed: 

"  Listen.  Will  you  let  me  .  .  .  (it  is  quite  impossible  for 
us  to  talk  in  peace  here)  .  .  .  will  you  let  me  come  to  your 
house  one  day?  " 

He  could  hardly  speak. 

"  To  my  house  !     You  will  come  ?  " 

"If  you  don't  mind?" 

"  Mind  !     Mercy,  no  !  " 

"Well,  then,  will  you  let  me  come  on  Tuesday?" 

"  Tuesday,   Wednesday,   Thursday,   any   day  you   like."' 

"Tuesday,  at  four.     It  is  agreed?" 

"  How  good  of  you  !     How  good  of  you  !  " 

"  Wait.     There  is  a  condition.'' 

"A  condition?  Why?  Anytbing  you  like.  You  know  that 
I  will  do  it.  condition  or  no  condition." 

"  I  would  ratber  make  a  condition." 

"  I  promise." 

"  You  don't  know  what  it  is." 

"  I  don't  care.      I  promise.     Anything  you  like." 

"  But  listen.     You  are  so  obstinate." 


THE  NEW  DAWN  423 

"  Tell  me  !  "  . 

"  The  condition  is  that  between  now  and  then  you  make  no 
change  in  your  rooms — none,  you  understand;  everything  must 
be  left  exactly  as  it  is." 

Christophers  face  fell.     He  looked  abject. 

"  Ah !     That's  not  playing  the  game." 

"  You  see,  that's  what  comes  of  giving  your  word  too  hastily ! 
But  you  promised." 

"  But  why  do  you  want ? 

"  But  I  want  to  see  you  in  your  rooms  as  you  are,  every 
day,  when  you  are  not  expecting  me." 

"  Surely  you  will  let  me ' 

"  Nothing  at  all.     I  shall  allow  nothing." 

"  At  least- 

"  No,  no,  no !  I  won't  listen  to  you,  or  else  I  won't  come, 
if  you  prefer  it ' 

"  You  know  I  would  agree  to  anything  if  you  will  only 
come." 

"  Then  you  promise." 

"  Yes." 

"  Oh  your  word  of  honor  ?  " 

"  Yes,  you  tyrant." 

"  A  good  tyrant." 

"There  is  no  such  thing  as  a  good  tyrant:  there  are  tyrants 
whom  one  loves  and  tyrants  whom  one  detests." 

"And  I  am  both?" 

"  No.     You  are  one  of  the  first." 

"  It  is  very  humiliating." 

On  the  appointed  day  she  came.  With  .scrupulous  loyalty 
Christophe  had  not  dared  even  to  arrange  the  smallest  piece  of 
paper  in  his  untidy  rooms:  he  would  have  felt  dishonored  had 
he  done  so.  But  he  was  in  torture.  Tie  was  ashamed  of 
what  his  friend  would  think.  Anxiously  he  awaited  her  arrival. 
She  came  punctually,  not  more  than  four  or  five  minutes  after 
the  hour.  She  climbed  up  the  stairs  with  her  light,  firm  step. 
She  rang.  He  was  at  the  door  and  opened  it.  She  was  dressed 
with  easy,  graceful  elegance.  Through  her  veil  he  could  see 
her  tranquil  eyes.  They  said  "  Good-day "  in  a  whisper  and 
shook  hands :  she  was  more  silent  than  usual :  he  was  awkward 


424         JEAN-CHKISTOPHE:    JOUKXEY'S  END 

and  emotional  and  said  nothing,  to  avoid  showing  his  feeling. 
He  led  her  in  without  uttering  the  sentence  he  had  prepared 
by  way  of  excusing  the  untidiness  of  his  room.  She  sat  down 
in  the  best  chair,  and  he  sat  near  her. 

"  This  is  my  work-room." 

It  was  all  he  could  find  to  say  to  her. 

There  was  a  silence.  She  looked  round  slowly,  with  a  kindly 
smile,  and  she,  too,  was  much  moved,  though  she  would  not 
admit  it  to  herself.  (Later  she  told  him  that  when  she  was  a 
girl  she  had  thought  of  coming  to  him,  but  had  been  afraid 
as  she  reached  the  door.)  She  was  struck  by  the  solitary  aspect 
and  the  sadness  of  the  place :  the  dark,  narrow  hall,  the  absolute 
lack  of  comfort,  the  visible  poverty,  all  went  to  her  heart :  she  was 
filled  with  affectionate  pity  for  her  old  friend,  who,  in  spite 
of  all  his  work  and  his  sufferings  and  his  celebrity,  was  unable 
to  shake  free  of  material  anxiety.  And  at  the  same  time  she 
was  amused  at  the  absolute  indifference  revealed  by  the  bareness 
of  the  room  that  had  no  carpets,  no  pictures,  no  bric-a-brac,  no 
armchair;  no  other  furniture  than  a  table,  three  hard  chairs, 
and  a  piano :  and  papers,  papers  everywhere,  mixed  up  with 
books,  on  the  table,  under  the  table,  on  the  floor,  on  the  piano, 
on  the  chairs — (she  smiled  as  she  thought  how  conscientiously 
he  had  kept  his  word). 

After  a  minute  or  two  she  asked  him,  pointing  to  his  place 
at  the  table : 

"Is  that  where  you  work?" 

"No,"  he  said.     "There." 

He  pointed  to  the  darkest  corner  of  the  room,  where  there 
stood  a  low  chair  with  its  back  to  the  light.  She  went  and 
sat  in  it  quietly,  without  a  word.  For  a  few  minutes  they  were 
silent,  for  they  knew  not  what  to  say.  He  got  up  and  went  to 
the  piano.  He  played  and  improvised  for  half  an  hour;  all 
around  him  he  felt  the  presence  of  his  beloved  and  an  immense 
happiness  rilled  his  heart;  with  eyes  closed  he  played  marvelous 
things.  Then  she  understood  the  beauty  of  the  room,  all  fur- 
nished with  divine  harmonies:  she  heard  his  loving,  suffering 
heart  as  though  it  were  beating  in  her  own  bosom. 

When  the  music  had  died  away,  he  stopped  for  a  little  while, 
quite  still,  at  the  piano :  then  he  turned  as  he  heard  the  breath 


THE  NEW  DAWN  425 

of  his  beloved  and  knew  that  she  was  weeping.  She  came  to 
him. 

"  Thank  you !  "  she  murmured,  and  took  his  hand. 

Her  lips  were  trembling  a  little.  She  closed  her  eyes.  He 
did  the  same.  For  a  few  seconds  they  remained  so,  hand  in 
hand;  and  time  stopped;  it  seemed  to  them  that  for  ages,  ages, 
they  had  been  lying  pressed  close  together. 

She  opened  her  eyes,  and  to  shake  off  her  emotion,  she  asked : 

"May  I  see  the  rest  of  the  flat?" 

Glad  also  to  escape  from  his  emotions,  he  opened  the  door 
into  the  next  room;  but  at  once  he  was  ashamed.  It  contained 
a  narrow,  hard  iron  bed. 

On  the  wall  there  was  a  cast  of  the  mask  of  Beethoven,  and 
near  the  bed,  in  a  cheap  frame,  photographs  of  his  mother  and 
Olivier.  On  the  dressing-table  was  another  photograph :  Grazia 
herself  as  a  child  of  fifteen.  He  had  found  it  in  her  album 
in  Rome,  and  had  stolen  it.  He  confessed  it,  and  asked  her 
to  forgive  him.  She  looked  at  the  face,  and  said: 

"  Can  you  recognize  me  in  it  ?  " 

"  I  can  recognize  you,  and  remember  you." 

"  Which  of  the  two  do  you  love  best  ?  "  she  asked,  pointing 
to  herself. 

"  You  are  always  the  same.  I  love  you  always  just  the  same. 
I  recognize  you  everywhere.  Even  in  the  photograph  of  you 
as  a  tiny  child.  You  do  not  know  the  emotion  I  feel  as  in  this 
chrysalis  I  discern  your  soul.  Nothing  so  clearly  assures  me 
that  you  are  eternal.  I  loved  you  before  you  were  born,  and  I 
shall  love  you  ever  after.  ..." 

He  stopped.  She  stood  still  and  made  no  answer :  she  was 
filled  with  the  sweet  sorrow  of  love.  When  she  returned  to 
the  work-room,  and  he  had  shown  her  tli rough  the  window  his 
little  friendly  tree,  full  of  chattering  sparrows,  she  said : 

"Now,  do  you  know  what  we  will  do?  We  will  have  a  feast. 
I  brought  tea  and  cakes  because  I  knew  you  would  have  nothing 
of  the  kind.  And  I  brought  something  else.  Give  me  your 
overcoat." 

"  My  overcoat  ?  " 

"Yes.     Give  it  me." 

She  took  needles  and  cotton  from  her  bag. 


JEAX-CHPiISTOFHE :   JOURNEY'S  EXD 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?'' 

"  There  wore  two  buttons  the  other  day  which  made  me 
tremble  for  their  fate.  Where  are  they  now?" 

"  True.  I  never  thought  of  sewing  them  on.  It  is  so  tire- 
some !  " 

"  Poor  boy  !     Give  it  me." 

"  I  am  ashamed." 

"  Go  and  make  tea." 

He  brought  the  kettle  and  the  spirit-lamp  into  the  room,  so 
as  not  to  miss  a  moment  of  his  friend's  stay.  As  she  sewed  she 
watched  his  clumsy  ways  stealthily  and  maliciously.  They 
drank  their  tea  out  of  cracked  cups,  which  she  thought  horrible, 
dodging  the  cracks,  while  he  indignantly  defended  them,  be- 
cause they  reminded  him  of  his  life  with  Olivier. 

Just  as  she  was  going,  he  asked : 

"  You  are  not  angry  with  me  ?  " 

"  Why  should  I  be  ?  " 

"  Because  of  the  litter  here  ?  " 

She  laughed. 

"  I  will  make  it  tidy." 

As  she  reached  the  threshold  and  was  just  going  to  open 
the  door,  he  knelt  and  kissed  her  feet. 

"What  are  you  doing?"  she  said.  "You  foolish,  foolish 
dear!  Good-by!" 

They  agreed  that  she  should  come  once  a  week  on  a  certain 
day.  She  had  made  him  promise  that  there  should  be  no  more 
outbursts,  no  more  kneel  ings,  no  more  kissing  of  her  i'eet.  She 
breathed  forth  such  a  gentle  tranquillity,  that  even  when  Chris- 
tophe  was  in  his  most  violent  mood,  he  was  influenced  by  it ; 
and  although  when  he  was  alone,  he  often  thought  ot!  her  with 
passionate  desire,  when  they  were  together  they  were  always 
like  good  comrades.  Never  did  word  or  gesture  escape  him 
which  could  disturb  his  friend's  peace. 

On  Christ ophe's  birthday  she  dressed  her  little  girl  as  she 
herself  had  been  when  they  first  met  in  the  old  days;  and  she 
made  the  child  play  the  piece  that  Christophe  used  to  make 
her  play. 

But  all  her  grace  and  tenderness  and  sweet  friendship  were 


THE  NEW  DAWN  42? 

mingled  with  contradictory  feelings.  She  was  frivolous,  and 
loved  society,  and  delighted  in  being  courted,  even  by  fools ; 
she  was  a  coquette,  except  with  Christophe, — even  with  Chris- 
tophe.  When  he  was  very  tender  with  her,  she  would  be  de- 
liberately cold  and  reserved.  When  he  was  cold  and  reserved 
she  would  become  tender  and  tease  him  affectionately.  She 
was  the  most  honest  of  women.  But  even  in  the  most  honest 
and  the  best  of  women  there  is  always  a  girl.  She  insisted  on 
standing  well  with  the  world,  and  conformed  to  the  conventions. 
She  had  fine  musical  gifts,  and  understood  Christophe's  work; 
but  she  was  not  much  interested  in  it — (and  he  knew  it). — To 
a  true  Latin  woman,  art  is  of  worth  only  in  proportion  as  it  leads 
back  to  life,  to  life  and  love.  .  .  .  The  love  which  is  forever 
seething,  slumbering,  in  the  depths  of  the  voluptuous  body.  .  .  . 
What  has  she  to  do  with  the  tragic  meditations,  the  tormented 
symphonies,  the  intellectual  passions  of  the  North?  She  must 
have  music  in  which  her  hidden  desires  can  unfold,  with  the 
minimum  of  effort,  an  opera,  which  is  passionate  life  with- 
out the  fatigue  of  the  passions,  a  sentimental,  sensual,  lazy 
art. 

She  was  weak  and  changing :  she  could  only  apply  herself 
intermittently  to  any  serious  study:  she  must  have1  amusement; 
rarely  did  she  do  on  the  morrow  what  she  had  decided  to  do 
the  night  before.  She  had  so  many  childish  ways,  so 
many  little  disconcerting  caprices!  The  restless  nature  of 
woman,  her  morbid  and  periodically  unreasonable  character. 
She  knew  it  and  then  tried  to  isolate  herself.  She  knew 
her  weaknesses,  and  blamed  herself  for  her  failure  to  resist 
them,  since  they  distressed  her  friend;  sometimes,  without 
his  knowing  it,  she  made  real  sacrifices  for  him  :  but,  when  all 
was  told,  her  nature  was  the  stronger.  For  the  rest,  (fraxia 
could  not  bear  Christophe  to  seem  to  be  commanding  her;  and. 
once  or  twice,  by  way  of  asserting  her  independence,  she  did  the 
opposite  of  what  he  asked  her.  At  once  she  regretted  it ;  at 
night  she  would  be  filled  with  remorse  that  she  could  not  make 
Christophe  happier;  she  loved  him  more  than  she  would  let 
him  see;  she  felt  that  her  friendship  with  him  was  the  best  part 
of  her  life.  As  usually  happens  with  two  very  different  people, 
they  were  more  united  when  they  were  not  together.  In  truth, 


428         JEAN-CHRISTOPHE:    JOURNEY'S  END 

if  they  had  been  thrust  apart  by  a  misunderstanding,  the  fault 
was  not  altogether  Christophe's,  as  he  honestly  believed.  Even 
when  in  the  old  days  Grazia  most  dearly  loved  Christophe,  would 
she  have  married  him?  She  would  perhaps  have  given  him 
her  life;  but  would  she  have  so  given  herself  as  to  live  all  her 
life  with  him?  She  knew  (though  she  did  not  confess  it  to 
Christophe)  that  she  had  loved  her  husband,  and,  even  now, 
after  all  the  harm  he  had  done  her,  loved  him  as  she  had  never 
loved  Christophe.  .  .  .  The  secrets  of  the  heart,  the  secrets 
of  the  body,  of  which  one  is  not  very  proud,  and  hides  from 
those  dear  to  one,  as  much  out  of  respect  for  them,  as  in  com- 
placent pity  for  oneself.  .  .  .  Christophe  was  too  masculine 
to  divine  them :  but  every  now  and  then,  in  flashes,  he  would 
see  how  little  the  woman  he  most  dearly  loved,  who  truly  loved 
him,  belonged  to  him — and  that  he  could  not  wholly  count  on 
any  one,  on  any  one,  in  life.  His  love  was  not  quenched  by 
this  perception.  He  even  felt  no  bitterness.  Grazia's  peace 
spread  over 'him.  He  accepted  everything.  0  life,  why  should 
I  reproach  thee  for  that  which  thou  canst  not  give?  Art  thou 
not  very  beautiful  and  very  blessed  as  thou  art?  I  must  fain 
love  thy  smile,  Gioconda.  .  .  . 

Christophe  would  gaze  at  his  beloved's  beautiful  face,  and 
read  in  it  many  things  of  the  past  and  the  future.  During  the 
long  years  when  he  had  lived  alone,  traveling,  speaking  little 
but  seeing  much,  he  had  acquired,  almost  unconsciously,  the 
power  of  reading  the  human  face,  that  rich  and  complex  language 
formed  by  the  ages.  It  is  a  thousand  times  richer  and  more 
complex  than  the  spoken  language.  The  spirit  of  the  race  is 
expressed  in  it.  ...  There  are  perpetual  contrasts  between 
the  lines  of  the  face  and  the  words  that  come  from  it.  Take 
the  profile  of  a  girl,  clear-cut,  a  little  hard,  in  the  Burne- Jones 
style,  tragic,  consumed  by  a  secret  passion,  jealousy,  a  Shake- 
spearian sorrow.  .  .  .  She  speaks :  and,  behold,  she  is  a  little 
bourgeois  creature,  as  stupid  as  an  owl,  a  selfish,  commonplace 
coquette,  with  no  idea  of  the  terrible  forces  inscribed  upon  her 
body.  And  yet  such  passion,  such  violence  are  in  her.  In 
what  shape  will  they  one  day  spring  forth?  Will  it  be  in  the 
lust  of  gain,  conjugal  jealousy,  or  splendid  energy,  or  morbid 
wickedness?  There  is  no  knowing.  It  may  be  that  she  will 


THE  XEW  DAWN  429 

transmit  them  to  another  creature  of  her  blood  before  the  time 
comes  for  the  eruption.  But  it  is  an  element  with  which  we 
have  to  reckon  as,  like  a  fatality,  it  hovers  above  the  race. 

Grazia  also  bore  the  weight  of  that  uneasy  heritage,  which, 
of  all  the  patrimony  of  ancient  families,  is  the  least  in  danger 
of  being  dissipated  in  transit.  She,  at  least,  was  aware  of  it. 
It  is  a  great  source  of  strength  to  know  our  weakness,  to  make 
ourselves,  if  not  the  masters,  the  pilots  of  the  soul  of  the  i-ace 
to  which  we  are  bound,  which  bears  us  like  a  vessel  upon  its 
waters, — to  make  fate  our  instrument,  to  use  it  as  a  sail  which 
we  furl  or  clew  up  according  to  the  wind.  When  Grazia  closed 
her  eyes,  she  could  hear  within  herself  more  than  one  disturbing 
voice,  of  a  tone  familiar  to  her.  But  in  her  healthy  soul  even 
the  dissonances  were  blended  to  form  a  profound,  soft  music, 
under  the  guiding  hand  of  her  harmonious  reason. 

Unhappily  it  is  not  within  our  power  to  transmit  the  best 
of  our  blood  to  the  creatures  of  our  blood. 

Of  Grazia's  two  children,  the  little  girl,  Aurova,  who  was 
eleven  years  old,  was  like  her  mother;  she  was  not  so  pretty, 
being  a  little  coarser  in  fiber;  she  had  a  slight  limp;  she  was  a 
good  little  girl,  affectionate  and  gay,  with  splendid  health,  abun- 
dant good  nature,  few  natural  gifts,  except  idleness,  a  passion 
for  doing  nothing.  Christophe  adored  her.  When  he  saw  her 
with  Grazia  he  felt  the  charm  of  a  twofold  creature,  seen  at 
two  ages  of  life,  two  generations  together.  .  .  .  Two  flowers 
upon  one  stem;  a  Holy  Family  of  Leonardo,  the  Virgin  and 
Saint  Anne,  different  shades  of  the  same  smile.  With  one 
glance  he  could  take  in  the  whole  blossoming  of  a  woman's  soul ; 
and  it  was  at  once  fair  and  sad  to  see :  he  could  see  whence  it 
came  and  whither  it  was  going.  There  is  nothing  move  natural 
than  for  an  ardent,  chaste  heart  to  love  two  sisters  at  one  and 
the  same  time,  or  mother  and  daughter.  Christophe  would  have 
loved  the  woman  of  his  love  through  all  her  descendants,  just 
as  in  her  he  loved  the  stock  of  which  she  came.  Her  every  smile, 
her  every  tear,  every  line  in  her  face,  were  they  not  living  beings, 
the  memories  of  a  life  which  was  before  her  eves  opened  to  the 
light,  the  forerunners  of  a  life  which  was  to  come,  when  hei 
eyes  should  be  forever  closed? 


430         JEAN-CHKISTOPHE:    JOURNEY'S  END 

The  little  boy,  Lionello,  was  nine.  He  was  much  handsomer 
than  his  sister,  of  a  finer  stock,  too  fine,  worn  out  and  bloodless, 
wherein  he  was  like  his  father.  He  was  intelligent,  well-endowed 
with  bad  instincts,  demonstrative,  and  dissembling.  He  had  big 
blue  eyes,  long,  girlish,  fair  hair,  a  pale  complexion,  a  delicate 
chest,  and  was  morbidly  nervous,  which  last,  being  a  born 
comedian  and  strangely  skilled  in  discovering  people's  weak- 
nesses, he  upon  occasion  turned  to  good  account.  Grazia  was 
inclined  to  favor  him,  with  the  natural  preference  of  a  mother 
for  her  least  healthy  child, — and  also  through  the  attraction 
which  all  kindly,  good  women  feel  for  the  sons  who  are  neither 
well  nor  ill  (for  in  them  a  part  of  their  life  which  they  have 
suppressed  finds  solace).  In  such  attraction  there  is  something 
of  the  memory  of  the  husbands  who  have  made  them  suffer, 
whom  they  loved  even  while  they  despised  them,  or  the  strange 
flora  of  the  soul,  which  wax  strong  in  the  dark,  humid  hot-house 
of  conscience. 

In  spite  of  Grazia's  care  equally  to  bestow  her  tenderness 
upon  her  children,  Aurora  felt  the  difference,  and  was  a  little 
hurt  by  it.  Christophc  divined  her  feeling,  and  she  divined 
Christophe's :  they  came  together  instinctively;  while  between 
Christophe  and  Lionello  there  was  an  antipathy  which  the  boy 
covered  up  with  exaggerated,  lisping,  charming  ways,- — and  Chris- 
tophe thrust  from  him  as  a  shameful  feeling.  He  wrestled 
with  himself  and  forced  himself  to  cherish  this  other  man's 
child  as  though  he  were  the  child  whom  it  would  have  been 
ineffably  sweet  for  him  to  have  had  by  the  beloved.  He  would 
not  allow  himself  to  see  Lionello's  bad  nature  or  anything  that 
could  remind  him  of  the  "other  man":  he  set  himself  to  find 
in  him  only  Grazia,  She.  more  clear-sighted,  was  under  no 
illusions  about  her  son,  and  she  only  loved  him  the  more. 

However,  the  disease  which  for  years  had  been  lying  dormant 
in  the  boy  broke  out.  Consumption  supervened.  Grazia  re- 
solved to  go  and  shut  herself  up  in  a  sanatorium  in  the  Alps 
with  Lionello.  Christophe  begged  to  be  allowed  to  go  with 
her.  To  avoid  scandal  she  dissuaded  him.  He  was  hurt  by 
the  excessive  importance  which  she  attached  to  the  conventions. 

She  went  away  and  left  her  daughter  with  Colette.     It  was 


THE  NEW  DAWN  431 

not  long  before  she  began  to  feel  terribly  lonely  among  the 
sick  people  who  talked  of  nothing  but  their  illness,  surrounded 
by  the  pitiless  mountains  rising  above  the  rags  and  tatters  of 
men.  To  escape  from  the  depressing  spectacle  of  the  invalids 
with  their  spittoons  spying  upon  each  other  and  marking  the 
progress  of  death  over  each  one  of  them,  she  left  the  Palace 
hospital,  and  took  a  chalet,  where  she  lived  aloof  with  her  own 
little  invalid.  Instead  of  improving  Lionello's  condition,  the 
high  altitude  aggravated  it.  His  fever  waxed  greater.  Grazia 
spent  nights  of  anguish.  Christophe  knew  it  by  his  keen  in- 
tuition, although  she  told  him  nothing :  for  she  was  growing 
more  and  more  rigid  in  her  pride;  she  longed  for  Christophe 
to  be  with  her,  but  she  had  forbidden  him  to  follow  her,  and 
she  could  not  bring  herself  to  confess :  "  I  am  too  weak,  I  need 
you.  ..." 

One  evening,  as  she  stood  in  the  veranda  of  the  chalet  in  the 
twilight  hour,  which  is  so  bitter  for  hearts  in  agony,  she 
saw  .  .  .  she  thought  she  saw  coming  up  from  the  station  of 
the  funicular  railway  ...  a  man  walking  hurriedly':  he 
stopped,  hesitating,  with  his  back  a  little  bowed.  She  went  in- 
doors to  avoid  his  seeing  her:  she  held  her  hands  over  her 
heart,  and,  quivering  with  emotion,  she  laughed.  Although  she 
was  not  at  all  religious  she  knelt  down,  hid  her  face  in  her 
hands;  she  felt  the  need  of  thanking  some  one.  .  .  .  But  he 
did  not  come.  She  went  back  to  the  window,  and,  hiding  be- 
hind the  curtains,  looked  out.  He  had  stopped,  leaning  against 
a  fence  round  a  field,  near  the  gate  of  the  chalet.  He  dared 
not  enter.  And,  even  more  perturbed  than  he,  she  smiled,  and 
said  in  a  low  voice : 

"  Come   ..." 

At  last  he  made  up  his  mind  and  rang  the  bell.  Already  she 
was  at  the  door,  and  she  opened  it.  His  eyes  looked  at  hoi- 
like  the  eyes  of  a  faithful  dog,  who  is  afraid  of  being  beaten. 
He  said : 

"I  came.   .    .    .     Forgive  me.   .    .    ." 

She  said : 

"  Thank  you." 

Then  she  confessed  how  she  had  expected  him.  Christophe 
helped  her  to  nurse  the  boy,  whose  condition  was  growing  worse. 


432         JEAN-CHRISTOPHE:    JOURNEY'S  END 

His  heart  was  in  the  task.  The  boy  treated  him  with  irritable 
animosity :  he  took  no  pains  now  to  conceal  it :  he  said  many 
malicious  things  to  him.  Christophe  put  it  all  down  to  his 
illness.  He  was  extraordinarily  patient.  He  passed  many  pain- 
ful days  by  the  boy's  bedside,  until  the  critical  night,  on  passing 
through  which,  Lionello,  whom  they  had  given  up  for  lost,  was 
saved.  And  they  felt  then  such  pure  happiness — watching  hand 
in  hand  over  the  little  'invalid— -that  suddenly  she  got  up,  took 
her  cloak  and  hood,  and  led  Christophe  out  of  doors,  along  the 
road,  in  the  snow,  the  silence  and  the  night,  under  the  cold 
stars.  Leaning  on  his  arm,  excitedly  breathing  in  the  frozen 
peace  of  the  world,  they  hardly  spoke  at  all.  They  made  no 
allusion  to  their  love.  Only  when  they  returned,  on  the  thresh- 
old, she  said : 

"  My  dear,  dear  friend  !   .    .    . " 

And  her  eyes  were  lit  up  by  the  happiness  of  having  saved 
her  child. 

That  was  all.  But  they  felt  that  the  bond  between  them 
had  'become  sacred. 

On  her  return  to  Paris  after  Lionello's  long  convalescence, 
she  took  a  little  house  at  Passy,  and  did  not  worry  any  more 
about  "  avoiding  scandal  "  :  she  felt  brave  enough  to  dare  opinion 
for  her  friend's  sake.  Their  life  henceforth  was  so  intimately 
linked  that  it  would  have  seemed  cowardly  to  her  to  conceal 
the  friendship  which  united  them  at  the — inevitable— risk  of 
having  it  slandered.  She  received  Christophe  at  all  hours  of 
the  day,  and  was  seen  with  him  out  walking  and  at  the  theater: 
she  spoke  familiarly  to  him  in  company.  Colette  thought  they 
were  making  themselves  too  conspicuous.  Crazia  would  stop 
her  hints  with  a  smile,  and  quietly  go  her  way. 

And  yet  she  had  given  Christophe  no  new  right  over  her. 
They  were  nothing  more  than  friends :  he  always  addressed  her 
with  the  same  affectionate  respect,  But  they  hid  nothing  from 
each  other :  they  consulted  each  other  about  everything :  and 
insensibly  Christophe  assumed  a  sort  of  paternal  authority  in 
the  house:  Grazia  listened  to  and  followed  his  advice.  She  was 
no  longer  the  same  woman  since  the  winter  she  had  spent  in  the 
sanatorium;  the  anxiety  and  fatigue  had  seriously  tried  her 


THE  NEW  DAWX  433 

health,  which,  till  then,  had  been  sturdy.  Her  soul  was  affected 
by  it.  In  spite  of  an  occasional  lapse  into  her  old  caprices, 
she  had  become  mysteriously  more  serious,  more  reflective,  and 
was  more  constantly  desirous  of  being  kind,  of  learning  and  not 
hurting  any  one.  Every  day  saw  her  more  softened  by  Chris- 
tophe's  affection,  his  disinterestedness,  and  the  purity  of  his 
heart:  and  she  was  thinking  of  one  day  giving  him  the  great 
happiness  of  which  he  no  longer  dared  to  dream,  that  of  be- 
coming his  wife. 

He  had  never  broached  the  subject  again  after  her  first  re- 
fusal, for  he  thought  he  had  no  right  to  do  so.  But  regretfully 
he  clung  to  his  impossible  hope.  Though  he  respected  what  his 
friend  had  said,  he  was  not  convinced  by  her  disillusioned  atti- 
tude towards  marriage :  he  persisted  in  believing  that  the  union 
of  two  people  who  love  each  other,  profoundly  and  devotedly, 
is  the  height  of  human  happiness. — His  regrets  were  revived 
by  coming  in  contact  once  more  with  the  Arnauds. 

Madame  Arnaud  was  more  than  fifty.  Her  husband  was 
sixty-five  or  sixty-six.  Both  seemed  to  be  older.  He  had  grown 
stout :  she  was  very  thin  and  rather  shrunken :  spare  though  she 
had  been  in  the  old  days,  she  was  now  just  a  wisp  of  a  woman. 
After  Arnaud's  retirement  they  had  gone  to  live  in  a  house  in 
the  country.  They  had  no  link  with  the  life  of  the  time  save 
the  newspaper,  which  in  the  torpor  of  their  little  town  and 
their  drowsy  life  brought  them  the  tardy  echo  of  the  voice 
of  the  world.  Once  they  saw  Christophe's  name.  Madame 
Arnaud  wrote  him  a  few  affectionate,  rather  ceremonious  words, 
to  tell  him  how  glad  they  were  of  his  fame.  He  took  the  train 
at  once  without  letting  them  know. 

He  found  them  in  the  garden,  dozing  under  the  round  canopy 
of  an  ash,  on  a  warm  summer  afternoon.  They  were  like 
Boecklin's  old  couple,  sleeping  hand  in  hand,  in  an  arbor.  Sun, 
sleep,  old  age  overwhelm  them:  they  are  falling,  they  are  already 
half-buried  in  the  eternal  dream.  And.  as  the  last  gleam  of 
their  life,  their  tenderness  persists  to  the  end.  The  clasp  of 
their  hands,  the  dying  warmth  of  their  bodies.  .  .  . — They 
were  delighted  to  see  Christophe,  for  the  sake  of  all  the  memories 
of  the  past  he  brought  with  him.  They  talked  of  the  old  days, 
which  at  that  distance  seemed  brilliant  and  full  of  light. 


434         JEAN-CHRISTOPHE :    JOURNEY'S  END 

Arnaud  loved  talking,  but  he  had  lost  his  memory  for  names. 
Madame  Arnaud  whispered  them  to  him.  She  liked  saying 
nothing  and  preferred  listening  to  talking:  but  the  image  of 
the  old  times  had  been  kept  alive  and  clear  in  her  silent  heart: 
in  glimmers  they  would  appear  sharply  before  her  like  shining 
pebbles  in  a  stream.  There  was  one  such  memory  that  Chris- 
tophe  more  than  once  saw  reflected  in  her  eyes  as  she  looked 
at  him  with  affectionate  compassion:  but  Olivier's  name  was 
not  pronounced.  Old  Arnaud  plied  his  wife  with  touching, 
awkward  little  attentions;  he  was  fearful  lest  she  should  catch 
cold,  or  be  too  hot;  he  would  gaze  hungrily  with  anxious  love 
at  her  dear,  faded  face,  and  with  a  weary  smile  she  would  try 
to  reassure  him.  Christophe  watched  them  tenderly,  with  a 
little  envy.  ...  To  grow  old  together.  To  love  in  the  dear 
companion  even  the  wear  of  time.  To  say:  "  I  know  those  lines 
round  her  eyes  and  nose.  I  have  seen  them  coming.  I  know 
when  they  came.  Her  scant  gray  hair  has  lost  its  color,  day 
by  day,  in  my  company,  something  because  of  me,  alas!  Her 
sweet  face  has  swollen  and  grown  red  in  the  fires  of  the  weariness 
and  sorrow  that  have  consumed  us.  My  soul,  how  much  better 
1  love  thee  for  that  thou  hast  suffered  and  grown  old  with  me. 
Every  one  of  thy  wrinkles  is  to  me  as  music  from  the  past.  .  .  ." 
The  charm  of  these  old  people,  who,  after  the  long  vigil  of  life, 
spent  side  by  side,  go  side  by  side  to  sleep  in  the  peace  of  the 
night!  To  see  them  was  both  sweet  and  profitable  and  sorrow- 
ful for  Christophe.  Oh!  How  lovely  had  life  and  death  been 
thus!  .  .  . 

When  he  next  saw  Grazia,  he  could  not  help  telling  her  of 
his  visit.  He  did  not  tell  her  of  the  thoughts  roused  in  him 
by  his  visit.  But  she  divined  them.  He  was  tender  and  wistful 
as  he  spoke.  He  turned  his  eyes  away  from  her  and  was  silent 
every  now  and  then.  She  looked  at  him  and  smiled,  and 
Christophe's  unease  infected  her. 

That  evening,  when  she  was  alone  in  her  room,  she  lay 
dreaming.  She  went  over  the  story  Christophe  had  told  her  - 
but  the  image  she  saw  through  it  was  not  that  of  the  old  couple 
sleeping  under  the  ash  :  it  was  the  shy,  ardent  dream  of  her 
friend.  And  her  heart  was  filled  with  love  for  him.  She  lav 
in  the  dark  and  thought : 


THE  NEW  DAWN  435 

"Yes.  It  is  absurd,  criminal  and  absurd,  to  waste  the  oppor- 
tunity for  such  happiness.  What  joy  in  the  world  can  equal 
the  joy  of  making  the  man  you  love  happy?  .  .  .  What! 
Do  I  love  him?  ..." 

She  was  silent,  deeply  moved,  listening  to  the  answer  of  her 
heart. 

"  I  love  him." 

Just  then  a  dry,  hard,  hasty  cough  came  from  the  next  room 
where  the  children  were  sleeping.  Grazia  pricked  her  ears: 
since  the  boy's  illness  she  had  always  been  anxious.  She  called 
out  to  him.  He  made  no  reply,  and  went  on  coughing.  She 
sprang  from  her  bed  and  went  to  him.  He  was  irritated,  and 
moaned,  and  said  that  he  was  not  well,  and  broke  out  coughing 
again. 

"What  is  the  matter?" 

He  did  not  reply,  but  only  groaned  that  he  was  ill. 

"  My  darling,  please  tell  me  what  is  the  matter  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  Is  it  here  ?  " 

"  Yes.     No.     I  don't  know.     I  am  ill  all  over." 

On  that  he  had  a  fresh  fit  of  coughing,  violent  and  exagger- 
ated. Grazia  was  alarmed :  she  had  a  feeling  that  he  was  forcing 
himself  to  cough :  but  she  was  ashamed  of  her  thought,  as  she 
saw  the  boy  sweating  and  clicking  for  breath.  She  kissed  him 
and  spoke  to  him  tenderly:  he  seemed  to  grow  calmer;  but  as 
soon  as  she  tried  to  leave  him  he  broke  out  coughing  again. 
She  had  to  stay  shivering  by  his  bedside,  for  he  would  not  even 
allow  her  to  go  away  to  dress  herself,  and  insisted  on  her  holding 
his  hand;  and  he  would  not  let  her  go  until  he  fell  asleep  again. 
Then  she  went  to  bed,  chilled,  uneasy,  harassed.  And  she  found 
it  impossible  to  gather  up  the  threads  of  her  dreams. 

The  boy  had  a  singular  power  of  reading  bis  mother's  thoughts. 
This  instinctive  genius  is  often — though  seldom  in  such  a  high 
degree — to  be  found  in  creatures  of  the  same  stock :  they  hardly 
need  to  look  at  each  other  to  know  each  others  thoughts :  they 
can  guess  them  by  the  breathing,  by  a  thousand  imperceptible 
signs.  This  natural  aptness,  which  is  fortified  by  living  to- 
gether, was  in  Lionello  sharpened  and  refined  by  his  ever  wake- 


436         JEAN-CHRISTOPHE:    JOURNEY'S  EXD 

ful  malevolence.  He  had  the  insight  of  the  desire  to  hurt.  He 
detested  Christophe.  Why  ?  Why  does  a  child  take  a  dislike 
to  a  person  who  has  never  done  him  any  harm?  It  is  often  a 
matter  of  chance.  It  is  enough  for  a  child  to  have  begun  by 
persuading  himself  that  he  detests  some  one,  for  it  to  become 
a  habit,  and  the  more  lie  is  argued  with  the  more  desperately 
he  will  cling  to  it.  But  often,  again,  there  are  deeper  reasons 
for  it,  which  pass  the  child's  understanding :  he  has  no  idea  of 
them.  .  .  .  From  the  first  moment  when  he  saw  Christophe, 
the  son  of  Count  Bereny  had  a  feeling  of  animosity  towards 
the  man  whom  his  mother  had  loved.  It  was  as  though  he  had 
instinctively  felt  the  exact  moment  when  Grazia  began  to  think 
of  marrying  Christopbe.  From  that  moment  on  he  never  ceased 
to  spy  upon  them.  He  was  always  between  them,  and  refused 
to  leave  the  room  whenever  Christophe  came ;  or  he  would  man- 
age to  burst  in  upon  them  when  they  were  sitting  together. 
More  than  that,  when  his  mother  was  alone,  thinking  of  Chris- 
tophe, he  seemed  to  divine  her  thoughts.  He  would  sit  near 
her  and  watch  her.  His  gaze  would  embarrass  her  and  almost 
make  her  blush.  She  would  get  up  to  conceal  her  unease. — He 
would  take  a  delight  in  saying  unkind  things  about  Christophe 
in  her  presence.  She  would  bid  him  be  silent,  but  he  would 
go  on.  And  if  she  tried  to  punish  him,  he  would  threaten  to 
make  himself  ill.  That  was  the  strategy  he  had  always  used 
successfully  since  he  was  a  child.  When  he  was  quite  small, 
one  day  when  he  had  been  scolded,  he  had,  out  of  revenge, 
undressed  himself  and  lain  naked  on  the  floor  so  as  to  catch 
cold. — Once,  when  Christophe  brought  a  piece  of  music  that 
he  had  composed  for  Grazia's  birthday,  the  boy  took  the  manu- 
script and  hid  it.  It  was  found  in  tatters  in  a  wood-box. 
Grazia  lost  her  patience  and  scolded  him  severely.  Then  he 
wept  and  howled,  and  stamped  his  feet,  and  rolled  on  the  ground, 
and  had  an  attack  of  nerves.  Grazia  was  terrified,  and  kissed 
and  implored  him,  and  promised  to  do  whatever  he  wanted. 

From  that  day  on  he  was  the  master :  for  he  knew  it :  and 
very  frequently  he  had  recourse  to  the  weapon  with  which  he 
had  succeeded.  There  was  never  any  knowing  how  far  his 
attacks  were  natural  and  how  far  counterfeit.  Soon  he  was 
not  satisfied  with  using  them  vengefully  when  he  was  opposed 


THE  NEW  DAWN  43? 

in  any  way,  but  took  to  using  them  out  of  spite  whenever  his 
mother  and  Christophe  planned  to  spend  the  evening  together. 
He  even  went  so  far  as  to  play  his  dangerous  game  out  of 
sheer  idleness,  or  theatricality,  to  discover  the  extent  of  his 
power.  He  was  extraordinarily  ingenious  in  inventing  strange, 
nervous  accidents;  sometimes  in  the  middle  of  dinner  he  would 
be  seized  with  a  convulsive  trembling,  and  upset  his  glass  or 
break  his  plate;  sometimes,  as  he  was  going  upstairs,  he  would 
clutch  at  the  banisters  with  his  hand :  his  fingers  would  stiffen : 
he  would  pretend  that  he  could  not  open  them  again ;  or  he  would 
have  a  sharp  pain  in  his  side  and  roll  about,  howling;  or  he 
would  choke.  Of  course,  in  the  end  he  developed  a  genuine 
nervous  illness.  Christophe  and  Grazia  were  at  their  wits'  end. 
Their  peaceful  meetings — their  quiet  talks,  their  readings,  their 
music,  which  were  as  a  festival  to  them — all  their  humble  hap- 
piness was  henceforth  disturbed. 

Every  now  and  then,  however,  the  little  imp  would  give  them 
a  respite,  partly  because  he  was  tired  of  his  play-acting,  partly 
because  his  child's  nature  took  possession  of  him  again,  and 
made  him  think  of  something  else.  (He  was  sure  now  that 
he  had  won  the  day.) 

Then,  quickly,  quietly,  they  would  seize  their  opportunity. 
Every  hour  that  they  could  steal  in  this  way  was  the  more 
precious  to  them  as  they  could  never  be  sure  of  enjoying  it 
to  the  end.  How  near  they  felt  to  each  other!  Why  could 
they  not  always  be  so !  .  .  .  One  day  Grazia  herself  confessed 
to  her  regret.  Christophe  took  her  hand. 

"Yes.     Why?"  he  asked. 

"You  know  why,  my  dear,"  she  said,  with  a  miserable  smile. 

Christophe  knew.  He  knew  that  she  was  sacrificing  their 
happiness  to  her  son:  he  knew  that  she  was  not  deceived  by 
Lionello's  lies,  that  she  still  adored  him:  he  knew  the  blind 
egoism  of  such  domestic  affections  which  make  the  best  pour 
out  their  reserves  of  devotion  to  the  advantage  of  the  bad  or 
mediocre  creatures  of  their  blood,  so  that  there  is  nothing  left 
for  them  to  give  to  those  who  would  be  more  worthy,  whom 
they  love  best,  but  who  are  not  of  their  blood.  And  although 
he  was  irritated  by  it,  although  there  were  times  when  he 
longed  to  kill  the  little  monster  who  was  destroying  their  lives. 


438         JEAN-CHRISTOPHE:    JOURNEY'S  END 

yet  he  bowed  his  head  in  silence,  and  understood  that  Grazia 
could  not  do  otherwise. 

So  they  renounced  their  life  without  vain  recrimination. 
But  if  the  happiness  which  was  their  right  could  be  snatched 
from  them,  nothing  could  prevent  the  union  of  their  hearts. 
Their  very  renunciation,  their  common  sacrifice,  held  them  by 
bonds  stronger  than  those  of  the  flesh.  Each  confided  the  sorrow 
of  it  all  to  the  other,  passed  over  the  burden  of  it,  and  took  on 
the  other's  suffering:  so  even  their  sorrow  became  joy.  Chris- 
tophe  called  Grazia  "his  confessor.''  He  did  not  hide  from 
her  the  weaknesses  from  which  his  pride  had  to  suffer:  rather 
he  accused  himself  with  too  great  contrition,  and  she  would 
smilingly  soothe  his  boyish  scruples.  He  even  confessed  to 
her  his  material  poverty:  but  he  could  only  bring  himself  to 
do  that  after  it  had  been  agreed  between  them  that  she  should 
neither  offer  him,  nor  he  accept  from  her,  any  help.  It  was 
the  last  barrier  of  pride  which  he  upheld  and  she  respected. 
In  place  of  the  well-being  which  she  could  not  bring  into  her 
friend's  life,  she  found  many  ways  of  filling  it  with  what  was 
infinitely  more  precious  to  him — namely,  her  tenderness.  He 
felt  the  breath  of  it  all  about  him,  during  every  hour  of  the 
day :  he  never  opened  his  eyes  in  the  morning,  never  closed  them 
at  night,  without  a  prayer  of  love  and  adoration.  And  when 
she  awoke,  or  at  night,  as  often  happened,  lay  for  hours  without 
sleeping,  she  thought: 

"  My  dear  is  thinking  of  me." 

And  a  great  peace  came  upon  them  and  surrounded  them. 

However,  her  health  had  given  way.  Grazia  was  constantly 
in  bed,  or  had  to  spend  the  day  lying  on  a  sofa.  Christophe 
used  to  go  every  day  and  read  to  her,  and  show  her  his  new" 
work.  Then  she  would  get  up  from  -the  chair,  and  limp  to 
the  piano,  for  her  feet  were  swollen.  She  would  play  the  music 
he  had  brought.  It  was  the  greatest  joy  she  could  give  him. 
Of  all  his  pupils  she  and  Cecile  were  the  most  gifted.  But 
while  Cecile  had  an  instinctive  feeling  for  music,  with  hardly 
any  understanding  of  it.  to  Graxia  it  was  a  lovely  harmonious 
language  full  of  meaning  for  her.  The  demoniac  quality  in 
life  and  art  escaped  her  altogether:  she  brought  to  bear  on  it 


THE  XEW  DAWN  439 

the  clarity  of  her  intelligence  and  heart.  Christophe's  genius 
was  saturated  with  her  clarity.  His  friend's  playing  helped 
him  to  understand  the  obscure  passions  he  had  expressed.  With 
closed  eyes  he  would  listen,  and  follow  her,  and  hold  her  by  the 
hand,  as  she  led  him  through  the  maze  of  his  own  thoughts. 
By  living  in  his  music  through  Grazia's  soul,  he  was  wedded 
to  her  soul  and  possessed  it.  From  this  mysterious  conjuga- 
tion sprang  music  which  was  the  fruit  of  the  mingling  of  their 
lives.  One  day,  as  he  brought  her  a  collection  of  his  works, 
woven  of  his  substance  and  hers,  he  said: 

"Our  children." 

Theirs  was  an  unbroken  communion  whether  they  were  to- 
gether or  apart:  sweet  were  the  evenings  spent  in  the  peace  and 
quiet  of  the  old  house,  which  was  a  fit  setting  for  the  image  of 
Grazia,  where  the  silent,  cordial  servants,  who  were  devoted 
to  Christophe,  extended  to  him  a  little  of  the  respectful  affection 
they  had  for  their  mistress.  Joyous  was  it  to  listen  to  the 
song  of  the  fleeting  hours,  and  to  see  the  tide  of  life  ebbing 
away.  ...  A  shadow  of  anxiety  was  thrown  on  their  happi- 
ness by  Grazia's  failing  health.  But,  in  spite  of  her  little 
infirmities,  she  was  so  serene  that  her  hidden  sufferings  did 
but  heighten  her  charm.  She  was  his  "  liebc,  leidende,  and 
dock  so  ruhrcnde,  licitre  Freundin"  ('Miis  dear,  suffering, 
touching  friend,  always  so  bright  and  cheerful'*).  And  some- 
times, in  the  evening,  when  he  left  her  with  his  heart  big  with 
love  so  that  he  could  not  wait  until  the  morrow,  he  would  write : 

"  Liebe,  liebe,  Hebe,  liebe,  liebe  Grazia.   ..." 

Their  tranquillity  lasted  for  months.  They  thought  it  would 
last  forever.  The  boy  seemed  to  have  forgotten  them :  his 
attention  was  distracted  by  other  things.  But  after  this  respite 
he  returned  to  them  and  never  left  them  again.  The  horrible 
little  boy  had  determined  to  part  his  mother  and  Christophe. 
He  resumed  his  play-acting.  He  did  not  set  about  it  upon  any 
premeditated  plan,  but.  from  day  to  day.  followed  the  whimsies 
of  his  spite.  He  had  no  idea  of  the  harm  he  might  be  doing: 
he  only  wanted  to  amuse  himself  by  boring  other  people.  He 
never  relaxed  his  efforts  until  he  had  made  Grazia  promi.se  to 
leave  Paris  and  go  on  a  long  journey.  Grazia  had  no  strength 
to  resist  him.  Besides,  the  doctors  advised  her  to  pay  a  visit  to 


440         JEAN-CHBISTOPHE :    JOURNEY'S  END 

Egypt.  She  had  to  avoid  another  winter  in  the  northern  climate. 
Too  many  things  had  tried  her  health :  the  moral  upheaval  of 
the  last  few  years,  the  perpetual  anxiety  about  her  son's  health, 
the  long  periods  of  uncertainty,  the  struggle  that  had  taken 
place  in  her  without  her  giving  any  sign  of  it,  the  sorrow  of 
sorrows  that  she  was  inflicting  on  her  friend.  To  avoid  adding 
to  the  trouble  he  divined  in  her,  Christophe  hid  his  own  grief 
at  the  approach  of  the  day  of  parting :  he  made  no  effort  to 
postpone  it;  and  they  were  outwardly  calm,  and,  though  in- 
wardly they  were  very  far  from  it,  yet  they  succeeded  in  forcing 
it  upon  each  other. 

The  day  came.  A  September  morning.  They  had  left  Paris 
together  in  the  middle  of  July,  and  spent  their  last  weeks  in 
Switzerland  in  a  mountain  hotel,  near  the  place  where  they 
had  met  again  six  years  ago. 

They  were  unable  to  go  out  the  last  five  days :  the  rain  came 
down  in  unceasing  torrents :  they  were  almost  alone  in  the 
hotel,  for  all  the  other  travelers  had  fled.  The  rain  stopped 
on  their  last  morning,  but  the  mountains  were  still  covered 
with  clouds.  The  children  went  on  ahead  with  the  servants 
in  another  carriage.  She  drove  off.  He  accompanied  her  to 
the  place  where  the  road  began  to  descend  in  steep  windings 
to  the  plain  of  Italy.  The  mist  came  in  under  the  hood  of 
the  carriage.  They  were  very  close  together,  and  they  said  no 
word :  they  hardly  looked  at  each  other.  A  strange  light,  half- 
day,  half-night,  wrapped  them  round.  .  .  .  Grazia's  breath 
left  little  drops  of  water  on  her  veil.  He  pressed  her  little 
hand,  warm  under  her  cold  glove.  Their  faces  came  together. 
Through  her  wet  veil  he  kissed  her  dear  lips. 

They  came  to  the  turn  of  the  road.  He  got  down,  and  the 
carriage  plunged  on  into  the  mist  and  disappeared.  For  a 
long  time  he  could  hear  the  rumbling  of  the  wheels  and  the 
horses'  hoofs.  Great  masses  of  white  mist  rolled  over  the  fields. 
Through  the  close  tracery  of  the  branches  the  dripping  trees 
dropped  water.  Not  a  breath  of  wind.  The  mist  was  stifling 
life.  Christophe  stopped,  choking.  .  .  .  There  was  nothing 
now.  Everything  had  gone.  .  .  . 

He  took  in  a  long  breath,  filling  his  lungs  with  the  mist, 
and  walked  on.  Nothing  passes  for  him  who  does  not  pass. 


THE  NEW  DAWN  441 


III 

ABSENCE  adds  to  the  power  of  those  we  love.  The  heart 
retainc  only  what  is  dear  to  us  in  them.  The  echo  of  each 
word  coming  through  space  from  the  distant  friend,  rings  out 
in  the  silence,  faithfully  answering. 

The  correspondence  of  Christophe  and  Grazia  took  on  the 
serious  and  restrained  tone  of  a  couple  who  are  no  longer  in 
the  dangerous  period  of  trial  of  love,  but,  having  passed  it,  feel 
sure  of  the  road  and  march  on  hand  in  hand.  Each  was  strong 
to  sustain  and  direct  the  other,  weak  and  yielding  to  the  other's 
support  and  direction. 

Christophe  returned  to  Paris.  He  had  vowed  never  to  go 
there  again.  But  what  are  such  vows  worth?  He  knew  that 
he  would  find  there  the  shade  of  Grazia.  And  circumstances, 
conspiring  with  his  secret  desires  against  his  will,  showed  him 
a  new  duty  to  fulfil  in  Paris.  Colette,  well  informed  as  to 
society  gossip,  told  Christophe  that  his  young  friend  Jeannin 
was  making  a  fool  of  himself.  Jacqueline,  who  had  always 
been  weak  in  her  dealings  with  her  son,  could  not  hold  him  in 
check.  She  herself  was  passing  through  a  strange  crisis,  and 
was  too  much  occupied  with  herself  to  pay  much  heed  to 
him. 

Since  the  unhappy  adventure  which  had  destroyed  Olivier 's 
marriage  and  life,  Jacqueline  had  lived  a  very  worthy  life. 
She  withdrew  from  Parisian  society,  which,  after  imposing  on 
her  a  hypocritical  sort  of  quarantine,  had  made  fresh  advances 
to  her,  which  she  had  rejected.  She  was  not  at  all  ashamed  of 
what  she  had  done  as  far  as  these  people  were  concerned :  she 
thought  she  had  no  reason  to  account  to  them  for  it,  for  they 
were  more  worthless  than  she :  what  she  had  clone  openly,  half 
the  women  she  knew  did  by  stealth,  under  cover  of  their  homes. 
She  suffered  only  from  the  thought  of  the  wrong  she  had  done 
her  nearest  and  dearest,  the  only  man  she  had  loved.  She  could 
not  forgive  herself  for  having,  in  so  poor  a  world,  lost  an 
affection  like  his. 

Her  regrets,  and  her  sorrow,  grew  less  acute  with  time.  There 
were  left  only  a  sort  of  mute  suffering,  a  humiliated  contempt 


442         JEAN-CHRISTOPHE:    JOURNEY'S  END 

for  herself  and  others,  and  the  love  of  her  child.  This  affection, 
into  which  she  poured  all  her  need  of  love,  disarmed  her  before 
him;  she  could  not  resist  Georges's  caprices.  To  excuse  her 
weakness  she  persuaded  herself  that  she  was  paying  for  the 
wrong  she  had  done  Olivier.  She  had  alternate  periods  of  ex- 
alted tenderness  and  weary  indifference:  sometimes  she  would 
worry  Georges  with  her  exacting,  anxious  love,  and  sometimes 
she  would  seem  to  tire  of  him,  and  she  let  him  do  as  he  liked. 
She  admitted  to  herself  that  she  was  bringing  him  up  badly, 
and  she  would  torment  herself  with  the  admission;  but  she 
made  no  change.  When,  as  she  rarely  did,  she  tried  to  model 
her  principles  of  conduct  on  Olivicrs  way  of  thinking,  the  result 
was  deplorable.  At  heart  she  wished  to  have  no  authority  over 
her  son  save  that  of  her  affection.  And  she  was  not  wrong: 
for  between  these  two,  however  similar  they  might  be,  there  were 
no  bonds  save  those  of  the  heart.  Georges  Jeannin  was  sensible 
of  his  mother's  physical  charm:  he  loved  her  voice,  her  gestures, 
her  movements,  her  grace,  her  love.  But  in  mind  he  was  con- 
scious of  strangcrhood  to  her.  She  only  saw  it  as  he  began 
to  grow  into  a  man,  when  he  turned  from  her.  Then  she  was 
amazed  and  indignant,  and  attributed  the  estrangement  to  other 
feminine  influences:  and,  as  she  tried  awkwardly  to  combat 
them,  slie  only  estranged  him  more.  In  reality,  they  had  always 
lived,  side  by  side,  each  preoccupied  with  totally  different  in- 
terests, deceiving  themselves  as  to  the  gulf  that  lay  between 
them,  with  the  aid  of  their  common  surface  sympathies  and 
antipathies,  which  disappeared  when  the  man  began  to  spring 
forth  from  the  boy  (that  ambiguous  creature,  still  impregnated 
with  the  perfume  of  womanhood).  And  bitterly  Jacqueline 
would  say  to  her  son : 

"  I  don't  know  whom  you  take  after.  You  are  not  like  your 
father  or  me." 

So  she  made  him  feel  all  that  lay  between  them;  and  he  took 
a  secret  pride  that  was  yet  feverish  and  uneasy. 

The  younger  generation  has  always  a  keener  sense  than  the 
elder  of  the  things  that  lie  between  them  ;  they  need  to  gain 
assurance  of  the  importance  of  their  existence,  even  at  the  cost 
of  injustice  or  of  lying  to  themselves.  But  this  feeling  varies 
in  its  acuteness  from  one  period  to  another.  In  the  classic  ages 


THE  NEW  DAWN  443 

"when,  for  a  time,  the  balance  of  the  forces  of  a  civilization  are 
realized, — those  high  plateaux  ending  on  all  sides  with  steep 
slopes — the  difference  in  level  is  not  so  great  from  one  genera- 
tion to  another.  But  in  the  ages  of  renascence  or  decadence, 
the  young  men  climbing  or  plunging  down  the  giddy  slopes, 
leave  their  predecessors  far  behind. — Georges,  like  the  other 
young  men  of  his  time,  was  ascending  the  mountain. 

He  was  superior  neither  in  character  nor  in  mind :  he  had 
many  aptitudes,  none  of  which  rose  above  the  level  of  elegant 
mediocrity.  And  yet,  without  any  effort  on  his  part,  he  found 
himself  at  the  outset  of  his  career  several  grades  higher  than 
his  father,  who,  in  his  short  life,  had  expended  an  incalculable 
amount  of  intellect  and  energy. 

Hardly  were  the  eyes  of  his  mind  opened  upon  the  light  of 
day  than  he  saw  all  round  him  the  heaped-up  darkness,  pierced 
by  luminous  gleams,  the  masses  of  knowledge  and  ignorance, 
warring  truths,  contradictory  errors,  in  which  his  father  and 
the  men  of  his  father's  generation  had  feverishly  groped  their 
way.  But  at  the  same  time  he  became  conscious  of  a  weapon 
in  his  power  which  they  had  never  known :  his  force.  .  .  . 

Whence  did  he  have  it?  .  .  .  Who  can  tell  the  mystery 
of  the  resurrections  of  a  race,  sleeping,  worn  out,  which  suddenly 
awakes  brimming  like  a  mountain  torrent  in  the  spring!  .  .  . 
What  would  he  do  with  his  force?  ITse  it  in  his  turn  to  explore 
the  inextricable  thickets  of  modern  thought?  They  had  no 
attraction  for  him.  He  was  oppressed  by  the  menacing  dangers 
which  lurked  in  them.  They  had  crushed  his  father,  leather 
than  renew  that  experience  and  enter  the  tragic  forest  he  would 
have  set  fire  to  it,  He  had  only  to  glance  at  the  books  of  wisdom 
or  sacred  folly  which  had  intoxicated  Olivier:  the  Nihilist  pity 
of  Tolstoi,  the  somber  destructive  pride  of  Ibsen,  the  frenzy 
of  Nietzsche,  the  heroic,  sensual  pessimism  of  Wagner.  He  had 
turned  away  from  them  in  anger  and  terror.  He  hated  the 
realistic  writers  who,  for  half  a  century,  had  killed  the  joy 
of  art.  He  could  not.  however,  altogether  blot  out  the  shadows 
of  the  sorrowful  dream  in  which  he  had  been  cradled.  He 
would  not  look  behind  him,  but  be  well  knew  that  the  shadow 
was  there.  He  was  too  healthy  to  seek  a  counter-irritant  to 
Iris  uneasiness  in  the  lazy  skepticism  of  the  preceding  epoch : 


444         JEAN-CHRISTOPHE:    JOURNEY'S  END 

he  detested  the  dilettantism  of  men  like  Renan  and  Anatole 
France,  with  their  degradation  of  the  free  intellect,  their  joyless 
mirth,  their  irony  without  greatness:  a  shameful  method,  fit 
for  slaves,  playing  with  the  chains  which  they  are  impotent  to 
break. 

He  was  too  vigorous  to  be  satisfied  with  doubt,  too  weak 
to  create  the  conviction  which,  with  all  his  soul,  he  desired. 
He  asked  for  it,  prayed  for  it,  demanded  it.  And  the  eternal 
snappers-up  of  popularity,  the  great  writers,  the  sham  thinkers 
at  bay,  exploited  this  imperious  and  agonized  desire,  by  beating 
the  drums  and  shouting  the  clap-trap  of  their  nostrum.  From 
trestles,  each  of  these  Hippocrates  bawled  that  his  was  the 
only  true  elixir,  and  decried  all  the  rest.  Their  secrets  were 
all  equally  worthless.  None  of  these  pedlars  had  taken  the 
trouble  to  find  a  new  recipe.  They  had  hunted  about  among 
their  old  empty  bottles.  The  panacea  of  one  was  the  Catholic 
Church :  another's  was  legitimate  monarchy :  yet  another's,  the 
classic  tradition.  There  were  queer  fellows  who  declared  that 
the  remedy  for  all  evils  lay  in  the  return  to  Latin.  Others 
seriously  prognosticated,  with  an  enormous  word  which  imposed 
on  the  herd,  the  domination  of  the  Mediterranean  spirit.  (They 
would  have  been  just  as  ready  at  some  other  time  to  talk  of  the 
Atlantic  spirit.)  Against  the  barbarians  of  the  North  and  the 
East  they  pompously  set  up  the  heirs  of  a  new  Roman  Em- 
pire. .  .  .  Words,  words,  all  second-hand.  The  refuse  of 
the  libraries  scattered  to  the  winds. — Like  all  his  comrades, 
young  Jeannin  went  from  one  showman  to  another,  listened  to 
their  patter,  was  sometimes  taken  in  by  it.  and  entered  the 
booth,  only  to  come  out  disappointed  and  rather  ashamed  of 
having  spent  his  time  and  his  money  in  watching  old  clowns 
buffooning  in  shabby  rags.  And  yet,  such  is  youth's  power  of 
illusion,  such  was  his  certainty  of  gaining  certainty,  that  he 
was  always  taken  in  by  each  new  promise  of  each  new  vendor 
of  hope.  He  was  very  French,  of  a  hypercritical  temper,  and 
an  innate  lover  of  order.  He  needed  a  leader  and  could  bear 
none;  his  pitiless  irony  always  riddled  them  through  and  through. 

While  he  was  waiting  for  the  advent  of  a  leader  who  should 
give  him  the  key  to  the  riddle  ...  he  had  no  time  to  wait. 
He  was  not  the  kind  of  man.  like  his  father,  to  be  satisfied 


THE  NEW  DAWN  445 

with  the  lifelong  search  for  truth.  With  or  without  a  motive, 
he  needed  always  to  make  up  his  mind,  to  act,  to  turn  to  account, 
to  use  his  energy.  Traveling,  the  delight  of  art,  and  especially 
of  music,  with  which  he  had  gorged  himself,  had  at  first  been 
to  him  an  intermittent  and  passionate  diversion.  He  was  hand- 
some, ardent,  precocious,  beset  with  temptations,  and  he  early 
discovered  the  outwardly  enchanting  world  of  love,  and  plunged 
into  it  with  an  unbridled,  poetic,  greedy  joy.  Then  this  im- 
pertinently naive  and  insatiable  cherub  wearied  of  women :  he 
needed  action,  so  he  gave  himself  up  uncontrollably  to  sport. 
He  tried  everything,  practised  everything.  He  was  always  going 
to  fencing  and  boxing  matches :  he  was  the  French  champion 
runner  and  high-jumper,  and  captain  of  a  football  team.  He 
competed  with  a  number  of  other  crazy,  reckless,  rich  young 
men  like  himself  in  ridiculous,  wild  motor  races.  Finally  he 
threw  up  everything  for  the  latest  fad.  and  was  drawn  into  the 
popular  craze  for  flying  machines.  At  the  Rheims  meetings 
he  shouted  and  wept  for  joy  with  three  hundred  thousand  other 
men ;  he  felt  that  he  was  one  with  the  whole  people  in  a  religious 
jubilation;  the  human  birds  flying  over  their  heads  bore  them 
upwards  in  their  flight :  for  the  first  time  since  the  dawn  of 
the  great  Revolution  the  vast  multitude  had  raised  their  eyes 
to  the  heavens  and  seen  them  open. — To  his  mother's  terror 
young  Jeannin  declared  that  he  was  going  to  throw  in  his  lot 
with  the  conquerors  of  the  air.  Jacqueline  implored  him  to  give 
up  his  perilous  ambition.  She  ordered  him  to  do  so.  He  took 
the  bit  between  his  teeth.  Christophe,  in  whom  Jacqueline 
thought  she  had  found  an  ally,  only  gave  the  boy  a  little 
prudent  advice,  which  he  felt  quite  sure  Georges  would  not 
follow  (for,  in  his  place,  he  would  not  have  done  so).  He 
did  not  deem  that  he  had  any  right. — even  had  he  been  able 
to  do  so — to  fetter  the  healthy  and  normal  expansion  of  the 
boy's  vitality,  which,  if  it  had  been  forced  into  inaction,  would 
have  been  perverted  to  his  destruction. 

Jacqueline  could  not  reconcile  herself  to  seeing  her  son  leave 
her.  She  had  vainly  thought  that  she  had  renounced  love,  for 
she  could  not  do  without  the  illusion  of  love;  all  her  affections, 
all  her  actions  were  tinged  with  it.  There  are  so  many  mothers 
who  expend  on  their  sons  all  the  secret  ardor  which  they  have 


446         JEAN -CHRISTOPHE :    JOURNEY'S  EXD 

boon  unable  to  give  forth  in  marriage — or  out  of  it !  And  when 
they  see  how  easily  the'r  sons  do  without  them,  when  suddenly 
they  understand  that  they  are  not  necessary  to  them,  they  go 
through  the  same  kind  of  crisis  as  befalls  them  upon  the  betrayal 
of  a  lover,  or  the  disillusion  of  love. — Once  more  Jacqueline's 
whole  existence  crumbled  away.  Georges  saw  nothing.  Young 
people  never  have  any  idea  of  the  tragedies  of  the  heart  going 
on  around  them:  they  have  no  time  to  stop  and  see  them:  and 
they  do  not  wish  to  see:  a  selfish  instinct  bids  them  march 
straight  on  without  looking  to  right  or  left. 

Jacqueline  was  left  alone  to  gulp  down  this  new  sorrow.  She 
only  emerged  from  it  when  her  grief  was  worn  out,  worn  out  like 
her  love.  She  still  loved  her  son,  but  with  a  distant,  disillusioned 
affection,  which  she  knew  to  be  futile,  and  she  lost  all  interest 
in  herself  and  him.  So  she  dragged  through  a  wretched,  mis- 
erable year,  without  his  paying  her  any  heed.  And  then,  poor 
creature,  since  her  heart  could  neither  live  nor  die  without  love, 
she  was  forced  to  find  something  to  love.  She  fell  victim  to  a 
strange  passion,  such  as  often  takes  possession  of  women,  and 
especially,  it  would  seem,  of  the  noblest  and  most  inaccessible, 
when  maturity  comes  and  the  fair  fruit  of  life  has  not  been 
gathered.  She  made  the  acquaintance  of  a  woman  who,  from 
their  first  meeting,  gained  an  ascendancy  over  her  through  her 
mysterious  power  of  attraction. 

This  woman  was  about  her  own  age,  and  she  was  a  nun. 
She  was  always  busy  with  charitable  works.  A  tall,  line,  rather 
stout  woman,  dark,  with  rather  bold,  handsome  features,  sharp 
eyes,  a  big,  sensitive,  ever-smiling  mouth,  and  a  masterful  chin. 
She  was  remarkably  intelligent,  and  not  at  all  sentimental  :  she 
had  the  malice  of  a  peasant,  a  keen  business  sense,  and  a  southern 
imagination,  which  saw  everything  in  exaggeration,  though 
always  exactly  to  scale  when  necessary :  she  was  a  strangely 
enticing  mixture  of  lofty  mysticism  and  lawyer's  cunning.  She 
was  used  to  domination,  and  the  exercise  of  it  was  a  habit  with 
her.  Jacqueline  was  drawn  to  her  at  once.  She  became  en- 
thusiastic over  her  work.  or.  at  least,  believed  herself  to  be  so. 
Sister  Angele  knew  perfectly  what  was  the  object  of  her  passion: 
she  was  used  to  provoking  them;  and  without  seeming  to  notice 
them,  she  used  skilfully  to  turn  them  to  account  for  her  work 


THE  NTEW  DAWN  447 

and  the  glory  of  God.  Jacqueline  gave  up  her  money,  her 
will,  her  heart.  She  was  charitable,  so  she  believed,  through 
love. 

It  was  not  long  before  her  infatuation  was  observed.  She  was 
the  only  person  not  to  realize  it.  Georges's  guardian  bec-anie 
anxious.  Georges  was  too  generous  and  too  easy  to  worry,  about 
money  matters,  though  he  saw  his  mother's  subjection,  and  was 
shocked  by  it.  He  tried,  too  late  in  the  day,  to  resume  his  old 
intimacy  with  her,  and  saw  that  a  veil  was  drawn  between 
them;  he  blamed  the  occult  influence  for  it,  and,  both  against 
his  mother  and  the  nun.  whom  he  called  an  intriguer,  lie  con- 
ceived a  feeling  of  irritation  which  he  made  no  attempt  to 
disguise:  he  could  not  admit  a  stranger  to  his  place  in  a  heart 
that  he  had  regarded  as  his  natural  right.  It  never  occurred 
to  him  that  his  place  was  taken  because  he  had  left  it.  Instead 
of  trying  patiently  to  win  it  back,  he  was  clumsy  and  cruel. 
Quick  words  passed  between  mother  and  son,  both  of  whom 
were  hasty  and  passionate,  and  the  rupture  grew  marked.  Sister 
Angele  established  her  ascendancy  over  Jacqueline,  and  Georges 
rushed  away  and  kicked  over  the  traces.  He  plunged  into  a 
restless,  dissipated  life;  gambled,  lost  large  sums  of  money;  he 
put  a  certain  amount  of  exaggeration  into  his  extravagances, 
partly  for  his  own  pleasure  and  partly  to  counterbalance  his 
mother's  extravagances. — He  knew  the  Stevens-Delestrades. 
Colette  had  marked  down  the  handsome  boy,  and  tried  the' 
effect  on  him  of  her  charms,  which  she  never  wearied  of  using. 
She  knew  of  all  (Jeorges's  freaks,  and  was  vastly  entertained 
by  them.  But  her  sound  common  sense  and  the  real  kindness 
concealed  beneath  her  frivolity,  helped  her  to  see  the  danger  the 
vonng  idiot  was  running.  And,  being  well  aware  that  it  was 
beyond  her  to  save  him,  she  warned  Christophe,  who  came  at 
once. 

Christophe  was  the  only  person  who  had  any  influence  over 
young  Jeannin.  II  is  influence  was  limited  and  very  inter- 
mittent, but  all  the  more  remarkable  in  that  it  was  dillk-ult 
to  explain.  Christophe  belonged  to  the  preceding  generation 
against  which  Georges  and  his  companions  were1  violently  in 
reaction.  He  was  one  of  the  most  conspicuous  representatives 


448         JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  :    JOURNEY'S  END 

of  that  period  of  torment  whose  art  and  ideas  rouse  in  them 
a  feeling  of  suspicion  and  hostility.  He  was  unmoved  by  the 
new  Gospels  and  the  charms  of  the  minor  prophets  and  the 
old  cheapjacks  who  were  offering  the  young  men. an  infallible 
recipe  for  the  salvation  of  the  world,  Rome  and  France.  He 
was  faithful  to  the  free  faith,,  free  of  all  religion,  free  of  all 
parties,  free  of  all  countries,,  which  was  no  longer  the  fashion — 
or  had  never  been  fashionable.  Finally,  though  he  was  alto- 
gether removed  from  national  questions,  he  was  a  foreigner  in 
Paris  at  a  time  when  all  foreigners  were  regarded  by  the  natives 
of  the  countiy  as  barbarians. 

And  yet,  young  Jeannin,  joyous,  easy-going,  instinctively 
hostile  to  everything  that  might  make  him  sad  or  uneasy,  ardent 
in  pursuit  of  pleasure,  engrossed  in  violent  sports,  easily  duped 
by  the  rhetoric  of  his  time,  in  his  physical  vigor  and  mental 
indolence  inclined  to  the  brutal  doctrines  of  French  action, 
nationalist,  royalist,  imperialist — (he  did  not  exactly  know)  — 
in  his  heart  reflected  only  one  man :  Christophe.  His  pre- 
cocious experience  and  the  delicate  tact  he  had  inherited  from 
his  mother  made  him  see  (without  being  in  the  least  disturbed 
by  it)  how  little  worth  was  the  world  that  he  could  not  live 
without,  and  how  superior  to  it  was  Christophe.  From  Olivier 
he  had  inherited  a  vague  uneasiness,  which  visited  him  in  sudden 
fits  that  never  lasted  very  long,  a  need  of  finding  and  deciding 
on  some  definite  aim  for  what  he  was  doing.  And  perhaps  it 
was  from  Olivier  that  he  had  also  inherited  the  mysterious  in- 
stinct which  drew  him  towards  the  man  whom  Olivier  had 
loved. 

He  used  to  go  and  see  Christophe.  He  was  expansive  by 
nature,  and  of  a  rather  chattering  temper,  and  he  loved  in- 
dulging in  confidences.  He  never  troubled  to  think  whether 
Christophe  had  time  to  listen  to  him.  But  Christophe  always 
did  listen,  and  never  gave  any  sign  of  impatience.  Only  some- 
times he  would  be  rather  absent-minded  when  Georges  had  in- 
terrupted him  in  his  work,  but  never  for  more  than  a  few 
minutes,,  when  his  mind  would  be  away  putting  the  finishing 
touches  to  its  work :  then  it  would  return  to  Georges,  who  never 
noticed  its  absence.  He  used  to  laugh  at  the  evasion,  and  come 
back  like  a  man  tiptoeing  into  the  room,  so  as  not  to  be  heard. 


THE  NEW  DAWN  449 

But  once  or  twice  Georges  did  notice  it,  and  then  he  said 
indignantly : 

"  But  you  are  not  listening !  " 

Then  Christophe  was  ashamed :  and  docilely  he  would  listen 
to  Georges's  story,  and  try  to  win  his  forgiveness  by  redoubled 
attention.  The  stories  were  often  very  funny :  and  Chris- 
tophe could  not  help  laughing  at  the  tale  of  some  wild 
freak :  for  Georges  kept  nothing  back :  his  frankness  was  dis- 
arming. 

Christophe  did  not  always  laugh.  Georges's  conduct  some- 
times pained  him.  Christophe  was  no  saint :  he  knew  he  had 
no  night  to  moralize  over  anybody.  Georges's  love  affairs,  and 
the  scandalous  waste  of  his  fortune  in  folly,  were  not  what 
shocked  him  most.  What  he  found  it  most  hard  to  forgive  was 
the  light-mindedness  with  which  Georges  regarded  his  sins: 
they  were  no  burden  to  him :  he  thought  them  very  natural. 
His  conception  of  morality  was  very  different  from  Christophe's. 
He  was  one  of  those  young  men  who  are  fain  to  see  in  the 
relation  of  the  sexes  nothing  more  than  a  game  that  has  no 
moral  aspect  •  whatever.  A  certain  frankness  and  a  careless 
kindliness  were  all  that  was  necessary  for  an  honest  man. 
He  was  not  troubled  with  Christophe's  scruples.  Christophe 
would  wax  wrath.  In  vain  did  he  try  not  to  impose  his  way 
of  feeling  upon  others :  he  could  not  be  tolerant,  and  his  old 
violence  was  only  half  tamed.  Every  now  and  then  he  would 
explode.  He  could  not  help  seeing  how  dirty  were  some  of 
Georges's  intrigues,  and  he  used  bluntly  to  tell  him  so.  Georges 
was  no  more  patient  than  he.  and  they  used  to  have  angry  scenes, 
after  which  they  would  not  see  each  other  for  week?.  Chris- 
tophe  would  realize  that  his  outbursts  were  not  likely  to  change 
Georges's  conduct,  and  that  it  was  perhaps  unjust  to  subject 
the  morality  of  a  period  to  the  moral  ideas  of  another  generation. 
But  his  feeling  was  too  strong  for  him,  and  on  the  next  oppor- 
tunity he  would  break  out  again.  How  can  one  renounce  the 
faith  for  which  one  has  lived?  That  were  to  renounce  life. 
What  is  the  good  of  laboring  to  think  thoughts  other  than  one's 
own,  to  be  like  one's  neighbor  or  to  meddle  with  his  affairs? 
That  leads  to  self-destruction,  and  no  one  is  benefited  by  it. 
The  first  duty  is  to  be  what  one  is.  to  dare  to  say :  "  This 


450         JEAN-CHE  I STO  PILE :    JOURNEY'S  END 

is  good,  that  bad/'  One  profits  the  weak  more  by  being  strong 
than  by  sharing  their  weakness.  Be  indulgent,  if  you  like, 
towards  weakness  and  past  sins.  But  never  compromise  with 
any  weakness.  ... 

Yes :  but  Georges  never  by  any  chance  consulted  Christophe 
about  anything  he  was  going  to  do: — (did  he  know  himself?). — 
He  only  told  him  about  tilings  when  they  were  done. — And 
then?  .  .  .  Then,  what  could  he  do  but  look  in  dumb  reproach 
at  the  culprit,  and  shrug  his  shoulders  and  smile,  like  an  old 
uncle  who  knows  that  he  is  not  heeded? 

On  such  occasions  they  would  sit  for  several  minutes  in  silence. 
Georges  would  look  up  at  Christophe's  grave  eyes,  which  seemed 
to  be  gazing  at  him  from  far  away.  And  he  would  feel  like 
a  little  boy  in  his  presence.  He  would  see  himself  as  he  was, 
in  that  penetrating  glance,  which  was  shot  with  a  gleam  of 
malice :  and  he  was  not  proud  of  it. 

Christophe  hardly  ever  made  use  of  Gcorges's  confidences 
against  him:  it  was  often  as  though  he  had  not  heard  them. 
After  t-hc  mute  dialogue  of  their  eyes,  he  would  shake  his  head 
mockinghr,  and  then  begin  to  tell  a  stoiy  without  any  apparent 
bearing  on  the  story  he  had  just  been  told,  some  story  about 
his  life,  or  some  one  else's  life,  real  or  fictitious.  And  gradually 
Georges  would  see  his  double  (he  recognized  it  at  once)  under 
a  new  light,  grotesquely,  ridiculously  postured,  passing  through 
vagaries  similar  to  his  own.  Christophe  never  added  any  com- 
mentary. The  extraordinary  kindliness  of  the  story-teller  would 
produce  far  more  effect  than  the  story.  He  would  speak  of 
himself  just  as  he  spoke  of  others,  with  the  same  detachment, 
the  same  jovial,  serene  humor.  Georges  was  impressed  by  his 
tranquillity.  It  was  for  this  that  he  came.  When  lie  had  un- 
burdened himself  of  his  light-hearted  confession,  he  was  like  a 
man  stretching  out  his  limbs  and  lying  at  full  length  in  the 
shade  of  a  great  tree  on  a  summer  afternoon.  The  dazzling 
fever  of  the  scorching  day  would  fall  away  from  him.  Above 
him  he  would  feel  the  hovering  of  protecting  wings.  In  the 
presence  of  this  man  who  so  peacefully  bore  the  heavy  burden 
of  his  life,  he  was  sheltered  from  his  own  inward  restlessness. 
He  found  rest  only  in  hearing  him  speak.  He  did  not  always 


THE  NEW  DAWN  451 

listen:  his  mind  would  wander,  but  wheresoever  it  went,  it  was 
surrounded  by  Christophe's  laughter. 

However,  he  did  not  understand  his  old  friend's  ideas.  He 
used  to  wonder  how  Christophe  could  bear  his  soul's  solitude, 
and  dispense  with  being  bound  to  any  artistic,  political,  or 
religious  party,  or  any  group  of  men.  He  used  to  ask  him  : 
"  Don't  vou  ever  want  to  take  refuge  in  a  camp  of  some 
sort?" 

"Take  refuge?"  Christophe  would  say  with  a  laugh.  "It 
is  much  too  good  outside.  And  you,  an  open-air  man.  talk 
of  shutting  yourself  up  ?  " 

"Ah!"  Georges  would  reply.  "It  is  not  the  same  tiling 
for  body  and  soul.  The  mind  needs  certainty :  it  needs  to  think 
with  others,  to  adhere  to  the  principles  admitted  by  all  the 
men  of  the  time.  I  envy  the  men  of  old  days,  the  men  of  the 
classic  ages.  My  friends  are  right  in  their  desire  to  restore 
the  order  of  the  past." 

"  Milksop  !  "  said  Christophe.  "  What  have  I  to  do  with  such 
disheartened  creatures  ?  " 

"  I  am  not  disheartened,"  protested  Georges  indignantly. 
"  None  of  us  is  that." 

"But  you  must  be,"  said  Christophe,  "to  be  afraid  of  your- 
selves. What!  You  need  order  and  cannot  create  it  for  your- 
selves? You  must  always  be  clinging  to  your  great-grand- 
mother's skirts!  Dear  God!  You  must  walk  alone!" 

"  One  must  take  root,"  said  Georges,  proudly  echoing  one 
of  the  pontiffs  of  the  time. 

"  But  do  you  think  the  trees  need  to  be  shut  up  in  a  box 
to  take  root?  The  earth  is  there  for  all  of  us.  Plunge  your 
roots  into  it.  Find  your  own  laws.  Look  to  yourself." 

"  I  have  no  time,"  said  George?. 

"•You  are  afraid,"  insisted   Christophe. 

Georges  indignantly  denied  it.  but  in  the  end  he  agreed  that 
he  had  no  taste  for  examining  his  inmost  soul:  he  could  not 
understand  what  pleasure  there  could  be  in  it:  there  was  the 
danger  of  falling  over  if  you  looked  down  into  the  abyss. 

"  Give  me  your  hand,"  said  Christophe. 

He  would  amuse  himself  by  opening  the  trap-door  of  his 


452         JEAN-CHEISTOPHE :    JOURNEY'S  END 

realistic,  tragic  vision  of  life.     Georges  would  draw  away  from 
it,  and  Christophe  would  shut  it  down  again,  laughing : 
"How  can  you  live  like  that?"  Georges  would  ask. 
"  I  am  alive,  and  I  am  happy,"  Christophe  would  reply. 
"  I  should  die  if  I  were  forced  to  see  things  like  that  always." 
Christophe  would  slap  him  on  the  shoulder : 
"  Fine  athlete  you  are  !   .    .    .     Well,  don't  look,  if  your  head 
is  not  strong  enough.     There  is  nothing  to  make  you.  after  all. 
Go  ahead,  my  boy.     But  do  you  need  a  master  to  brand  your 
shoulder,  like  a   sheep?     What   is  the  word  of   command  you 
are  waiting  for?     The  signal  was  given  long  ago.     The  signal 
to  saddle  has  sounded,  and  the  cavalry  is  on  the  march.     Don't 
worry  about  anything  but  vour  horse.     Take  your  place !     And 
gallop !  " 

"  But  where  to  ?  "  asked  Georges. 

"  With  your  regiment  to  the  conquest  of  the  world.     Conquer 
the    air,    master   the    elements,    dig   the    last    entrenchment    of 
Nature,  set  back  space,  drive  back  death   .    .    . 
" Experius  vacuum  Dwdalus  acra.    .    .    . " 
".    .    .Do  you  know  that,  you  champion  of  Latin?     Can  you 
even  tell  me  what  it  means? 
"  Perrnpit  Acli  crania.    ..." 
"That  is  your  lot,  you  happy  conquistador  es! " 
So  clearly  did  he  show  the  duty  of  heroic  action  that  had 
devolved   upon  the  new  generation,  that   Georges  was   amazed, 
and  sa  i  d  : 

"But  if  you  feel  that,  why  don't  you  come  with  us?" 
"  Because  I  have  a  different  task.  Go,  my  boy,  do  your 
work.  Surpass  me,  if  you  can.  But  I  stay  here  and  watch.  .  .  . 
Have  you  read  the  Arabian  Xight  in  which  a  genii,  as  tall  as 
a  mountain,  is  imprisoned  in  a  bottle  sealed  with  the  seal  of 
Solomon?  .  .  .  The  genii  is  here,  in  the  depths  of  our  soul, 
the  soul  into  which  you  are  afraid  to  look  down.  I  and  the 
men  of  my  time  spent  our  lives  in  struggling  with  him:  we 
did  not  conquer  him:  he  conquered  us.  At  present  we  are  both 
recovering  our  breath,  and,  with  no  rancor  nor  fear,  we  are 
looking  at  each  other,  satisfied  with  the  struggles  in  which  we 
have  been  engaged,  waiting  for  the  agreed  armistice  to  expire. 
You  are  profiting  by  the  armistice  to  gather  your  strength  and 


THE  NEW  DAWN  453 

cull  the  world's  beauty.  Be  happy.  Enjoy  the  lull.  But  re- 
member that  one  day,  you  or  your  children,  on  your  return 
from  your  conquests,  will  have  to  come  back  to  the  place  where 
I  stand  and  resume  the  combat,  with  new  forces,  against  the 
genii  by  whose  side  I  watch  and  wait.  And  the  combat  will 
endure  with  intervals  of  armistice  until  one  of  the  two  (perhaps 
both)  will  be  laid  low.  It  is  your  duty  to  be  stronger  and 
happier  than  we!  .  .  . — Meanwhile,  indulge  in  your  sport 
if  you  like :  stiffen  your  muscles  and  strengthen  your  heart : 
and  do  not  be  so  foolish  as  to  waste  your  impatient  vigor  upon 
silly  trifles :  you  belong  to  an  age  that,  if  you  are  patient,  will 
find  a  use  for  it," 

Georges  did  not  remember  much  of  what  Christophe  said 
to  him.  He  was  open-minded  enough  to  grasp  Christophe's 
ideas,  but  they  escaped  him  at  once.  He  forgot  everything  be- 
fore he  reached  the  bottom  of  the  stairs.  But  all  the  same,  he 
had  a  feeling  of  well-being,  which  endured  when  the  memory 
of  the  words  that  had  produced  it  had  long  been  wiped  out. 
He  had  a  real  veneration  for  Christophe.  He  believed  in  nothing 
that  Christophe  believed  in  (at  heart  he  laughed  at  everything 
and  had  no  belief).  But  he  would  have  broken  the  head  of 
any  man  who  took  upon  himself  to  speak  ill  of  his  old  friend. 

Fortunately,  no  one  did  speak  ill  of  him  in  his  presence, 
otherwise  he  would  have  been  kept  busy. 

Christophe  had  accurately  forecast  the  next  change  of  the 
wind.  The  new  ideal  of  the  new  French  music  was  very  differ- 
ent from  his  own;  but  while  that  was  a  reason  the  more  for 
Christophe  to  sympathize  with  it.  its  exponents  had  no  sym- 
pathy with  him.  His  vogue  with  the  public  was  not  likely  to 
reconcile  the  most  hungry  for  recognition  of  these  young  men 
to  him;  they  were  meagerly  fed.  and  their  teeth  were  long, 
and  they  bit.  Christophe  was  not  put  out  by  their  spite. 

"  How  thoroughly  they  do  it !  "  he  would  say.  "  These  bovs 
are  cutting  their  teeth.  ..." 

He  was  inclined  to  prefer  them  to  the  other  puppies  who 
fawned  on  him  because  of  his  success — those  people  of  whom 
D'Aubigne  writes,  who  "  when  a  mastiff  plunges  his  nose  into 


454         JEAN-CHRISTOPHE :    JOURNEY'S  END 

a  butter-pot,  come  and  lick  liis  whiskers  by  way  of  congratula- 
tion/' 

He  had  a  piece  accepted  at  the  Opera.  Almost  at  once 
it  was  put  into  rehearsal.  Through  a  newspaper  attack  Chris- 
tophe  learned  that  a  certain  young  composer's  piece  had  been 
postponed  for  it.  The  writer  of  the  article  waxed  indignant 
over  such  abuse  of  power,  and  made  Christophe  responsible 
for  it. 

Christophe  went  to  see  the  manager,  and  said: 

"  Why  didn't  you  tell  me  ?  You  must  not  do  it.  You  must 
put  on  the  opera  you  accepted  before  mine." 

The  manager  protested,  began  to  laugh,  refused,  covered 
Christophe's  character,  work,  genius,  with  flattery,  and  said 
that  the  other  man's  work  was  beneath  contempt,  and  assured 
him  that  it  was  worthless  and  would  riot  make  a  sou. 

"  Why  did  you  accept  it  then  ?  " 

"  One  can't  always  do  as  one  likes.  Every  now  and  then 
one  has  to  throw  a  sop  to  public  opinion.  Formerly  these  young 
men  could  shout  as  much  as  they  pleased.  And  no  one  listened 
to  them.  But  now  they  are  able  to  let  loose  on  us  the  nationalist 
Press,  which  roars  '  Treason  '  and  calls  you  a  disloyal  French- 
man because  you  happen  to  have  the  misfortune  to  be  unable 
to  go  into  ecstasies  over  the  younger  school.  The  younger 
school !  Let's  look  at  it !  .  .  .  Shall  I  tell  you  what  I  think 
of  it?  I'm  sick  of  it!  So  is  the  public.  They  bore  us  with 
their  Oremus!  .  .  .  There's  no  blood  in  their  veins:  they're 
like  sacristans  chanting  Mass :  their  love  duets  are  like  the 
De  Profundis.  ...  Tf  I  were  fool  enough  to  put  on  the 
pieces  I  am  compelled  to  accept,  I  should  ruin  my  theater, 
I  accept  them :  that  is  all  they  can  ask. — Let  us  talk  of  some- 
thing serious.  Your  work  means  a  full  house.  ..." 

And  he  went  on  with  his  compliments. 

Christophe  cut  him  short,  and  said  angrily : 

"  I  am  not  taken  in.  Xow  that  I  am  old  and  have  '  arrived,' 
you  are  using  me  to  suppress  the  young  men.  When  I  was  a 
young  man  you  would  have  suppressed  me  in  just  the  same 
way.  You  must  play  this  boy's  piece,  or  I  shall  withdraw  my 
own." 

The  manager  threw  up  his  hands,  and  said: 


THE  NEW  DAWX  455 

"But  don't  you  see  that  if  we  did  what  you  want,  it  would 
look  as  if  we  were  giving  in  to  these  newspaper  attacks  ?  " 

"What  do  I  care?"  said  Christophe. 

"  As  you  please !     You  will  be  their  first  victim." 

They  put  the  young  musician's  piece  into  rehearsal  without 
interrupting  the  preparation  of  Christophe's.  One  was  in  three 
acts,  the  other  in  two :  it  was  arranged  to  include  them  both 
in  one  program.  Christophe  went  to  see  the  young  man,  for 
he  wanted  to  be  the  first  to  give  him  the  news.  The  musician 
was  loud  in  his  promises  of  eternal  gratitude. 

Naturally  Christophe  could  not  make  the  manager  not  devote 
all  his  attention  to  his  piece.  The  interpretation  and  the  scenery 
of  the  other  were  rather  scamped.  Christophe  knew  nothing 
about  it.  He  asked  to  be  allowed  to  be  present  at  a  few  re- 
hearsals of  the  young  man's  opera :  he  thought  it  very  mediocre, 
as  he  had  been  told :  he  ventured  to  give  a  little  advice  which  was 
ill-received:  he  gave  it  up  then,  and  did  not  interfere  again. 
On  the  other  hand,  the  manager  had  made  the  young  man  admit 
the  necessity  for  a  little  cutting  to  have  his  piece  produced  in 
time.  Though  the  sacrifice  was  easily  consented  to  at  first,  it 
was  not  long  before  the  author  regretted  it. 

On  the  evening  of  the  performance  the  beginner's  piece  had 
no  success,  and  Christophe's  caused  a  sensation.  Some  of  the 
papers  attacked  Christophe :  they  spoke  of  a  trick,  a  plot  to 
suppress  a  great  young  French  artist :  they  said  that  his  work 
had  been  mutilated  to  please  the  German  master,  whom  they 
represented  to  be  basely  jealous  of  the  coming  fame  of  all  the 
new  men.  Christophe  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  thought : 

"  He  will  reply." 

"  He  "  did  not  reply.  Christophe  sent  him  one  of  the  para- 
graphs with  these  words : 

"  Have  you  read  this  ?  " 

The  other  replied : 

"  How  sorry  I  am !  The  writer  of  it  has  always  been  so  well 
disposed  towards  me !  Really,  I  am  very  sorry.  The  best  thing 
is  to  pay  no  attention  to  it." 

Christophe  laughed  and  thought : 

"  He  is  right !     The  little  sneak." 

And  he  decided  to  forget  all  about  it. 


456         JEAN-CHiUSTOPIIE  :    JOUENEY'S  END 

But  chance  would  have  it  that  Georges,  who  seldom  read  the 
papers,  and  that  hastily,  except  for  the  sporting  articles,  should 
light  on  the  most  violent  attacks  on  Christophe.  He  knew  the 
writer.  He  went  to  the  cafe  where  he  knew  he  would  meet 
him,  found  him,  struck  him,  fought  a  duel  with  him,  and  gave 
him.  a  nasty  scratch  on  the  shoulder  with  his  rapier. 

Next  day,  at  breakfast.  Christophc  had  a  letter  from  a  friend 
telling  him  of  the  affair,  lie  was  overcome.  He  left  his  break- 
fast and  hurried  to  see  Georges.  Georges  himself  opened  the 
door.  Christophe  rushed  in  like  a  whirlwind,  seized  him  by 
the  arms,  and  shook  him  angrily,  and  began  to  overwhelm  him 
with  a  storm  of  furious  reproaches. 

"You  little  wretch!"  he  cried.  "You  have  fought  a  duel 
for  me !  Who  gave  you  leave !  A  boy,  a  fly-by-night,  to  meddle 
in  my  affairs !  Do  you  think  I  can't  look  after  myself  ?  What 
good  have  you  done?  You  have  done  this  rascal  the  honor  of 
fighting  him.  He  asked  no  more.  You  have  made  him  a  hero. 
Idiot!  And  if  it  had  chanced  ...  (I  am  sure  you  rushed 
at  it  like  a  madman  as  usual)  ...  if  you  had  been  wounded, 
killed  perhaps !  .  .  .  Y"ou  wretch !  I  should  never  have  for- 
given you  as  long  as  you  lived!  ..." 

Georges  laughed  uproariously  at  this  last  threat,  and  was  so 
overcome  with  merriment,  that  he  cried : 

"  My  dear  old  friend,  how  funny  you  are !  Ah !  You're 
unique !  Here  are  you  insulting  me  for  having  defended  you  ! 
Next  time  I  shall  attack  you.  Perhaps  you'll  embrace  me 
then." 

Christophe  stopped  and  hugged  Georges,  and  kissed  him  on 
both  cheeks,  and  then  once  more  he  said  : 

"My  boy!  .  .  .  Forgive  me.  I  am  an  old  idiot.  .  .  . 
But  my  blood  boiled  when  I  heard  (he  news.  What  made  you 
think  of  fighting?  You  don't  light  with  such  people.  Promise 
me  at  once  that  vou  will  never  do  it  again." 

"  I'll  promise  nothing  of  the  kind,"  said  fleorges.  "  I  shall 
do  as  T  like." 

"1  forbid  it.  Do  you  hear?  If  you  do  it  again,  I'll  never 
see  you  again.  I  shall  publicly  disown  vou  in  the  newspapers. 
I  shall  .  .  ." 

"  Y'ou  will  disinherit  me,  you  mean." 


THE  XEW  DAWN  457 

"Come,  Georges.  Please.  What's  the  good  of  it?" 
"  My  dear  old  friend,  you  are  a  thousand  times  a  better 
man  than  I  am,  and  you  know  infinitely  more :  hut  I  know 
these  .people  better  than  you  do.  Make  yourself  easy.  It  will 
do  some  good.  They  will  think  a  little  now  before  they  let 
loose  their  poisonous  insults  upon  you." 

"But  what  can  these  idiots  do  to  me?  I  laugh  at  anything 
they  may  say." 

"But  I  don't.  And  you  must  mind  your  own  business." 
Thereafter  Christophe  lived  on  tenterhooks  lest  some  fresh 
article  might  rouse  Gcorges's  susceptibilities.  It  was  quite 
comic  to  see  him  during  the  next  few  days  going  to  a  cafe  and 
devouring  the  newspapers,  which  he  never  read  as  a  rule,  ready 
to  go  to  all  lengths  (even  to  trickery)  if  he  found  an  insulting 
article,  to  prevent  it  reaching  Georges.  After  a  week  he  re- 
covered his  equanimity.  The  boy  was  right.  His  action  had 
given  the  yelping  curs  food  for  a  moment's  reflection. — And, 
though  Christophe  went  on  grumbling  at  the  young  lunatic  who 
had  made  him  waste  eight  working  days,  he  said  to  himself 
that,  after  all,  he  had  no  right  to  lecture  him.  He  remembered 
a  certain  day,  not  so  very  long  ago,  when  he  himself  had  fought 
a  duel  for  Olivier's  sake.  And  he  thought  he  heard  Olivier's 
voice  saying: 

"  Let  be,  Christophe.  I  am  giving  you  back  what  you  lent 
me!" 

Though  Christophe  took  the  attacks  on  himself  lightly,  there 
was  one  other  man  who  was  very  far  from  such  disinterestedness. 
This  was  Emmanuel. 

The  evolution  of  European  thought  was  progressing  swiftly. 
It  was  as  though  it  had  been  accelerated  by  mechanical  inven- 
tions and  the  new  motors.  The  stock  of  prejudices  and  hopes 
which  in  old  days  were  enough  to  feed  humanity  for  twenty 
years  was  now  exhausted  in  five  years.  The  generations  of 
the  mind  were  galloping  ahead,  one  behind  the  other,  often  one 
trampling  the  other  down,  with  Time  sounding  the  charge. — 
Emmanuel  had  been  left  behind. 

The  singer  of  French  energy  had  never  denied  the  idealism 
of  his  master,  Olivier.  Passionate  as  was  his  national  feeling. 


458         JEAX-CHRISTOPHE :    JOURNEY'S  EXD 

he  identified  himself  with  his  worship  of  moral  greatness.  If 
in  his  poetry  he  loudly  proclaimed  the  triumph  of  France,  it 
was  because  in  her,,  by  an  act  of  faith,  he  adored  the  loftiest 
ideas  of  modern  Europe,  the  Athena  Xike,  the  victorious  Law 
which  takes  its  revenge  on  Force. — And  now  Force  had  awak- 
ened in  the  very  heart  of  Law,  and  it  was  springing  up  in  all 
its  savage  nakedness.  The  new  generation,  robust  and  disci- 
plined, was  longing  for  combat,  and,  before  its  victory  was  won, 
had  the  attitude  of  mind  of  the  conqueror.  This  generation 
was  proud  of  its  strength,  its  thews,  its  mighty  chest,  its  vigor- 
ous senses  so  thirsting  for  delight,  its  wings  like  the  wings 
of  a  bird  of  prey  hovering  over  the  plains,  waiting  to  swoop 
down  and  try  its  talons.  The  prowess  of  the  race,  the  mad 
flights  over  the  Alps  and  the  sea,  the  new  crusades,  not  much 
less  mystic,  not  much  less  interested  than  those  of  Philip 
Augustus  and  Yillehardouin,  had  turned  the  nation's  head. 
The  children  of  the  nation  who  had  never  seen  war  except  in 
books  had  no  difficulty  in  endowing  it  with  beauty.  They  be- 
came aggressive.  Weary  of  peace  and  ideas,  they  hymned  the 
anvil  of  battle,  on  which,  with  bloody  fists,  action  would  one 
day  new-forge  the  power  of  France.  In  reaction  against  the 
disgusting  abuse  of  systems  of  ideas,  they  raised  contempt  of  the 
idea  to  the  level  of  a  profession  of  faith.  Blusteringly  they 
exalted  narrow  common  sense,  violent  realism,  immodest  national 
egoism,  trampling  underfoot  the  rights  of  others  and  other 
nations,  when  it  served  the  turn  of  their  country's  greatness. 
They  were  xeriophobes,  anti-democrats,  and — even  the  most  skep- 
tical of  them — set  up  the  return  to  Catholicism,  in  the  practical 
necessity  for  "  digging  channels  for  the  absolute,"  and  shutting 
up  the  infinite  under  the  surveillance  of  order  and  authority. 
They  were  not  content  to  despise — they  regarded  the  gentle 
dotards  of  the  preceding  generation,  the  visionary  idealists,  the 
humanitarian  thinkers  of  the  preceding  generation,  as  public 
malefactors.  Emmanuel  was  among  them  in  the  eyes  of  the 
young  men.  He  suffered  cruelly  and  was  very  angry. 

The  knowledge  that  Christophe  was,  like  himself, — more  than 
himself — the  victim  of  their  injustice,  made  him  sympathetic. 
His  ungraciousness  had  discouraged  Christophe's  visits.  He 
was  too  proud  to  show  his  regret  by  seeking  him  out.  But  he 


THE  NEW  DAWN  459 

contrived  to  meet  him,  as  if  by  chance,  and  forced  Christophe 
to  make  the  first  advances.  Thereafter  his  umbrageous  suscepti- 
bilities were  at  rest,  and  he  did  not  conceal  the  pleasure  he 
had  in  Christophe's  company.  Thereafter  they  often  met  in 
each  other's  rooms. 

Emmanuel  confided  his  bitterness  to  Christophe.  He  was 
exasperated  by  certain  criticisms,  and,  thinking  that  Christophe 
was  not  sufficiently  moved  by  them,  he  made  him  read  some 
of  the  newspaper  appreciations  of  himself.  Christophe  was 
accused  of  not  knowing  the  grammar  of  his  work,  of  being 
ignorant  of  harmony,  of  having  stolen  from  other  musicians, 
and,  generally,  of  dishonoring  music.  He  was  called :  "  This 
old  toss-brain.  .  .  ."  They  said:  "We  have  had  enough 
of  these  convulsionaries.  We  are  order,  reason,  classic  bal- 
ance. ..." 

Christophe  was  vastly  entertained. 

"  It  is  the  law,"  he  said.  "  The  young  bury  the  old.  .  .  . 
In  my  day,  it  is  true,  we  waited  until  a  man  was  sixty  before 
we  called  him  an  old  man.  They  are  going  faster,  nowa- 
days. .  .  .  Wireless  telegraphy,  aeroplanes.  ...  A  gen- 
eration is  more  quickly  exploded.  .  .  .  Poor  devils !  They 
won't  last  long !  Let  them  despise  us  and  strut  about  in  the 
sun !  " 

But  Emmanuel  had  not  his  sanity.  Though  he  was  fearless 
in  thought,  he  was  a  prey  to  his  diseased  nerves ;  with  his  ardent 
soul  in  his  rickety  body,  he  was  driven  on  to  the  fight  and 
was  unfitted  for  it.  The  animosity  of  certain  opinions  of  his 
work  drew  blood. 

"  Ah !  "  he  would  say.  "  If  the  critics  knew  the  harm  they 
do  artists  by  the  unjust  words  they  throw  out  so  recklessly, 
they  would  be  ashamed  of  their  trade." 

"  But  they  do  know,  my  friend.  That  is  the  justification 
of  their  existence.  Everybody  must  live." 

"  They  are  butchers.  One  is  drenched  with  the  blood  of  life, 
worn  out  by  the  struggle  we  have  to  wage  with  art.  Instead 
of  holding  out  their  hands  to  us,  and  compassionately  telling 
us  of  our  faults,  and  brotherly  helping  us  to  mend  them,  they 
stand  there  with  their  hands  in  their  pockets  and  watch  you 
dragging  your  burden  up  the  slope,  and  say:  'You  can't  do 


460         JEAX-CIIRISTOPHE:    JOURNEY'S  END 

it !  '  And  when  you  reach  the  top,  sonic  of  them  say :  '  Yes, 
but  that  is  not  the  way  to  climb  up.'  While  the  others  go  on 
blandly  saying:  'You  couldn't  do  it!  .  .  .'  Y'ou're  lucky  if 
they  don't  send  great  stones  rolling  down  on  you  to  send  you 
flying!" 

"  Bah !  There  are  plenty  of  good  men  among  them,  and 
think  of  the  good  they  can  do !  There  are  bad  men  everywhere. 
They're  not  peculiar  to  criticism.  Do  you  know  anything  worse 
than  an  ungenerous,  vain,  and  embittered  artist,  to  whom  the 
world  is  only  loot,  that  he  is  furious  because  he  cannot  grab  ? 
You  must  don  patience  for  your  protection.  There  is  no  evil 
but  it  may  be  of  good  service.  The  worst  of  the  critics  is 
useful  to  us;  he  is  a  trainer:  he  docs  not  let  us  loiter  by  the 
way.  Whenever  we  think  we  have  reached  the  goal,  the  pack 
hound  us  on.  Get  on!  Onward!  Upward!  They  are  more 
likely  to  weary  of  running  after  me  than  I  am  of  marching 
ahead  of  them.  Remember  the  Arabian  proverb :  '  It  is  no  tise 
flogging  sterile  trees.  Only  those  are  tdoncd  whose  front  is 
crowned  with  got  den  fruit.  .  .  .'  Let  us  pity  the  artists  who 
are  spared.  They  will  stay  half-way,  lazily  sitting  down.  When 
they  try  to  get  up  their  legs  will  be  so  stiff  that  they  will  be 
unable  to  walk.  Long  live  my  friend  the  enemy!  They  do 
me  more  good  in  my  life  than  the  enemy,  my  friend  !  " 

Emmanuel  could  not  help  smiling.     Then  he  said : 

"  All  the  same,  don't  you  think  it  hard  for  a  veteran  like 
you  to  be  taken  to  task  by  recruits  who  are  just  approaching 
their  first  battle?" 

"  They  amuse  me,"  said  Christophe.  "  Such  arrogance  is 
the  mark  of  young,  hot  blood  tingling  to  be  up  and  doing. 
I  was  like  that  once.  They  are  like  the  showers  of  March 
falling  on  the  new-born  soil.  .  .  .  Let  them  take  us  to  task! 
They  are  right,  after  all.  Old  people  must  learn  from  the 
young!  They  have  profited  by  us,  and  are  ungrateful:  that  is 
in  the  order  of  things.  But,  being  enriched  by  our  efforts,  they 
will  go  farther  than  we,  and  will  realize  what  we  attempted. 
If  we  still  have  some  youth  left,  let  us  learn  in  our  turn,  and 
try  to  rejuvenate  ourselves.  If  we  cannot,  if  we  are  too  old, 
let  us  rejoice  in  them.  It  is  fine  to  see  the  perpetual  new- 
flowering  of  the  human  soul  that  seemed  exhausted,  the  vigorous 


THE  NEW  DAWN  461 

optimism  of  these  young  men,  their  delight  in  action  and  ad- 
ventures, the  races  springing  to  new  life  for  the  conquest  of  the 
world." 

"What  would  they  be  without  us?  Their  joy  is  the  fruit 
of  our  tears.  Their  proud  force  is  the  flower  of  the  sufferings 
of  a  whole  generation.  Sic  vos  non  nobis.  ..." 

"  The  old  saying  is  wrong.  It  is  for  ourselves  that  we 
worked,  and  our  reward  lies  in  the  creation  of  a  race  of  men 
who  shall  surpass  us.  We  amassed  their  treasury,  we  hoarded 
it  in  a  wretched  hovel  op(*n  to  all  the  winds  of  Heaven :  we  had 
to  strain  every  nerve  to  keep  the  doors  closed  against  death. 
Our  arms  carved  out  the  triumphal  way  along  which  our  sons 
shall  march.  Our  sufferings  have  saved  the  future.  We  have 
borne  the  Ark  to  the  threshold  of  the  Promised  Land.  It  will 
reach  that  Land  with  them,  and  through  us." 

"  Will  they  ever  remember  those  who  crossed  the  wilderness, 
bearing  the  sacred  fire,  the  gods  of  our  race,  and  them,  those 
children,  who  now  are  men  ?  For  our  share  we  have  had  tribula- 
tion and  ingratitude." 

"Do  you  regret  it?" 

"  Xo.  There  is  a  sort  of  intoxication  in  the  tragic  grandeur 
of  the  sacrifice  of  a  mighty  epoch  like  ours  to  the  epoch  that 
it  has  brought'  into  being.  The  men  of  to-day  would  not 
be  more  capable  of  tasting  the  sovereign  joy  of  renuncia- 
tion." 

"  We  have  been  the  happier.  We  have  scaled  Mount  Nebo, 
at  whose  feet  lie  stretched  the  countries  that  we  shall  never 
enter.  But  we  enjoy  them  more  than  those  who  will  enter 
them.  When  you  descend  to  the  plain,  you  lose  sight  of  the 
plain's  immensity  and  the  far  hori/on." 

The  soothing  influence  that  Christophe  exercised  over  Georges 
and  Emmanuel  had  the  source  of  its  power  in  Oraxia's  love. 
It  was  through  this  love  that  lui  felt  himself  so  near  to  all 
young  things,  and  had  an  inexhaustible  fund  of  sympathy  for 
every  ne\v  form  of  life.  Whatever  the  forces  might  be  that 
rekindled  the  earth,  he  was  always  with  them,  even  when  they 
were  against  him  :  he  had  no  fear  for  the  immediate  future  of 
the  democracies,  that  future  which  caused  siu-h  an  outcrv  against 


462         JEAN-CHBISTOPHE:    JOUEXEY'S  END 

the  egoism  of  a  handful  of  privileged  men:  he  did  not  cling 
desperately  to  the  paternosters  of  an  old  art :  he  felt  quite 
sure  that  from  the  fabulous  visions,  the  realized  dreams  of  sci- 
ence and  action,  a  new  art,  more  puissant  than  the  old,  would 
spring  forth :  he  hailed  the  new  dawn  of  the  world,  even  though 
the  beauty  of  the  old  world  were  to  die  with  it. 

Grazia  knew  the  good  that  her  love  did  for  Christophc : 
and  this  consciousness  of  her  power  lifted  her  out  of  herself. 
Through  her  letters  she  exercised  a  controlling  power  over  her 
friend.  She  was  not  so  absurdly  pretentious  as  to  try  to  control 
his  art:  she  had  too  much  tact,  and  knew  her  limitations.  But 
her  true,  pure  voice  was  the  diapason  to  which  he  attuned  his 
soul.  Christophe  had  only  to  hear  her  voice  echoing  his  thought 
to  think  nothing  that  was  not  just,  pure,  and  worthy  of  repeti- 
tion. The  sound  of  a  beautiful  instrument  is  to  a  musician 
like  a  beautiful  body  in  which  his  dream  at  once  becomes  in- 
carnate. Mysterious  is  the  fusion  of  two  loving  spirits :  each 
takes  the  best  from  the  other,  but  only  to  give  it  back  again 
enriched  with  love.  Grazia  was  not  afraid  to  tell  Christophe 
that  she  loved  him.  Distance  gave  her  more  freedom  of  speech, 
and  also,  the  certain  knowledge  that  she  would  never  be  his. 
Her  love,  the  religious  fervor  of  which  was  communicated  to 
Christophe,  was  a  fountain  of  force  and  peace  to  him. 

Grazia  gave  to  others  more  of  such  force  and  peace  than  she 
had  herself.  Her  health  was  shattered,  her  moral  balance  seri- 
ously affected.  Her  son's  condition  did  not  improve.  For  the 
last  two  years  she  had  lived  in  a  perpetual  state  of  anxiety, 
aggravated  by  Lionello's  fatal  skill  in  playing  on  it.  He  had 
acquired  a  consummate  mastery  of  the  art  of  keeping  those 
who  loved  him  on  tenterhooks :  his  idle  mind  was  most  fertile 
in  inventing  ways  of  rousing  interest  in  himself  and  tormenting 
others:  it  had  become  a  mania  with  him.  And  the  tragedy  of  it 
was,  that,  while  lie  aped  the  ravages  of  disease,  the  disease  did 
make  real  inroads  upon  him,  and  death  peeped  forth.  Then  the 
expected  happened:  Grazia,  having  been  tortured  by  her  son 
for  years  with  his  imaginary  illness,  ceased  to  believe  in  it 
when  the  illness  really  came.  The  heart  has  its  limitations. 
She  had  exhausted  her  store  of  pity  over  his  lies.  She  thought 
Lionello  was  still  a  comedian  when  he  spoke  the  truth.  And 


THE  NEW  DAWN  463 

when  the  truth  was  revealed  to  her,  the  rest  of  her  life  was 
poisoned  by  remorse. 

Lionello's  malice  had  not  laid  aside  its  weapons.  Having  no 
love  f.or  any  one  in  the  world,  he  could  not  bear  any  of  those 
near  him  to  feel  love  for  any  one  else:  jealousy  was  his  only 
passion.  It  was  not  enough  for  him  to  have  separated  his 
mother  and  Christophe :  he  tried  to  force  her  to  break  off  the 
intimacy  which  subsisted  between  them.  Already  he  had  em- 
ployed his  usual  weapon — his  illness — to  make  Grazia  swear  that 
she  would  not  marry  again.  He  was  not  satisfied  with  her 
promise.  He  tried  to  force  his  mother  to  give  up  writing  to 
Christophe.  On  this  she  rebelled;  and,  being  delivered  by  such 
an  attempted  abuse  of  power,  she  spoke  harshly  and  severely 
to  Lionello  about  his  habit  of  lying,  and,  later  on,  regarded 
herself  as  a  criminal  for  having  done  so :  for  her  words  flung 
Lionello  into  a  fit  of  fury  which  made  him  really  ill.  His  illness 
grew  worse  as  he  saw  that  his  mother  did  not  believe  in  it. 
Then,  in  his  fury,  he  longed  to  die  so  as  to  avenge  himself. 
He  never  thought  that  his  wish  would  be  granted. 

When  the  doctor  told  Grazia  that  there  was  no  hope  for  her 
son,  she  was  dumfounded.  But  she  had  to  disguise  her  despair 
in  order  to  deceive  the  boy  who  had  so  often  deceived  her.  He 
had  a  suspicion  that  this  time  it  was  serious,  but  he  refused  to 
believe  it;  and  his  eyes  watched  his  mother's  eyes  for  the  re- 
proachful expression  that  had  infuriated  him  when  he  was  lying. 
There  came  a  time  when  there  was  no  room  for  doubt.  Then 
it  was  terrible,  both  for  him  and  his  mother  and  sister:  he  did 
not  wish  to  die.  .  .  . 

When  at  last  Grazia  saw  him  sinking  to  sleep,  she  gave  no  cry 
and  made  no  moan :  she  astonished  those  about  her  by  her  silence  : 
she  had  no  strength  left  for  suffering:  she  had  only  one  desire, 
to  sleep  also.  However,  she  went  about  the  business  of  her 
life  with  the  same  apparent  calm.  After  a  few  weeks  her  smile 
returned  to  her  lips,  but  she  was  more  silent  still.  No  one 
suspected  her  inward  distress,  Christophe  least  of  all.  She  had 
only  written  to  tell  him  the  news,  without  a  word  of  herself. 
She  did  not  answer  Christophe's  anxiously  affectionate  letters. 
He  wanted  to  come  to  her:  she  begged  him  not  to.  At  the 
end  of  two  or  three  months,  she  resumed  her  old  grave,  serene 


464         JEAN-CHKISTOPHE :    JOURNEY'S  EXD 

tone  with  him.  She  would  have  thought  it  criminal  to  put 
upon  him  the  burden  of  her  weakness.  She  knew  how  the  echo 
of  all  her  feelings  reverberated  in  him.  and  how  great  was  his 
need  to  lean  on  her.  She  did  not  impose  upon  herself  the 
restraint  of  sorrow.  This  discipline  was  her  salvation.  In 
her  weariness  of  life  only  two  things  gave  her  life:  Christophe's 
love,  and  the  fatalism,  which,  in  sorrow  as  in  joy,  lay  at  the 
heart  of  her  Italian  nature.  There  was  nothing  intellectual 
in  her  fatalism:  it  was  the  animal  instinct,  which  makes  a 
hunted  beast  go  on,  with  no  consciousness  of  fatigue,  in  a  staring 
wide-eyed  dream,  forgetting  the  stones  of  the  road,  forgetting 
its  own  body,  until  it  falls.  Her  fatalism  sustained  her  body. 
Love  sustained  her  heart.  Xow  that  her  own  life  was  worn  out, 
she  lived  in  Christophe.  And  yet  she  was  more  scrupulous  than 
ever  never  in  her  letters  to  tell  him  of  the  love  she  had  for 
him :  no  doubt  because  her  love  was  greater :  but  also  because 
she  was  conscious  of  the  veto  of  the  dead  boy,  who  had  made 
her  affection  a  crime.  Then  she  would  relapse  into  silence,  and 
refrain  from  writing  for  a  time. 

Christophe  did  not  understand  her  silence.  Sometimes  in 
the  composed  and  tranquil  tone  of  one  of  her  letters  he  Avould 
be  conscious  of  an  unexpected  note  that  seemed  to  be  quivering 
with  passionate  moaning.  That  would  prostrate  him:  but  he 
dared  not  say  anything:  he  hardly  dared  to  notice  it:  he  was  like 
a  man  holding  bis  breath,  afraid  to  breathe,  for  fear  of  destroying 
an  illusion.  He  knew  almost  infallibly  that  in  the  next  letter 
such  notes  as  these  would  be  atoned  for  by  a  deliberate  coldness. 
Then,  once  more,  tranquillity  .  .  .  Meeresstille.  .  .  , 

Georges  and  Emmanuel  met  at  Christophe's  one  afternoon. 
Both  were  preoccupied  with  their  own  troubles:  Emmanuel  with 
his  literary  disappointments,  and  Georges  with  some  athletic 
failure.  Christophe  listened  to  them  good-humoredly  and  teased 
them  affectionately.  There  was  a  ring  at  the  door.  Georges 
went  to  open  it.  A  servant  had  come  with  a  letter  from  Colette. 
Christophe  ,stood  by  the  window  to  read  it.  His  friends  went  on 
with  their  discussion,  and  did  not  see  Christophe,  whose  back- 
was  turned  to  them,  lie  left  the  room  without  their  noticing 
it.  And  when  they  realized  that  he  had  done  so,  they  were  not 


THE  NEW  DAWN  465 

surprised.  But  as  time  passed  and  he  did  not  return,  Georges 
went  and  knocked  at  the  door  of  the  next  room.  There  was 
no  reply.  Georges  did  not  persist,  for  lie  know  his  old  friend's 
queer  ways.  A  few  minutes  later  Christophe  returned  without 
a  word.  He  seemed  very  calm,  very  kind,  very  gentle.  He 
begged  their  pardon  for  leaving  them,  took  up  the  conversation 
where  he  had  left  it,  and  spoke  kindly  about  their  troubles,  and 
said  many  helpful  things.  The  tone  of  his  voice  moved  them, 
though  they  knew  not  why. 

They  left  him.  Georges  went  straight  to  Colette's,  and  found 
her  in  tears.  As  soon  as  she  saw  him  she  came  swiftly  to  him 
and  asked : 

"  How  did  our  poor  friend  take  the  blow?     It  is  terrible." 
Georges  did  not  understand.     And  Colette  told  him  that  she 
had  just  sent  Christophe  the  news  of  Grazia's  death. 

She  was  gone,  without  having  had  time  to  say  farewell  to 
anybody.  For  several  months  past  the  roots  of  her  life  had 
been  almost  torn  out  of  the  earth :  a  puff  of  wind  was  enough 
to  lay  it  low.  On  the  evening  before  the  relapse  of  influenza 
which  carried  her  off  she  received  a  long,  kind  letter  from 
Christophe.  It  had  filled  her  with  tenderness,  and  she  longed 
to  bid  him  come  to  her:  she  felt  that  everything  else,  everything 
that  kept  them  apart,  was  absurd  and  culpable.  She  was  very 
weary,  and  put  off  writing  to  him  until  the  next  day.  On  the 
day  after  she  had  to  stay  in  bed.  She  began  a  letter  which  she 
did  not  finish:  she  had  an  attack  of  giddiness,  and  her  head 
swam :  besides,  she  was  reluctant  to  speak  of  her  illness,  and 
was  afraid  of  troubling  Christophe.  He  was  busy  at  the  time 
with  rehearsals  of  a  choral  symphony  set  to  a  poem  of  Em- 
manuel's: the  subject  had  roused  them  both  to  enthusiasm,  for 
it  was  something  symbolical  of  their  own  destiny:  The  Prnrm'x/'il 
Land.  Christophe  had  often  mentioned  it  to  (ira/.ia.  The  first 
performance  was  to  take  place  the  following  week.  .  .  .  She 
must  not  upset  him.  In  her  letter  Grazia  just  spoke  of  a  slight 
cold.  Then  that  seemed  too  much  to  her.  She  tore  up  the 
letter,  and  had  no  strengtli  left  to  begin  another.  She  told 
herself  that  she  would  write  in  the  evening.  When  the  evening 
came  it  was  too  late — too  late  to  bid  him  come,  too  late  even 


466         JEAN-CHRISTOPHE :    JOURNEY'S  END 

to  write.  .  .  .  How  swiftly  everything  passes !  A  few  hours 
are  enough  to  destroy  the  labor  of  ages.  .  .  .  Grazia  hardly 
had  time  to  give  her  daughter  a  ring  she  wore  and  beg  her  to 
send  it  to  her  friend.  Till  then  she  had  not  been  very  intimate 
with  Aurora.  Now  that  her  life  was  ebbing  away,  she  gazed 
passionately  at  the  face  of  the  girl :  she  clung  to  the  hand  that 
would  pass  on  the  pressure  of  her  own,  and,  joyfully,  she 
thought : 

"  Not  all  of  me  will  pass  away." 

"Quid?  hie,   inquam,  quis  est  qui  complet  aures  meas  tantus  et  tarn 
dulcis  sonus?  .  .  ." — (The  Dream  of  Scipio.) 

When  he  left  Colette,  on  an  impulse  of  sympathy  Georges 
went  back  to  Christophe's.  For  a  long  time,  through  Colette's 
indiscretions,  he  had  known  the  place  that  Grazia  filled  in  his 
old  friend's  heart:  he  had  even — (for  youth  is  not  respectful)  — 
made  fun  of  it.  But  now  generously  and  keenly  he  felt  the 
sorrow  that  Christophe  must  be  feeling  at  such  a  loss;  and  he 
felt  that  he  must  go  to  him,  embrace  him,  pity  him.  Knowing 
the  violence  of  his  passions, — the  tranquillity  that  Christophe 
had  shown  made  him  anxious.  He  rang  the  bell.  No  answer. 
He  rang  once  more  and  knocked,  giving  the  signal  agreed  be- 
tween Christophe  and  himself.  He  heard  the  moving  of  a  chair 
and  a  slow,  heavy  tread.  Christophe  opened  the  door.  His  face 
was  so  cairn  that  Georges  stopped  still,  just  as  he  was  about  to 
fling  himself  into  his  arms :  he  knew  not  what  to  say.  Chris- 
tophe asked  him  gently : 

"  You,  my  boy.     Have  you  forgotten  something  ?  " 

Georges  muttered  uneasily: 

"  Yes." 

"  Come  in." 

Christophe  went  and  sat  in  the  chair  he  had  left  on  Georges's 
arrival,  near  the  window,  with  his  head  thrown  back,  looking 
at  the  roofs  opposite  and  the  reddening  evening  sky.  He  paid 
no  attention  to  Georges.  The  young  man  pretended  to  look 
about  on  the  table,  while  he  stole  glances  at  Christophe.  His 
face  was  set :  the  beams  of  the  setting  sun  lit  up  his  cheek-bones 
and  his  forehead.  Mechanically  Georges  went  into  the  next 


THE  NEW  DAWN  467 

room — the  bedroom — as  though  he  were  still  looking  for  some- 
thing. It  was  in  this  room  that  Christophe  had  shut  himself 
up  with  the  letter.  It  was  still  there  on  the  bed,  which  bore 
the  imprint  of  a  body.  On  the  floor  lay  a  book  that  had  slipped 
down.  It  had  been  left  open  with  a  page  crumpled.  Georges 
picked  it  up,  and  read  the  story  of  the  meeting  of  the  Magdalene 
and  the  Gardener  in  the  Gospel. 

He  came  back  into  the  living-room,  and  moved  a  few  things 
here  and  there  to  gain  countenance,  and  once  more  he  looked 
at  Christophe,  who  had  not  budged.  He  longed  to  tell  him  how 
he  pitied  him.  But  Christophe  was  so  radiant  with  light  that 
Georges  felt  that  it  was  out  of  place  to  speak.  It  was  rather 
himself  who  stood  in  need  of  consolation.  He  said  timidly : 

"  I  am  going." 

Without  turning  his  head,  Christophe  said: 

"  Good-by,  my  boy." 

Georges  went  away  and  closed  the  door  without  a  sound. 

For  a  long  time  Christophe  sat  there.  Night  came.  He  was 
not  suffering :  he  was  not  thinking :  he  saw  no  definite  image.  He 
was  like  a  tired  man  listening  to  some  vague  music  without 
making  any  attempt  to  understand  it.  The  night  was  far  gone 
when  he  got  up,  cramped  and  stiff.  He  flung  himself  on  his 
bed  and  slept  heavily.  The  symphony  went  on  buzzing  all 
around  him.  .  .  . 

And  now  he  saw  her,  the  well-beloved.  .  .  .  She  held  out 
her  hands  to  him,  and  said,  smiling : 

"  Now  you  have  passed  through  the  zone  of  fire." 

Then  his  heart  melted.  An  indescribable  peace  filled  the 
starry  spaces,  where  the  music  of  the  spheres  flung  out  its  great, 
still,  profound  sheets  of  water.  .  .  . 

When  he  awoke  (it  was  day),  his  strange  happiness  still  en- 
dured, with  the  distant  gleam  of  words  falling  iipon  his  ears. 
He  got  up.  He  was  exalted  with  a  silent,  holy  enthusiasm. 

"  .  .Or  vedi,  figlio, 
tra  Beatrice  e  te  e  questo  muro  ..." 

Between  Beatrice  and  himself,  the  wall  was  broken  down. 


468         JEAN-CHRISTOPHE:    JOURNEY'S  END 

For  a  long  time  now  more  than  half  his  soul  had  dwelt  upon 
the  other  side.  The  more  a  man  lives,  the  more  a  man  creates, 
the  more  a  man  loves  and  loses  those  whom  he  loves,  the  more 
does  he  escape  from  death.  With  every  new  blow  that  we  have 
to  bear,  with  every  new  work  that  we  round  and  finish,  we 
escape  from  ourselves,  we  escape  into  the  work  we  have  created, 
the  soul  we  have  loved,  the  soul  that  has  left  us.  When  all 
is  told,  Rome  is  not  in  Rome:  the  best  of  a  man  lies  outside 
himself.  Only  Grazia  had  withheld  him  on  this  side  of  the 
wall.  And  now  in  her  turn  .  .  .  Now  the  door  was  shut 
upon  the  world  of  sorrow. 

He  lived  through  a  period  of  secret  exaltation.  He  felt  the 
weight  of  no  fetters.  He  expected  nothing  of  the  things  of 
this  world.  He  was  dependent  upon  nothing.  He  was  set  free. 
The  struggle  was  at  an  end.  Issuing  from  the  zone  of  combat 
and  the  circle  where  reigned  the  God  of  heroic  conflict,  Dominus 
DC  us  Sabaoth,  he  looked  down,  and  in  the  night  saw  the  torch 
of  the  Burning  Bush  put  out.  How  far  away  it  was!  When 
it  had  lit  up  his  path  he  had  thought  himself  almost  at  the 
summit.  And  since  then,  how  far  he  had  had  to  go !  And 
yet  the  topmost  pinnacle  seemed  no  nearer.  He  would  never 
reach  it  (he  saw  that  now),  though  he  were  to  march  on  to 
eternity.  But  when  a  man  enters  the  circle  of  light  and  knows 
that  he  has  not  left  those  he  loves  behind  him.  eternity  is  not 
too  long  a  space  to  be  journeying  on  with  them. 

He  closed  his  doors.  No  one  knocked.  Georges  had  ex- 
pended all  his  compassion  and  sympathy  in  the  one  impulse; 
he  was  reassured  by  the  time  he  reached  home,  and  forgot  all 
about  it  by  the  next  day.  Colette  had  gone  to  Rome.  Em- 
manuel knew  nothing,  and  hypersensitive  as  usual,  he  maintained 
an  affronted  silence  because  Christophe  had  not  returned  his 
visit.  Christophe  was  not  disturbed  in  his  long  colloquy  with  the 
woman  whom  lie  now  bore  in  his  soul,  as  a  pregnant  woman  bears 
her  precious  burden.  It  was  a  moving  intercourse,  impossible 
to  translate  into  words.  Even  music  could  hardly  express  it. 
When  his  heart  was  full,  almost  overflowing.  Christophe  would 
lie  still  with  eyes  closed,  and  listen  to  its  song.  Or.  for  hours 
together,  he  would  sit  at  his  piano  and  let  his  fingers  speak. 
During  this  period  he  improvised  more  than  he  had  done  in 


THE  NEW  DAWN  469 

the  whole  of  his  life.  He  did  not  set  down  his  thoughts. 
What  was  the  good? 

When,  after  several  weeks,  he  took  to  going  out  again  and 
seeing  other  men,  while  none  of  his  friends,  except  Georges,  had 
any  suspicion  of  what  had  happened,  the  daimon  of  improvisa- 
tion pursued  him  still.  It  would  take  possession  of  Christophe 
just  when  he  was  least  expecting  it.  One  evening,  at  Colette's, 
Christophe  sat  down  at  the  piano  and  played  for  nearly  an 
hour,  absolute!}'  surrendering  himself,  and  forgetting  that  the 
room  was  full  of  strangers.  They  had  no  desire  to  laugh.  His 
terrible  improvisations  enslaved  and  overwhelmed  them.  Even 
those  who  did  not  understand  their  meaning  were  thrilled  and 
moved :  and  tears  came  to  Colette's  eyes.  .  .  .  When  Chris- 
tophe  had  finished  he  turned  away  abruptly :  he  saw  how  every- 
body was  moved,  and  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and — laughed. 

He  had  reached  the  point  at  which  sorrow  also  becomes  a 
force — a  dominant  force.  His  sorrow  possessed  him  no  more: 
he  possessed  his  sorrow:  in  vain  it  fluttered  and  beat  upon  its 
bars:  he  kept  it  caged. 

From  that  period  date  his  most  poignant  and  his  happiest 
works:  a  scene  from  the  Gospel  which  Georges  recognized — 

"  Mulier,  quid  ploras  f  "  — "  Quia  tulerunt  Dominum  meurn,  et  nescio 
iibi  posuerunt  enm." 

Et  cum  IICPC  dixisset,  conversa  est  retrorsum,  et  mdit  Jesum  stantem:  et 
non  sciebat  quia  Jesus  est. 

— a  series  of  tragic  licdcr  set  to  verses  of  popular  Spanish 
cantares,  among  others  a  gloomy  sad  love-song,  like  a  black 
flame — 

"  Quisiera  ser  el  sepulcro 
Donde  d  ti  to  han  do  enterrar, 
Para  tenerte  en  mis  brazos 
For  toda  la  eternidad." 

("Would  I  were  the  grave,  where  tliou  art  to  be  buried,  that  I  might 
hold  thee  in  my  arms  through  all  eternity.") 

— and  two  symphonies,  called  'Tlie  Island  of  Tranquilliit/  and 
The  Dream  of  Sclpio,  in  which,  more  intimately  than  in  any 
other  of  the  works  of  Jean- Christophe  Krafft,  is  realized  the 


470    .     JEAN-CKRISTOPHE:   JOURNEY'S  EXD 

union  of  the  most  beautiful  of  the  forces  of  the  music  of  his 
time:  the  affectionate  and  wise  thought  of  Germany  with  all 
its  shadowy  windings,  the  clear  passionate  melody  of  Italy,  and 
the  quick  mind  of  France,  rich  in  subtle  rhythms  and  variegated 
harmonies. 

This  "  enthusiasm  begotten  of  despair  at  the  time  of  a  great 
loss  "  lasted  for  a  few  months.  Thereafter  Christophe  fell  back 
into  his  place  in  life  with  a  stout  heart  and  a  sure  foot.  The 
wind  of  death  had  blown  away  the  last  mists  of  pessimism,  the 
gray  of  the  Stoic  soul,  and  the  phantasmagoria  of  the  mystic 
chiaroscura.  The  rainbow  had  shone  upon  the  vanishing  clouds. 
The  gaze  of  heaven,  purer,  as  though  it  had  been  laved  with 
tears,  smiled  through  them.  There  was  the  peace  of  evening 
on  the  mountains. 

IV 

THE  fire  smoldering  in  the  forest  of  Europe  was  beginning 
to  burst  into  flames.  In  vain  did  they  try  to  put  it  out  in 
one  place :  it  only  broke  out  in  another :  with  gusts  of  smoke 
and  a  shower  of  sparks  it  swept  from  one  point  to  another,  burn- 
ing the  dry  brushwood.  Already  in  the  East  there  were  skir- 
mishes as  the  prelude  to  the  great  war  of  the  nations.  All 
Europe,  Europe  that  only  yesterday  was  skeptical  and  apathetic, 
like  a  dead  wood,  was  swept  by  the  flames.  All  men  were 
possessed  by  the  desire  for  battle.  War  was  ever  on  the  point 
of  breaking  out.  It  was  stamped  out,  but  it  sprang  to  life  again. 
The  world  felt  that  it  was  the  mercy  of  an  accident  that  might 
let  loose  the  dogs  of  war.  The  world  lay  in  wait.  The  feeling 
of  inevitability  weighed  heavily  even  upon  the  most  pacifically 
minded.  And  ideologues,  sheltered  beneath  the  massive  shadow 
of  the  cyclops,  Proudhon,  hymned  in  war  man's  fairest  title 
of  nobility.  .  .  . 

This,  then,  was  to  be  the  end  of  the  physical  and  moral  resur- 
rection of  the  races  of  the  West !  To  such  butchery  they  were 
to  be  borne  along  "by  the  currents  of  action  and  passionate  faith! 
Only  a  Napoleonic  genius  could  have  marked  out  a  chosen,  de- 
liberate aim  for  this  blind,  onward  rush.  But  nowhere  in  Europe 
was  there  any  genius  for  action.  It  was  as  though  the  world 


THE  NEW  DAWN  471 

had  chosen  the  most  mediocre  to  be  its  governors.  The  force 
of  the  human  mind  was  in  other  things. — So  there  was  nothing 
to  be  done  but  to  trust  to  the  declivity  down  which  they  were 
moving.  This  both  governors  and  governed  were  doing.  Europe 
looked  like  a  vast  armed  vigil. 

Christophe  remembered  a  similar  vigil,  when  he  had  had 
Olivier's  anxious  face  by  his  side.  But  then  the  menace  of  war 
had  been  only  a  passing  cloud.  Now  all  Europe  lay  under  its 
shadow.  And  Christophe's  heart  also  had  changed.  He  could 
not  share  in  the  hatred  of  the  nations.  His  state  of  mind  was 
like  that  of  Goethe  in  1813.  How  could  a  man  fight  without 
hatred  ?  And  how  could  he  hate  without  youth  ?  He  had  passed 
through  the  zone  of  hatred.  Which  of  the  great  rival  nations 
was  the  dearest  to  him?  He  had  learned  to  know  all  their 
merits,  and  what  the  world  owed  to  them.  When  a  man  has 
reached  a  certain  stage  in  the  development  of  the  soul  "  he 
knows  no  nation,  he  feels  the  happiness  or  unhappiness  of  the 
neighboring  peoples  as  his  own."  The  storm-clouds  are  at  his 
feet.  Around  him  is  nothing  but  the  sky — "  the  whole  Heavens, 
the  kingdom  of  the  eagle/' 

And  yet  Christophe  was  sometimes  embarrassed  by  this  am- 
bient hostility.  In  Paris  he  was  made  to  feel  too  clearly  that 
he  was  of  the  hostile  race :  even  his  friend  Georges  could  not 
resist  the  pleasure  of  giving  vent,  in  his  presence,  to  feelings 
about  Germany  which  made  him  sad.  Then  he  rushed  away, 
on  the  excuse  that  he  wanted  to  see  Grazia's  daughter :  and  he 
went  and  stayed  for  a  time  in  Rome.  But  there  the  atmosphere 
was  no  more  serene.  The  great  plague  of  national  pride  had 
spread  there,  and  had  transformed  the  Italian  character.  The 
Italians,  whom  Christophe  had  known  to  be  indifferent  and  in- 
dolent, were  now  thinking  of  nothing  but  military  glory,  battle, 
conquests,  Roman  eagles  flying  over  the  sands  of  Libya :  they 
believed  they  had  returned  to  the  time  of  the  Emperors.  The 
wonderful  thing  was  that  this  madness  was-  shared,  with  the 
best  faith  in  the  world,  by  the  opposition  parties,  socialists  and 
clericals,  as  well  as  by  the  monarchists,  and  they  had  not  thev 
least  idea  that  they  were  being  unfaithful  to  their  cause.  So 
little  do  politics  and  human  reason  count  when  the  great  epi- 
demic passions  sweep  over  the  nations.  Such  passions  do  not 


472         JEAX-CHRISTOPHE  :    JOURNEY'S  EXD 

even  trouble  to  suppress  individual  passions;  they  use  them; 
and  everything  converges  on  the  one  goal.  In  the  great  periods 
of  action  it  was  ever  thus.  The  armies  of  Henri  IV.,  the 
Councils  of  Louis  XIV.,  which  forged  the  greatness  of  France, 
numbered  as  many  men  of  faith  and  reason  as  men  of  vanity, 
interest,  and  enjoyment.  Jansenists  and  libertines,  Puritans  and 
gallants,  served  the  same  destiny  in  serving  their  instincts.  In 
the  forthcoming  wars  no  doubt  internationalists  and  pacificists 
will  kindle  the  blaze,  in  the  conviction,  like  that  of  their  an- 
cestors of  the  Convention,  that  they  are  doing  it  for  the  good 
of  the  nations  and  the  triumph  of  peace. 

With  a  somewhat  ironical  smile,  Christophe,  from  the  terrace 
of  the  Janiculum,  looked  down  on  the  disparate  and  harmonious 
city,  the  symbol  of  the  universe  which  it  dominated;  crumbling 
ruins,  "  baroque  "  facades,  modern  buildings,  cypress  and  roses 
intertwined — every  age,  every  style,  merged  into  a  powerful  and 
coherent  unity  beneath  the  clear  light.  So  the  mind  should 
shed  over  the  struggling  universe  the  order  and  light  that  are 
in  it. 

Christophe  did  not  stay  long  in  Rome.  The  impression  made 
on  him  by  the  city  was  too  strong :  he  was  afraid  of  it.  Truly 
to  profit  by  its  harmony  he  needed  to  hear  it  at  a  distance :  he 
felt  that  if  he  stayed  he  would  be  in  danger  of  being  absorbed 
by  it,  like  so  many  other  men  of  his  race.— Every  now  and 
then  he  went  and  stayed  in  Germany.  But.  when  all  was  told, 
and  in  spite  of  the  imminence  of  a  Franco-German  war,  Paris 
still  had  the  greatest  attraction  for  him.  Xo  doubt  this  was 
because  his  adopted  son,  Georges,  lived  there.  But  he  was  not 
only  swayed  by  reasons  of  affection.  There  were  other  reasons 
of  an  intellectual  order  that  were  no  less  powerful.  For  an 
artist  accustomed  to  the  full  life  of  the  mind,  who  generously 
shares  in  all  the  sufferings,  all  the  hopes,  and  all  the  passions 
of  the  great  human  family,  it  was  difficult  to  grow  accustomed 
to  life  in  Germany.  There  was  no  lack  of  artists  there.  But 
the  artists  lacked  air.  They  were  isolated  from  the  rest  of  the 
nation,  which  took  no  interest  in  them  :  other  preoccupations, 
social  or  practical,  absorbed  the  attention  of  the  public.  The 
poets  shut  themselves  up  in  disdainful  irritation  in  their  dis- 
dained art:  it  became  a  point  of  honor  with  them  to  sever 


THE  NEW  DAWN  473 

the  last  ties  which  bound  them  to  the  life  of  the  people:  they 
wrote  only  for  a  few,  a  little  aristocracy  full  of  talent,  refined 
and  sterile,  being  itself  divided  into  rival  groups  of  jaded  ini- 
tiates, and  they  were  stifled  in  the  narrow  room  in  which  they 
were  huddled  together:  they  were  incapable  of  expanding  it,  and 
set  themselves  to  dig  down;  they  turned  the  soil  over  until  it 
was  exhausted.  Then  they  drifted  away  into  their  archaic 
dreams,  and  never  even  troubled  to  bring  their  dreams  into  the 
common  stock.  Each  man  fought  for  his  place  in  the  mist. 
They  had  no  light  in  common.  Each  man  had  to  look  for 
light  within  himself. 

Yonder,  on  the  other  hand,  on  the  other  side  of  the  Rhine, 
among  their  neighbors  on  the  West,  the  great  winds  of  collective 
passion,  of  public  turbulence  and  tribulation,  swept  periodically 
over  art.  And,  high  above  the  plain,  like  their  Eiffel  Tower 
above  Paris,  shone  afar  off  the  never-dying  light  of  a  classic 
tradition,  handed  down  from  generation  to  generation,  which, 
while  it  never  enslaved  nor  constrained  the  mind,  showed  it  the 
road  followed  by  past  ages,  and  established  the  communion  of  a 
whole  nation  in  its  light.  Many  a  German  spirit — like  birds 
strayed  in  the  night — came  winging  towards  the  distant  beacon. 
But  who  is  there  in  France  can  dream  of  the  power  of  the 
sympathy  which  drives  so  many  generous  hearts  from  the  neigh- 
boring nation  towards  France !  So  many  hands  stretched  out : 
hands  that  are  not  responsible  for  the  aims  of  the  politi- 
cians !  .  .  .  And  you  see  no  more  of  us,  our  brothers  in 
Germany,  though  we  say  to  you:  "Here  are  our  hands.  In 
spite  of  lies  and  hatred,  we  will  not  be  parted.  We  have  need 
of  you,  you  have  need  of  us,  to  build  the  greatness  of  our 
spirits  and  our  people.  We  are  the  two  wings  of  the  West. 
Jf  one  be  broken,  there  is  an  end  of  flight!  Let  the  war  come! 
It  will  not  break  the  clasp  of  our  hands  or  the  flight  of  out- 
genius  in  brotherhood/' 

So  thought  Christophe.  TFe  felt  the  mutual  completion  which 
the  two  races  could  give  each  other,  and  how  lame  and  halting 
were  the  .spirit,  the  art,  the  action  of  each  without  the  help 
of  the  other.  For  his  own  part,  born  in  the  Rhine-lands  where 
the  two  civilizations  mingle  in  one  stream,  from  his  childhood 
he  had  instinctively  felt  their  inevitable  union;  all  through  his 


474         JEAN-CHKISTOPHE:   JOURNEY'S  END 

life  the  unconscious  effort  of  his  genius  had  been  to  maintain 
the  balance  and  equilibrium  of  the  two  mighty  wings.  The 
greater  was  his  wealth  of  Germanic  dreams,  the  more  he  needed 
the  Latin  clarity  of  mind  and  order.  It  was  for  this  reason 
that  France  was  so  dear  to  him.  In  France  he  had  the  joy 
of  better  knowledge  and  mastery  of  himself.  Only  in  France 
was  he  wholly  himself. 

He  turned  to  account  all  the  elements  that  were  or  might  be 
noxious  to  him.  He  assimilated  foreign  energy  in  his  own. 
A  vigorous  healthy  mind  absorbs  every  kind  of  force,,  even 
that  which  is  hostile  to  it,  and  makes  it  bone  and  flesh  of  its 
bone  and  flesh.  There  even  comes  a  time  when  a  man  is 
most  attracted  by  what  least  resembles  him,  for  therein  he  finds 
his  most  plentiful  nourishment. 

Christophe  did  in  fact  find  more  pleasure  in  the  work  of 
artists  who  were  set  up  as  his  rivals  than  in  the  work  of  his 
imitators : — for  he  had  imitators  who  called  themselves  his 
disciples,  to  his  great  despair.  They  were  honest,  laborious, 
estimable,  and  altogether  virtuous  people  who  were  full  of  respect 
and  veneration  for  him.  Christophe  would  have  given  much  if 
he  could  have  liked  their  music;  but — (it  was  just  his  luck!)  — 
he  could  not  do  it :  he  found  it  meaningless.  He  was  a  thousand 
times  more  pleased  with  the  talent  of  musicians  who  were  per- 
sonally antipathetic  to  him,  and  in  art  represented  tendencies 
hostile  to  his  own.  .  .  .  Well !  What  did  it  matter  ?  These 
men  were  at  least  alive !  Life  is,  in  itself,  such  a  virtue,  that, 
if  a  man  be  deprived  of  it,  though  he  possess  all  the  other  virtues, 
he  will  never  be  a  really  good  man,  for  he  cannot  really  be  a 
man.  Christophe  used  jokingly  to  say  that  the  only  disciples 
he  recognized  were  the  men  who  attacked  him.  And  when  a 
young  artist  came  and  talked  to  him  about  his  musical  vocation, 
and  tried  to  win  his  sympathy  by  flattering  him,  Christophe 
would  say : 

"  So.  My  music  satisfies  you  ?  That  is  how  you  would  ex- 
press your  love,  or  your  hatred  ?  " 

"  Yes,  master." 

"  Well.     Don't.     You  have  nothing  to  say." 

His  horror  of  the  submissive  temper  of  mind,  of  men  born 
to  obey,  his  need  o£  absorbing  other  ideas  than  his  own,  attracted 


THE  XEW  DAWN  475 

him  to  circles  whose  ideas  were  diametrically  opposed  to  his 
own.  He  had  friends  among  men  to  whom  his  art,  his  idealistic 
faith,  his  moral  conceptions,  were  a  dead  letter:  they  had  abso- 
lutely different  ways  of  envisaging  life,  love,  marriage,  the 
family,  every  social  relationship : — but  they  were  good  fellows, 
though  they  seemed  to  belong  to  another  stage  of  moral  evolu- 
tion :  the  anguish  and  the  scruples  that  had  consumed  a  part  of 
Christophe's  life  were  incomprehensible  to  them.  Xo  doubt 
that  was  all  the  better  for  them !  Christophe  had  no  desire  to 
make  them  understand.  He  did  not  ask  others  to  confirm  his 
ideas  by  thinking  as  he  did :  he  was  sure  of  his  own  thoughts. 
He  asked  them  to  let  him  know  their  thoughts,  and  to  love  their 
souls.  He  asked  always  to  know  and  to  love  more,  to  see  and  to 
learn  how  to  see.  He  had  reached  the  point  not  only  of  admitting 
in  others  tendencies  of  mind  that  he  had  once  combated,  but  also 
of  rejoicing  in  them,  for  they  seemed  to  him  to  contribute  to 
the  fecundity  of  the  universe.  He  loved  Georges  the  more  be- 
cause he  did  not  take  life  tragically,  as  he  did.  Humanity  would 
be  too  poor  and  too  gray  in  color  if  it  were  to  be  uniformly 
clad  in  the  moral  seriousness.,  and  the  heroic  restraint  with 
which  Christophe  was  armed.  Humanity  needed  joy,  careless- 
ness, irreverent  audacity  in  face  of  its  idols,  all  its  idols,  even 
the  most  holy.  Long  live  "  the  Gallic  salt  which  revives  the 
world  " !  Skepticism  and  faith  are  no  less  necessary.  Skepti- 
cism, riddling  the  faith  of  yesterday,  prepares  the  way  for  the 
faith  of  to-morrow.  .  .  .  How  clear  everything  becomes  to 
tbe  man  who  stands  away  from  life,  and,  as  in  a  fine  picture, 
sees  the  contrasting  colors  merge  into  a  magical  harmony,  where, 
when  they  were  closely  seen,  they  clashed. 

Christophe's  eyes  had  been  opened  to  the  infinite  variety  of 
the  material,  as  of  the  moral,  world.  It  had  been  one  of  his 
greatest  conquests  since  his  first  visit  to  Italy.  In  Paris  he 
especially  sought  the  company  of  painters  and  sculptors ;  it 
seemed  to  him  that  the  best  of  the  French  genius  was  in  them. 
The  triumphant  audacity  with  which  they  pursued  and  captured 
movement,  vibrant  color,  and  tore  away  the  veils  that  cover  life, 
made  his  heart  leap  with  delight.  The  inexhaustible  riches  that 
he  who  has  eyes  to  see  can  find  in  a  drop  of  light,  a  second  of 
life !  Against  such  sovereign  delights  of  the  mind  what  matters 


476         JEAX-CHRISTOPHE:    JOURNEY'S  END 

the  vain  tumult  of  dispute  and  war?  .  .  .  But  dispute  and 
war  also  are  a  part  of  the  marvelous  spectacle.  We  must  em- 
brace everything,  and.  valiantly,  joyously,  fling  into  the  crucible 
of  our  burning  hearts  both  the  forces  of  denial  and  the  forces 
of  affirmation,  enemies  and  friends,  the  whole  metal  of  life. 
The  end  of  it  all  is  the  statue  which  takes  shape  in  us.  the 
divine  fruit  of  our  minds;  and  all  is  good  that  helps  to  make 
it  more  beautiful  even  at  the  cost  of  the  sacrifice  of  ourselves. 
What  does  the  creator  matter?  Only  that  which  is  created  is 
real.  .  .  .  You  cannot  hurt  us,  ye  enemies  who  seek  to 
reach  us  with  your  hostility.  We  are  beyond  the  reach  of  your 
attacks.  .  .  .  You  are  rending  the  empty  cloak.  I  have  been 
gone  this  many  a  day. 

His  music  had  found  a  more  serene  form.  No  longer  did  it 
show  the  storms  of  spring,  which  gathered,  burst,  and  dis- 
appeared in  the  old  days,  but,  instead,  the  white  clouds  of 
summer,  mountains  of  snow  and  gold,  great  birds  of  light, 
slowly  soaring,  and  filling  the  sky.  .  .  .  Creation.  Ripening 
crops  in  the  calm  August  sunlight.  .  .  . 

At  first  a  vague,  mighty  torpor,  the  obscure  joy  of  the  full 
grape,  the  swollen  ear  of  corn,  the  pregnant  woman  brooding 
over  her  ripe  fruit.  A  buzzing  like  the  sound  of  an  organ;  the 
hive  all  alive  with  the  hum  of  the  bees.  .  .  .  Such  somber, 
golden  music,  like  an  autumn  honeycomb,  slowly  gives  forth 
the  rhythm  which  shall  mark  its  path:  the  round  of  the  planets 
is  made  plain:  it  begins  to  spin.  .  .  . 

Then  the  will  appears.  It  leaps  onto  the  back  of  the  whinny- 
ing dream  as  it  passes,  and  grips  it  with  its  knees.  The  mind 
recognizes  the  laws  of  the  rhythm  which  guides  it:  it  tames 
the  disordered  forces  and  fixes  the  path  they  shall  take,  the 
goal  towards  which  they  shall  move.  The  symphony  of  reason 
and  instinct  is  organized.  The  darkness  grows  bright.  On  the 
long  ribbon  of  the  winding  road,  at  intervals,  there  are  brilliant 
fires,  which  in  their  turn  shall  be  in  the  work  of  creation  the 
nucleus  of  little  planetary  worlds  linked  up  in  the  girdle  of 
their  solar  system.  .  .  . 

The  main  lines  of  the  picture  are  henceforth  fixed.  Xow 
it  looms  through  the  uncertain  light  of  dawn.  Evervthing  is 


THE  NEW  DAWN-  477 

becoming  definite:  the  harmony  of  the  colors,  the  outline  of 
the  figures.  To  bring  the  work  to  its  close  all  the  resources  of 
his  being  are  brought  into  requisition.  The  scent-box  of  memory 
is  opened  and  exhales  its  perfumes.  The  mind  unchains  the 
senses:  it  lets  them  wax  delirious  and  is  silent:  but,  crouching 
there,  it  watches  them  and  chooses  its  prey.  .  .  . 

All  is  ready:  the  team  of  workmen  carries  out,  with  the 
materials  snatched  from  the  senses,  the  work  planned  by  the 
mind.  A  great  architect  must  have  good  journeymen  who  know 
their  trade  and  will  not  spare  themselves. — The  cathedral  is 
finished. 

"  And  God  looked  down  on  his  work.  And  He  saw  that  it 
was  not  yet  good." 

The  Master's  eyes  take  in  the  whole  of  His  creation,,  and  His 
hand  perfects  its  harmony.  .  .  . 

The  dream  is  ended.     Tc  Deum.   .    .    . 

The  white  clouds  of  summer,  like  great  birds  of  light,  slowly 
soar  and  hover;  and  the  heavens  are  filled  with  their  widespread 
wings. 

And  yet  his  life  was  very  far  from  being  one  with  his  art. 
A  man  of  his  kind  cannot  do  without  love,  not  merely  that 
equable  love  which  the  spirit  of  an  artist  sheds  on  all  things 
in  the  world,  but  a  love  that  knows  preference:  he  must  always 
be  giving  himself  to  the  creatures  of  his  choice.  They  are  the 
roots  of  the  tree.  Through  them  his  heart's  blood  is  renewed. 

Christophe's  heart's  blood  was  nothing  like  dried  up.  He  was 
steeped  in  a  love  which  was  the  best  part  of  his  joy,  a  twofold 
love,  for  Grazia's  daughter  and  Olivier's  son.  He  united  them 
in  thought,  and  was  to  unite  them  in  reality. 

Georges  and  Aurora  had  met  at  Colette's :  Aurora  lived  in 
her  cousin's  house.  She  spent  part  of  the  year  in  Uome  and 
the  rest  in  Paris.  She  was  eighteen :  Georges  five  years  older. 
She  was  tall,  erect,  elegant,  with  a  small  head,  and  an  open 
countenance,  fair  hair,  a  dark  complexion,  a  slight  down  on 
her  lips,  bright  eyes  with  a  laughing  expression  behind  which 
lay  busy  thoughts,  a  rather  plump  chin,  brown  hands,  beautiful 
round  strong  arms,  and  a  fine  bust,  and  she  always  looked  gay, 


478         JEAX-CHRISTOPHK:    JOUBNEY'S  EXD 

proud,  and  worldly.  She  was  not  at  all  intellectual,  hardly  at 
all  sentimental,  and  she  had  inherited  her  mother's  careless 
indolence.  She  would  sleep  eleven  hours  on  end.  The  rest  of 
the  time  she  «pent  in  lounging  and  laughing,  only  half  awake. 
Christophe  called  her  Dornroschen — the  Sleeping  Beauty.  She 
reminded  him  of  his  old  love,,  Sabine.  She  used  to  sing  as  she 
went  to  bed,  and  when  she  got  up,  and  laugh  for  no  reason  at 
all,  with  merry  childish  laughter,  and  then  gulp  it  down  with 
a  sort  of  hiccough.  It  were  impossible  to  tell  how  she  spent 
the  time.  All  Colette's  efforts  to  equip  her  with  the  brilliant 
artificiality  which  is  so  easily  imposed  on  the  mind  of  a  young 
girl,  like  a  kind  of  lacquered  varnish,  had  been  wasted  :  the  var- 
nish would  not  hold.  She  learned  nothing:  she  would  take 
months  to  read  a  book,  and  would  like  it  immensely,  though  in  a 
week  she  would  forget  both  its  title  and  its  subject :  without  the 
least  embarrassment  she  would  make  mistakes  in  spelling,  and 
when  she  spoke  of  learned  matters  she  would  fall  into  the  most 
comical  blunders.  She  was  refreshing  in  her  youth,  her  gaiety, 
her  lack  of  intellectuality,  even  in  her  faults,  her  thoughtlessness 
which  sometimes  amounted  to  indifference,  and  her  nai've  egoism. 
She  was  always  so  spontaneous.  Young  as  she  was,  and  simple 
and  indolent,  she  could  when  she  pleased  play  the  coquette, 
though  in  all  innocence :  then  she  would  spread  her  net  for 
young  men  and  go  sketching,  or  play  the  nocturnes  of  Chopin, 
or  carry  books  of  poetry  which  she  had  not  read,  and  in- 
dulge in  conversations  and  hats  that  were  about  equally  ideal- 
istic. 

Christophe  would  watch  her  and  laugh  gently  to  himself. 
He  had  a  fatherly  tenderness,  indulgent  and  teasing,  for  Aurora. 
And  he  had  also  a  secret  feeling  of  worship  for  the  woman 
he  had  loved  who  had  come  again  with  new  youth  for  another 
love  than  his.  Xo  one  knew  the  depth  of  his  affection.  Only 
Aurora  ever  suspected  it.  From  her  childhood  she  had  almost 
always  been  used  to  having  Christophe  near  her,  and  she  used 
to  regard  him  as  one  of  her  family.  In  her  old  sorrow  at 
being  less  loved  than  her  brother  she  had  instinctively  drawn 
near  to  Christophe.  She  divined  that  he  bad  a  similar  sorrow; 
he  saw  her  grief :  and  though  they  never  exchanged  confidences, 
they  shared  each  other's  feelings.  Later,  when  she  discovered 


THE  NEW  DAWN  479 

the  feeling  that  united  her  mother  and  Christophe,  it  seemed 
to  her  that  she  was  in  the  secret,  though  they  had  never  told 
her.  She  knew  the  meaning  of  the  message  with  which  Grazia 
had  charged  her  as  she  lay  dying,  and  of  the  ring  which  was 
now  on  Christophe's  hand.  So  there  existed  hidden  ties  between 
her  and  Christophe,  ties  which  she  did  not  need  to  under- 
stand, to  feel  them  in  their  complexity.  She  was  sincerely 
attached  to  her  old  friend,  although  she  could  never  have  made 
the  effort  necessary  to  play  or  to  read  his  work.  Though  she 
was  a  fairly  good  musician,  she  had  never  even  had  the  curiosity 
to  cut  the  pages  of  a  score  he  had  dedicated  to  her.  She  loved 
to  come  and  have  an  intimate  talk  with  him. — She  came  more 
often  when  she  found  out  that  she  might  meet  Georges  Jeannin 
in  his  rooms. 

And  Georges,  too,  found  an  extraordinary  interest  in  Chris- 
tophe's company. 

However,  the  two  young  people  were  slow  to  realize  their 
real  feelings.  They  had  at  first  looked  at  each  other  mock- 
ingly. They  were  hardly  at  all  alike.  He  was  quicksilver,  she 
was  still  water.  But  it  was  not  long  before  quicksilver  tried  to 
appear  more  at  rest,  and  sleeping  water  awoke.  Georges  would 
criticise  Aurora's  clothes,  and  her  Italian  taste — a  slight  want 
of  feeling  for  modulation  and  a  certain  preference  for  crude 
colors.  Aurora  used  to  delight  in  teasing  Georges,  and  imitating 
his  rather  hurried  and  precious  way  of  speaking.  And  while 
they  laughed  at  each  other,  they  both  took  pleasure  .  .  .in 
laughing,  or  in  entertaining  each  other?  They  used  to  entertain 
Christophe  too,  and,  far  from  gainsaying  them,  lie  would  mali- 
ciously transpose  tbese  little  poisoned  darts  from  one  to  the 
other.  They  pretended  not  to  care:  but  they  soon  discovered 
that  they  cared  only  too  much;  and  both,  especially  Georges, 
being  incapable  of  concealing  their  annoyance,  as  soon  as  they 
met  they  would  begin  sparring.  Their  wounds  were  slight :  they 
were  afraid  of  hurting  each  other :  and  the  hand  which  dealt 
the  blow  was  so  dear  to  the  recipient  of  it  that  they  both  found 
more  pleasure  in  the  hurts  they  received  than  in  those  they 
gave.  They  used  to  watch  each  other  curiously,  and  their  eyes, 
seeking  defects,  would  find  only  attractions.  But  they  would 
not  admit  it.  Each,  to  Christophe,  would  declare  that  the  other 


480          JEAN-CHRTSTOPHE:    JOURNEY'S 

was  unbearable,  but.  for  all  that,  they  were  not  slow  to  seize 
every  opportunity  of  meeting  that  Christophe  gave  them. 

One  day  when  Aurora  was  with  her  old  friend  to  tell  him 
that  she  would  come  and  see  him  on  the  following  Sunday  in 
the  morning,  Georges  rushed  in,  like  a  whirlwind  as  usual, 
to  tell  Christophe  that  he  was  coming  on  Sunday  afternoon.  On 
Sunday  morning  Christophe  waited  in  vain  for  Aurora.  At  the 
hour  mentioned  by  Georges  she  appeared,  and  asked  him  to  for- 
give her  because  it  had  been  impossible  for  her  to  come  in  the 
morning:  she  embroidered  her  excuses  with  a  circumstantial 
story.  Christophe  was  amused  by  her  innocent  roguery,  and 
said: 

"  It  is  a  pity.  You  would  have  seen  Georges :  he  came  and 
lunched  with  me;  but  he  would  not  stay  this  afternoon." 

Aurora  was  discomfited,  and  did  not  listen  to  anything  Chris- 
tophe said.  He  went  on  talking  good-humoredly.  She  replied 
absently,  and  was  not  far  from  being  cross  with  him.  Came  a 
ring  at  the  bell.  It  was  Georges.  Aurora  was  amazed.  Chris- 
tophe looked  at  her  and  laughed.  She  saw  that  he  had  been 
making  fun  of  her,  and  laughed  and  blushed.  He  shook  his 
finger  at  her  waggishly.  Suddenly  she  ran  and  kissed  him 
warmly.  He  whispered  to  her : 

"  Biriccliina,  ladroncella,  furbetta.   ..." 

And  she  laid  her  hand  on  his  lips  to  silence  him. 

Georges  could  make  nothing  of  their  kissing  and  laughter, 
His  expression  of  astonishment,  almost  of  vexation,  added  to 
their  joy. 

So  Christophe  labored  to  bring  the  two  young  people  together. 
And  when  he  had  succeeded  lie  was  almost  sorry.  He  loved 
them  equally;  but  he  judged  Georges  more  hardly:  he  knew 
his  weakness:  he  idolized  Aurora,  and  thought  himself  responsi- 
ble for  her  happiness  even  more  than  for  Gcorges's;  for  it 
seemed  to  him  that  Georges  was  as  a  son  to  him.  a  part  of 
himself,  and  he  wondered  whether  it  was  not  wrong  to  give 
Aurora  in  her  innocence  a  companion  who  was  very  far  from 
sharing  it. 

But  one  day  as  he  passed  by  an  arbor  where  the  two  young 
people  were  sitting — (a  short  time  after  their  betrothal)— his 
heart  sank  as  he  heard  Aurora  laughingly  questioning  Georges 


THE  XEW  DAWN  481 

about  one  of  his  past  adventures,  and  Georges  telling  her,  nothing 
loth.  Other  scraps  of  conversation,  which  they  made  no  attempt 
to  disguise,  showed  him  that  Aurora  was  far  more  at  home 
than  himself  with  Georges's  moral  ideas.  Though  they  were 
very  much  in  love  with  each  other  it  was  clear  that  they  did  not 
regard  themselves  as  bound  forever;  into  their  discussions  of 
questions  relating  to  love  and  marriage,  they  brought  a  spirit 
of  liberty,  whicli  might  have  a  beauty  of  its  own,  though  it 
was  singularly  at  variance  with  the  old  ideal  of  mutual  devotion 
usque  ad  mortem.  And  Christophe  would  look  at  them  a  little 
sadly.  .  .  .  How  far  they  were  from  him  already!  How 
swiftly  does  the  ship  that  bears  our  children  speed  on !  .  .  . 
Patience!  A  day  will  come  when  we  shall  all  meet  in  harbor. 
Meanwhile  the  ship  paid  no  .heed  to  the  way  marked  out  for 
it:  it  trimmed  its  sails  to  every  wind. —  Ft  would  have  seemed 
natural  for  the  spirit  of  liberty,  which  was  then  tending  to 
modify  morality,  to  take  up  its  stand  also  in  the  other  domains 
of  thought  and  action.  But  it  did  nothing  of  the  kind:  human 
nature  cares  little  for  contradiction.  AVhile  morality  was  be- 
coming more  free,  the  mind  was  becoming  less  so;  it  was  de- 
manding that  religion  should  restore  its  yoke.  And  this  twofold 
movement  in  opposite  directions  was,  with  a  magnificent  de- 
fiance of  logic,  taking  place  in  the  same  souls.  Georges  and 
Aurora  had  been  caught  up  by  the  new  current  of  Catholicism 
which  was  conquering  many  people  of  fashion  and  many  in- 
tellectuals. Nothing  could  he  more  curious  than  the  way  in 
which  Georges,  who  was  naturally  critical  and  perfectly  irre- 
ligious, skepticism  being  to  him  as  easy  as  breathing.  Georges, 
who  had  never  cared  for  God  or  devil — a  true  Frenchman,  laugh- 
ing at  everything — suddenly  declared  that  there  lay  the  truth. 
lie  needed  truth  of  some  sort,  and  this  soiled  well  with  his 
need  of  action,  bis  atavistic  French  bourgeois  characteristics, 
and  bis  weariness  of  liberty.  The  young  fool  bad  wandered  long 
enough,  and  he  returned  of  his  o\vn  accord  to  be-  harnessed  to 
the  plow  of  his  race.  The  example  of  a  number  of  bis  friends 
was  enough  for  him.  Georges  was  hypersensitive  to  the  least 
atmospheric  pressure  of  the  ideas  that  surrounded  him.  and 
he  was  one  of  the  first  to  be  caught.  And  Aurora  followed  him, 
as  she  would  have  followed  him  anywhere.  At  once  they  felt 


482         JEAN-CHRISTOPHE :    JOURNEY'S  END 

sure  of  themselves,  and  despised  everybody  who  did  not  think 
as  they  did.  The  irony  of  it !  These  two  frivolous  children 
were  sincerely  devout,  while  the  moral  purity,  the  serious  and 
ardent  efforts  of  Grazia  and  Olivier  had  never  helped  them 
to  be  so,  in  spite  of  their  desire. 

Christophe  watched  their  spiritual  evolution  with  sympathetic 
curiosity.  He  did  not  try  to  fight  against  it,  as  Emmanuel 
would  have  done,  for  Emmanuel's  free  idealism  was  up  in  arms 
against  this  return  of  the  ancient  foe.  It  is  vain  to  fight 
against  the  passing  wind.  One  can  only  wait  for  it  to  go. 
The  reason  of  humanity  was  exhausted.  It  had  just  made  a 
gigantic  effort.  It  was  overcome  with  sleep,  and,  like  a  child 
worn  out  by  a  long  day,  before  going  to  sleep,  it  was  saying 
its  prayers.  The  gate  of  dreams  had  reopened ;  in  the  train 
of  religion  came  little  puffs  of  theosophy,  mysticism,  esoteric 
faiths,  occultism  to  visit  the  chambers  of  the  Western  mind. 
Even  philosophy  wras  wavering.  Their  gods  of  thought,  Bergson 
and  William  James,  were  tottering.  Even  science  was  attainted, 
even  science  was  showing  the  signs  of  the  fatigue  of  reason. 
We  have  a  moment's  respite.  Let  us  breathe.  To-morrow  the 
mind  will  awake  again,  more  alert,  more  free.  .  .  .  Sleep 
is  good  when  a  man  has  worked  hard.  Christophe,  who  had 
had  little  time  for  it,  was  happy  that  these  children  of  his 
should  enjoy  it  in  his  stead,  and  should  have  rest  for  the  soul, 
security  of  faith,  absolute,  unshakable  confidence  in  their  dreams. 
He  would  not  nor  could  he  have  exchanged  his  lot  for  theirs. 
But  he  thought  that  Grazia's  melancholy  and  Olivier's  distress 
of  mind  had  found  solace  in  their  children,  and  that  it  was 
well. 

"  All  that  we  have  suffered,  I,  my  friends,  and  so  many  others 
whom  I  never  knew,  others  who  lived  before  us,  all  has  been, 
that  these  two  might  attain  joy.  .  .  .  The  joy,  Antoinette, 
for  which  thou  wast  made,  the  joy  that  was  refused  thee !  .  .  . 
Ah !  If  only  the  unhappy  could  have  a  foretaste  of  the  hap- 
piness that  will  one  day  spring  forth  from  the  sacrifice  of  their 
lives !  " 

What  purpose  could  be  served  by  his  trying  to  dispute  their 
happiness?  We  must  not  try  to  make  others  happy  in  our  way, 
but  in  their  own.  At  most  he  only  asked  Georges  and  Aurora 


THE  NEW  DAWN  483 

not  to  be  too  contemptuous  of  those  who,  like  himself,  did 
not  share  their  faith. 

They  did  not  even  take  the  trouble  to  argue  with  him.  They 
seemed  to  say  to  each  other: 

"  He  cannot  understand.    ..." 

In  their  eyes  he  belonged  to  the  past.  And,  to  be  frank,  they 
did  not  attach  much  importance  to  the  past.  When  they  were 
alone  they  used  often  to  talk  innocently  of  the  things  they 
would  do  when  Christophe  "  was  no  longer  with  them."  .  .  . 
— However,  they  loved  him  well.  .  .  .  How  terrible  are  the 
children  who  grow  up  over  us  like  creepers !  How  terrible  is 
the  force  of  Nature,  hurrying,  hurrying,  driving  us  out.  .  .  . 

"Go!     Go!     Remove  thyself !     It  is  my  turn  now  !   ..." 

Christophe,  overhearing  their  thoughts,  longed  to  say  to 
them: 

"  Don't  be  in  such  a  hurry !  I  am  quite  happy  here.  Please 
regard  me  still  as  a  living  being." 

He  was  amused  by  their  naive  impertinence. 

"  You  may  as  well  say  straight  out,"  he  observed  one  day 
when  they  had  crushed  him  with  their  disdainful  manner.  "  You 
may  as  well  say  that  I  am  a  stupid  old  man." 

"  No,  no,  my  dear  old  friend,"  said  Aurora,  laughing  heartily. 
"  You  are  the  best  of  men,  but  there  are  some  things  that  you 
do  not  know." 

"  And  that  you  do  know,  my  girl  ?     You  are  very  wise  !  " 

"  Don't  laugh  at  me.  I  know  nothing  much.  But  Georges 
knows." 

Christophe  smiled : 

"  Yes.  You  are  right,  my  dear.  The  man  you  love  always 
knows." 

It  was  much  more  difficult  for  him  to  tolerate  their  music 
than  to  put  up  with  their  intellectual  superiority.  They  used 
to  try  his  patience  severely.  The  piano  was  given  no  rest  when 
they  were  in  his  rooms.  It  seemed  that  love  had  roused  them 
to  song,  like  the  birds.  But  they  were  by  a  long  way  not  so 
skilled  in  singing.  Aurora  had  no  illusions  as  to  her  talent, 
but  she  was  quite  otherwise  about  her  fiance :  she  could  see  no 
difference  between  Georges's  playing  and  Christophe's.  Perhaps 
she  preferred  Georges's  style,  and  Georges,  in  spite  of  his  ironic 


484         JEAN-CMillSTOPHE :    JOURNEY'S  END 

subtlety,  was  never  far  from  being  convinced  by  his  sweetheart's 
belief  in  him.  Christophe  never  contradicted  them :  maliciously 
he  would  concur  in  the  girl's  opinion  (except  when,  as  some- 
times happened,  he  could  bear  it  no  longer,  and  would  rush 
away,  banging  the  doors).  "With  an  affectionate,  pitying  smile 
he  would  listen  to  Georges  playing  Tristan  on- the  piano.  The 
unhappy  young  man  would  conscientiously  apply  himself  to 
the  transcription  of  the  formidable  pages  with  all  the  amiable 
sweetness  of  a  young  girl,  and  a  young  girl's  tender  feeling. 
Christophe  used  to  laugh  to  himself.  He  would  never  tell  the 
boy  why  he  laughed.  He  would  kiss  him.  He  loved  him  as  he 
was.  Perhaps  he  loved  him  the  more  for  it,  .  .  .  Poor 
boy!  .  .  .  Oh!  the  vanity  of  art!  .  .  . 

He  used  often  to  talk  about  "his  children  "-  —  (for  so  he 
called  them) — to  Emmanuel.  Emmanuel,  who  was  fond  of 
Georges,  used  jokingly  to  say  that  Christophe  ought  to  hand 
him  over  to  him.  He  had  Aurora,  and  it  was  not  fair.  Ho 
was  grabbing  everything. 

Their  friendship  had  become  almost  legendary  in  Parisian 
society,  though  they  lived  apart  from  it.  Emmanuel  had  grown 
passionately  devoted  to  Christophe,  though  his  pride  would  not 
let  him  show  it.  He  covered  it  up  with  his  brusque  manners, 
and  sometimes  used  to  be  absolutely  rude  to  Christophe.  P>ut 
Christophe  was  not  deceived.  He  knew  how  deeply  attached  to 
him  Emmanuel  was,  and  he  knew  the  worth  of  his  affection. 
Xo  week  went  by  but  they  met  two  or  three  times.  When  they 
were  prevented  by  ill-health  from  going  out,  they  used  to  write 
to  each  other.  Their  letters  might  have  been  written  from 
places  far  removed  from  Paris.  They  were  less  interested  in 
external  happenings  than  in  the  progress  of  the  mind  in  science 
and  art.  Thev  lived  in  their  ideas,  pondering  their  art.  or 
beneath  the  chaos  of  facts  perceiving  the  little  undistinguished 
gleam  which  reveals  the  progress  of  the  history  of  the  human 
mind. 

Generally  it  was  Christophe  who  visited  Emmanuel.  Al- 
though, since  a  recent  illness,  he  was  not  much  better  in  health 
than  his  friend,  he  had  grown  used  to  thinking  that  Emmanuel's 
health  called  for  more  consideration  than  his  own.  Christophe 


THE  NEW  DAWN  485 

could  not  now  ascend  Emmanuel's  six  flights  of  stairs  without 
difficulty,  and  when  he  reached  the  top  he  had  to  wait  a  moment 
to  recover  his  breath.  They  were  both  incapable  of  taking  care 
of  themselves.  In  defiance  of  their  weak  throats  and  their 
fits  of  despondency,  they  were  inveterate  smokers.  That  was 
one  of  the  reasons  why  Christophe  preferred  that  they  should 
meet  in  Emmanuel's  rooms  rather  than  in  his  own,  for  Aurora 
used  to  declare  war  on  his  habit  of  smoking,  and  he  used  to 
hide  away  from  her.  Sometimes  they  would  both  break  out 
coughing  in  the  middle  of  their  conversation,  and  then  they 
would  break  off  and  look  at  each  other  guiltily  like  schoolboys, 
and  laugh :  and  sometimes  one  would  lecture  the  other  while 
he  was  coughing ;  but  as  soon  as  he  had  recovered  his  breath  the 
other  would  vigorously  protest  that  smoking  had  nothing  to  do 
with  it. 

On  Emmanuel's  table,  in  a  clear  space  among  the  papers,  a 
gray  cat  would  sit  and  gravely  look  at  the  smokers  with  an 
air  of  reproach.  Christophe  used  to  say  that  it  was  their  living 
conscience,  and,  by  way  of  stifling  it,  he  would  cover  it  up 
with  his  hat.  It  was  a  wretched  beast,  of  the  commonest  kind, 
that  Emmanuel  had  picked  up  half-dead  in  the  street;  it  had 
never  really  recovered  from  the  brutal  handling  it  had  received, 
and  ate  very  little,  and  hardly  ever  played,  and  never  made 
any  noise :  it  was  very  gentle,  and  used  to  follow  its  master 
about  with  its  intelligent  eyes,  and  be  unhappy  when  he  was 
absent,  and  quite  content  to  sit  on  the  table  by  his  side,  only 
breaking  off  its  musing  ecstatically,  for  hours  together,  to  watch 
the  cage  where  the  inaccessible  birds  fluttered  about,  purring 
politely  at  the  least  mark  of  attention,  patiently  submitting  to 
Emmanuel's  capricious,  and  Christophe's  rough,  attentions,  and 
always  being  very  careful  not  to  scratch  or  bite.  It  was  very 
delicate,  and  one  of  its  eyes  was  always  weeping:  it  used  to 
cough:  and  if  it  had  been  able  to  speak  it  would  certainly  not 
have  had  the  effrontery,  like  the  two  men,  to  declare  that  "the 
smoke  had  nothing  to  do  with  it " ;  but  it  accepted  everything 
at  their  hands,  and  seemed  to  think : 

"  They  are  men.     They  know  what  they  are  doing." 
Emmanuel  was  fond  of  the  beast  because  he  saw  a  certain 
similarity  between  its  lot   and  his   own.     Christophe   used  to 


486         JEAX-OIIBISTOPHE:    JOUENEY'S  EXD 

declare  that  the  resemblance  was  even  extended  to  the  expression 
in  their  eyes. 

"  Why  not  ?  "  Emmanuel  would  say. 

Animals  reflect  their  surroundings.  Their  faces  grow  re- 
fined or  the  reverse  according  to  the  people  with  whom  they 
live.  A  fool's  cat  has  a  different  expression  from  that  of  a 
clever  man's  cat.  A  domestic  animal  will  become  good  or  bad, 
frank  or  sly,  sensitive  or  stupid,  not  only  according  to  what 
its  master  teaches  it,  but  also  according  to  what  its  master  is. 
And  this  is  true  not  only  of  the  influence  of  men.  Places  fashion 
animals  in  their  own  image.  A  clear,  bright  landscape  will  light 
up  the  eyes  of  animals. — Emmanuel's  gray  cat  was  in  harmony 
with  the  stuffy  garret  and  its  ailing  master,  who  lived  under 
the  Parisian  sky. 

Emmanuel  had  grown  more  human.  Tie  was  not  the  same 
man  that  he  had  been  at  the  time  of  his  first  acquaintance  with 
Christophe.  He  had  been  profoundly  shaken  by  a  domestic 
tragedy.  His  companion,  whom,  in  a  moment  of  exasperation, 
he  had  made  too  clearly  feel  how  tiresome  the  burden  of  her 
affection  was  to  him,  had  suddenly  disappeared.  Frantic  with 
anxiet_y,  he  spent  a  whole  night  looking  for  her,  and  at  last  he 
found  her  in  a  police  station  where  she  was  being  retained. 
She  had  tried  to  throw  herself  into  the  Seine;  a  passer-by  had 
caught  hold  of  her  by  the  clothes,  and  pulled  her  back  just  as 
she  was  clambering  over  the  parapet  of  the  bridge;  she  had 
refused  to  give  her  name  and  address,  and  made  another  attempt 
on  her  life.  The  sight  of  her  grief  had  overwhelmed  Emmanuel ; 
he  could  not  bear  the  thought  that,  having  suffered  so  much 
at  the  hands  of  others,  he,  in  his  turn,  was  causing  suffering. 
He  brought  the  poor  crazed  creature  back  to  his  rooms,  and 
did  his  best  to  heal  the  wound  he  had  dealt  her,  and  to  win 
her  back  to  the  confidence  in  his  affection  she  so  sorely  needed. 
He  suppressed  his  feeling  of  revolt,  and  resigned  himself  to  her 
absorbing  love,  and  devoted  to  her  the  remainder  of  his  life. 
The  whole  sap  of  his  genius  had  rushed  back  to  his  heart. 
The  apostle  of  action  had  come  to  the  belief  that  there  was 
only  one  course  of  action  that  was  really  good — not  to  do  evil. 
His  part  was  played.  It  seemed  that  the  Force  which  raises 
the  great  human  tides  had  used  him  only  as  an  instrument,  to 


THE  NEW  DAWN  487 

let  loose  action.  Once  his  orders  were  carried  out,  he  was 
nothing:  action  pursued  its  way  without  him.  He  watched  it 
moving  on,  almost  resigned  to  the  injustice  which  touched  him 
personally,  though  not  altogether  to  that  which  concerned  his 
faith.  For  although,  as  a  free-thinker,  he  claimed  to  be  free 
of  all  religion  and  used  humorously  to  call  Christophe  a  clerical 
in  disguise,  like  every  sturdy  spirit,  he  had  his  altar  on  which 
he  deified  the  dreams  to  which  he  sacrificed  himself.  The  altar 
was  deserted  now,  and  Emmanuel  suffered.  How  could  he 
without  suffering  see  the  blessed  ideas,  which  he  had  so  hardly 
led  to  victory,  the  ideas  for  which,  during  the  last  hundred 
years,  all  the  finest  men  had  suffered  such  bitter  torment — how 
could  he  see  them  tramped  underfoot  by  the  oncoming  genera- 
tion? The  whole  magnificent  inheritance  of  French  idealism — 
the  faith  in  Liberty,  which  had  its  saints,  martyrs,  heroes,  the 
love  of  humanity,  the  religious  aspiration  towards  the  brother- 
hood of  nations  and  races — all,  all  was  with  blind  brutality 
pillaged  by  the  younger  generation!  What  madness  is  it  in 
them  that  makes  them  sigh  for  the  monsters  we  had  vanquished, 
submit  to  the  yoke  that  we  had  broken,  call  back  with  great 
shouts  the  reign  of  Force,  and  kindle  Hatred  and  the  insanity 
of  war  in  the  heart  of  my  beloved  France ! 

'*  It  is  not  only  in  France,"  Christophe  would  say  laughingly, 
"  it  is  throughout  the  entire  world.  From  Spain  to  China  blows 
the  same  keen  wind.  There  is  not  a  corner  anywhere  for  a 
man  to  find  shelter  from  the  wind!  It  is  becoming  a  joke: 
even  in  my  little  Switzerland,  which  is  turning  nationalist !  '' 

"  You  find  that  comforting  ?  " 

"Certainly.  It  shows  that  such  waves  of  feeling  are  not 
due  to  the  ridiculous  passions  of  a  few  men,  but  to  a  hidden 
God  who  controls  the  universe.  And  I  have  learned  to  bow 
before  that  (Jod.  If  1  do  not  understand  Him.  that  is  my 
fault,  not  His.  Try  to  understand  Him.  Hut  how  many  of 
you  take  the  trouble  to  do  that?  You  live  from  day  to  day, 
and  see  no  farther  than  the  next  milestone,  and  you  imagine 
that  it  marks  the  end  of  the  road.  You  see  the  wave  that  bears 
you  along,  but  you  do  not  see  the  sea!  The  wave  of  to-day  is 
the  wave  of  yesterday:  it  is  the  wave  of  our  souls  that  prepared 
the  way  for  it.  The  wave  of  to-day  will  plow  the  ground  for 


488         JEAN-CHRISTOPHE :    JOURNEY'S  END 

the  wave  of  to-morrow,  which  will  wipe  out  its  memory  as  the 
memory  of  ours  is  wiped  out.  I  neither  admire  nor  dread  the 
naturalism  of  the  present  time.  It  will  pass  away  with  the 
present  time :  it  is  passing,  it  has  already  passed.  It  is  a  rung 
in  the  ladder.  Climb  to  the  top  of  it !  It  is  the  advance-guard 
of  the  coming  army.  Hark  to  the  sound  of  its  fifes  and 
drums !  .  .  . " 

(Christophe  drummed  on  the  table,  and  woke  the  cat,  which 
sprang  away.) 

"...  Every  nation  now  feels  the  imperious  necessity  of 
gathering  its  forces  and  making  up  its  balance-sheet.  For  the 
last  hundred  years  all  the  nations  have  been  transformed  by 
their  mutual  intercourse  and  the  immense  contributions  of  all 
the  brains  of  the  universe,  building  up  new  morality,  new  knowl- 
edge, new  faith.  Every  man  must  examine  his  conscience,  and 
know  exactly  what  he  is  and  what  he  has,  before  he  can  enter 
with  the  rest  into  the  new  age.  A  new  age  is  coming.  Human- 
ity is  on  the  point  of  signing  a  new  lease  of  life.  Society  is 
on  the  point  of  springing  into  new  vigor  with  new  laws.  It  is 
Sunday  to-morrow.  Every  one  is  making  up  his  accounts  for 
the  week,  setting  his  house  in  order,  making  it  clean  and  tidy, 
that,  with  other  men,  we  may  go  into  the  presence  of  our  common 
God  and  make  a  new  compact  of  alliance  with  Him." 

Emmanuel  looked  at  Christophe,  and  his  eyes  reflected  the 
passing  vision.  He  was  silent  for  some  time  after  Christophe 
had  finished  speaking,  and  then  he  said : 

"  You  are  lucky.  Christophe !     You  do  not  see  the  night !  " 

"  I  can  see  in  the  dark,"  said  Christophe.  "  I  have  lived  in 
it  enough.  I  am  an  old  owl." 

About  this  time  his  friends  noticed  a  change  in  his  manner. 
He  was  often  distracted  and  absent-minded.  He  hardly  listened 
to  what  was  said  to  him.  He  had  an  absorbed,  smiling  ex- 
pression. When  his  absent-mindedness  was  commented  upon 
he  would  gently  excuse  himself.  Sometimes  he  would  speak 
of  himself  in  the  third  person : 

"  Krafft  will  do  that  for  you.   .    .    ." 
or, 

"Christophe  will  laugh  at  that.   ..." 


THE  NEW  DAWN  489 

People  who  did  not  know  him  said : 

"  What  extraordinary  self-infatuation !  " 

But  it  was  just  the  opposite.  He  saw  himself  from  the  out- 
side, as  a  stranger.  He  had  reached  the  stage  when  a  man 
loses  interest  even  in  the  struggle  for  the  beautiful,  because, 
when  a  man  has  done  his  work,  he  is  inclined  to  believe  that 
others  will  do  theirs,  and  that,  when  all  is  told,  as  Rodin  says, 
"  the  beautiful  will  always  triumph."  The  malevolence  and 
injustice  of  men  did  not  repel  him. — He  would  laugh  and  tell 
himself  that  it  was  not  natural,  that  life  was  ebbing  away  from 
him. 

In  fact,  he  had  lost  much  of  his  old  vigor.  The  least  physical 
effort,  a  long  walk,  a  fast  drive,  exhausted  him.  He  quickly 
lost  his  breath,  and  he  had  pains  in  his  heart.  Sometimes  he 
Avould  think  of  his  old  friend  Schulz.  He  never  told  anybody 
what  he  was  feeling.  It  was  no  good.  It  was  useless  to  upset 
his  friends,  and  he  would  never  get  any  better.  Besides  he  did 
not  take  his  symptoms  seriously.  He  far  more  dreaded  having 
to  take  care  of  himself  than  being  ill. 

He  had  an  inward  presentiment  and  a  desire  to  see  his 
country  once  more.  He  had  postponed  going  from  year  to 
year,  always  saying — "  next  year.  ..."  Now  he  would  post- 
pone it  no  longer. 

He  did  not  tell  any  one,  and  went  away  by  stealth.  The 
journey  was  short.  Christophe  found  nothing  that  he  had 
come  to  seek.  The  changes  that  had  been  in  the  making  on 
his  .last  visit  were  now  fully  accomplished :  the  little  town  had 
become  a  great  industrial  city.  The  old  houses  had  disappeared. 
The  cemetery  also  was  gone.  Where  Sabine's  farm  had  stood 
was  now  a  factory  with  tall  chimneys.  The  river  had  washed 
away  the  meadows  where  Christophe  had  played  as  a  child.  A 
street  (and  such  a  street!)  between  black  buildings  bore  his 
name.  The  whole  of  the  past  was  dead,  even  death  itself.  .  .  . 
So  be  it!  Life  was  going  on:  perhaps  other  little  Christophes 
were  dreaming,  suffering,  struggling,  in  the  shabby  houses  in 
the  street  that  was  called  after  him. — At  a  concert  in  the 
gigantic  Tonlialle  he  heard  some  of  his  music  played,  all  topsy- 
turvy: he  hardly  recognized  it.  ...  So  be  it!  Though  it 
were  misunderstood  it  might  perhaps  arouse  new  energy.  We 


490         JKAN-CHEISTOPHE:    JOUKNEY'S  EXD 

sowed  the  seed.  Do  what  you  will  with  it:  feed  on  us. — At 
nightfall  Christophe  walked  through  the  fields  outside  the  city; 
great  mists  were  rolling  over  them,  and  he  thought  of  the  great 
mists  that  should  enshroud  his  life,  and  those  whom  he  had 
loved,  who  were  gone  from  the  earth,  who  had  taken  refuge 
in  his  heart,  who,  like  himself,  would  he  covered  up  by  the 
falling  night.  ...  So  be  it !  So  be  it !  I  am  not  afraid 
of  thee,  0  night,  thou  devourer  of  suns !  For  one  star  that 
is  put  out.  thousands  are  lit  up.  Like  a  bowl  of  boiling  milk, 
the  abysm  of  space  is  overflowing  with  light.  Thou  shalt  not 
put  me  out.  The  breath  of  death  will  set  the  flame  of  my 
life  flickering  up  once  more.  .  .  . 

On  his  return  from  Germany,  Christophe  wanted  to  stop  in 
the  town  where  he  had  known  Anna.  Since  he  had  left  it,  he 
had  had  no  news  of  her.  He  had  never  dared  to  ask  after 
her.  For  years  her  very  name  was  enough  to  upset  him.  .  .  . 
— Xow  he  was  calm  and  had  no  fear.  But  in  the  evening,  in 
his  room  in  the  hotel  looking  out  on  the  Rhine,  the  familiar 
song  of  the  bells  ringing  in  the  morrow's  festival  awoke  the 
images  of  the  past.  From  the  river  there  ascended  the  faint 
odor  of  distant  danger,  which  he  found  it  hard  to  understand. 
He  spent  the  whole  night  in  recollection.  He  felt  that  he  was 
free  of  the  terrible  Lord,  and  found  sweet  sadness  in  the  thought. 
He  had  not  made  up  his  mind  what  to  do  on  the  following  day. 
For  a  moment— (the  past  lay  so  far  behind!) — he  thought  of 
calling  on  the  Brauns.  But  when  the  morrow  came  his  courage 
failed  him :  he  dared  not  even  ask  at  the  hotel  whether  the 
doctor  and  his  wife  were  still  alive.  He  made  up  his  mind 
to  go.  .  .  . 

When  the  time  came  for  him  to  go  an  irresistible  force  drove 
him  to  the  church  which  Anna  used  to  attend :  he  stood  behind 
a  pillar  from  which  he  could  see  the  seat  where  in  old  days 
she  used  to  come  and  kneel.  He  waited,  feeling  sure  that,  if 
she  were  still  alive,  she  would  come. 

A  woman  did  come,  and  he  did  not  recognize  her.  She  was 
like  all  the  rest,  plump,  full-faced,  with  a  heavy  chin,  and  an 
indifferent,  hard  expression.  She  was  dressed  in  black.  She 
sat  down  in  her  place,  and  did  not  stir.  There  was  nothing 
in  the  woman  to  remind  Christophe  of  the  woman  he  was  ex- 


THE  NEW  DAWN  491 

pecting.  Only  once  or  twice  she  made  a  certain  queer  little 
gesture  as  though  to  smooth  out  the  folds  of  her  skirt  about 
her  knees.  In  old  days,  she  had  made  such  a  gesture.  .  .  . 
As  she  went  out  she  passed  slowly  by  him,  with  her  head  erect 
and  her  hands  holding  her  prayer-book,  folded  in  front  of  her. 
For  a  moment  her  somber,  tired  eyes  met  Christophe's.  And 
they  looked  at  each  other.  And  they  did  not  recognize  each 
other.  She  passed  on,  straight  and  stiff,  and  never  turned  her 
head.  It  was  only  after  a  moment  that  suddenly,  in  a  Hash  of 
memory,  beneath  the  frozen  smile,  he  recognized  the  lips  he 
had  kissed  by  a  certain  fold  in  them.  .  .  .  He  gasped  for 
breath  and  his  knees  trembled.  He  thought : 

"Lord,  is  that  the  body  in  which  she  dwelt  whom  I  loved? 
Where  is  she?  Where  is  she?  And  where  am  I,  myself? 
Where  is  the  man  who  loved  her?  What  is  there  left  of  us 
and  the  cruel  love  that  consumed  us  ? — Ashes.  Where  is  the 
fire  ?  " 

And  his  God  answered  and  said: 

"  In  Me." 

Then  he  raised  his  eyes  and  saw  her  for  the  last  time  in  the 
crowd  passing  through  the  door  into  the  sunlight. 

It  was  shortly  after  his  return  to  Paris  that  he  made  peace 
with  his  old  enemy,  Levy-Cunir,  who  had  been  attacking  him 
for  a  long  time  with  equal  malicious  talent  and  bad  faith. 
Then,  having  attained  the  highest  success,  glutted  witb  honors, 
satiated,  appeased,  he  had  been  clever  enough  secretly  to  recog- 
nize Christophe's  superiority,  and  had  made  advances  lo  him. 
rhristophe  pretended  to  notice  neither  attacks  nor  advances 
Levy-Coeur  wearied  of  it.  They  lived  in  the  same?  neighborhood 
and  used  often  to  meet.  As  they  passed  each  oilier  Christophe 
would  look  through  Levy-Coour,  who  was  exasperated  by  this 
calm  way  of  ignoring  his  existence. 

He  had  a  daughter  between  eighteen  and  twenty,  a  pretty, 
elegant  girl,  with  a  profile  like  a  lamb,  a  cloud  of  curly  fair 
hair,  soft  coquettish  eyes,  and  a  Lnini  smile.  They  used  to 
go  for  walks  together,  and  Ohristophe  often  met  them  in  the 
Luxembourg  Gardens;  they  seemed  very  intimate1,  and  the  girl 
would  walk  arm-in-arm  with  her  father.  Absent-minded  though 


492        JEAN-CHKISTOPHE:   JOURNEY'S  END 

he  was,  Christophe  never  failed  to  notice  a  pretty  face,  and  he 
had  a  weakness  for  the  girl.  He  would  think  of  Levy-Cceur : 

"  Lucky  beast !  " 

But  then  he  would  add  proudly: 

"  But  I  too  have  a  daughter." 

And  he  used  to  compare  the  two.  In  the  comparison  his 
bias  was  all  in  favor  of  Aurora,  but  it  led  him  to  create  in  his 
mind  a  sort  of  imaginary  friendship  between  the  two  girls, 
though  they  did  not  know  each  other,  and  even,  without  his 
knowing  it,  to  a  certain  feeling  for  Levy-Cceur. 

When  he  returned  from  Germany  he  heard  that  "  the  lamb  " 
was  dead.  In  his  fatherly  selfishness  his  first  thought  was : 

"  Suppose  it  had  been  mine !  " 

And  he  was  filled  with  an  immense  pity  for  Levy-Cceur. 
His  first  impulse  was  to  write  to  him :  he  began  two  letters, 
but  was  not  satisfied,  was  ashamed  of  them,  and  did  not  send 
either.  But  a  few  days  later  when  he  met  Levy-Cceur  with  a 
weary,  miserable  face,  it  was  too  much  for  him :  he  went  straight 
up  to  the  poor  wretch  and  held  out  both  hands  to  him.  Levy- 
Cceur,  with  a  little  hesitation,  took  them  in  his.  Christophe 
said: 

"You  have  lost  her!   ..." 

The  emotion  in  his  voice  touched  Levy-Cceur.  It  was  so 
unexpected !  He  felt  inexpressibly  grateful.  .  .  .  They  talked 
for  a  little  sadly  and  confusedly.  When  they  parted  nothing 
was  left  of  all  that  had  divided  them.  They  had  fought:  it 
was  inevitable,  no  doubt :  each  man  must  fulfil  the  law  of  his 
nature !  But  when  men  see  the  end  of  the  tragi-comedy  coming, 
they  put  off  the  passions  that  masked  them,  and  meet  face  to 
face, — two  men,  of  whom  neither  is  of  much  greater  worth 
than  the  other,  who,  when  they  have  played  their  parts  to  the 
best  of  their  ability,  have  the  right  in  the  end  to  shake  hands. 

The  marriage  of  Georges  and  Aurora  had  been  fixed  for  the 
early  spring.  Christophe's  health  was  declining  rapidly.  He 
had  seen  his  children  watching  him  anxiously.  Once  he  heard 
them  whispering  to  each  other.  Georges  was  saying: 

"  How  ill  he  looks !  He  looks  as  though  he  might  fall  ill 
at  any  moment." 


THE  NEW  DAWN  493 

And  Aurora  replied : 

"  If  only  he  does  not  delay  our  marriage !  " 

He  did  not  forget  it.  Poor  children !  They  might  be  sure 
that  he  would  not  disturb  their  happiness ! 

But  he  was  inconsiderate  enough  on  the  eve  of  the  marriage — 
(he  had  been  absurdly  excited  as  the  day  drew  near :  as  excited 
as  though  it  were  he  who  was  going  to  be  married) — he  was 
stupid  enough  to  be  attacked  by  his  old  trouble,  a  recurrence 
of  pneumonia,  which  had  first  attacked  him  in  the  days  of 
the  Market-Place.  He  was  furious  with  himself,  and  dubbed 
himself  fool  and  idiot.  He  swore  that  he  would  not  give  in 
until  the  marriage  had  taken  place.  He  thought  of  Grazia 
as  she  lay  dying,  never  telling  him  of  her  illness  because  of  his 
approaching  concert,  for  fear  lest  he  should  be  distracted  from 
his  work  and  pleasure.  Now  he  loved  the  idea  of  doing  for 
her  daughter — for  her — what  she  had  done  for  him.  He  con- 
cealed his  condition,  but  he  found  it  hard  to  keep  himself  going. 
However,  the  happiness  of  his  children  made  him  so  happy  that 
he  managed  to  support  the  long  ordeal  of  the  religious  ceremony 
without  disaster.  But  he  had  hardly  reached  Colette's  house 
than  his  strength  gave  out :  he  had  just  time  enough  to  shut 
himself  up  in  a  room,  and  then  he  fainted.  He  was  found  by 
a  servant.  Wben  he  came  to  himself  Christophe  forbade  them 
to  say  anything  to  the  bride  and  bridegroom,  who  were  going 
off  on  their  honeymoon  in  the  evening.  They  were  too  much 
taken  up  with  themselves  to  notice  anything  else.  Tbey  left 
him  gaily,  promising  to  write  to  him  to-morrow,  and  after- 
wards. .  .  . 

As  soon  as  they  were  gone,  Christophe  took  to  his  bed.  He 
was  feverish,  and  could  not  shake  off  the  fever.  He  was  alone. 
Emmanuel  was  ill  too,  and  could  not  come.  Christophe  did 
not  call  in  a  doctor.  He  did  not  think  his  condition  was  serious. 
Besides,  he  had  no  servant  to  go  for  a  doctor.  The  housekeeper 
who  came  for  two  hours  in  the  morning  took  no  interest  in 
him,  and  he  dispensed  with  her  services.  He  had  a  dozen  times 
begged  her  not  to  touch  any  of  his  papers  when  she  was  dusting 
his  room.  She  would  do  it :  she  thought  she  had  a  fine  oppor- 
tunity to  do  as  she  liked,  now  that  he  was  confined  to  his  bed, 
la  the  mirror  of  his  wardrobe  door  he  saw  her  from  his  bed 


494         JEAN-CHBISTOPHE :    JOURNEY'S  END 

turning  the  whole  room  upside  dcnvn.  Ho  was  so  furious — (no, 
assuredly  the  old  Adam  was  not  dead  in  him  !) — that  he  jumped 
out  of  bed,  snatched  a  packet  of  papers  out  of  her  hands,  and 
showed  her  the  door.  His  anger  cost  him  a  bout  of  fever  and 
the  departure  of  the  servant,  vho  lost  her  temper  and  never 
returned,  without  even  taking  the  trouble  to  tell  the  "  old 
madman,"  as  she  called  him.  So  he  was  left,  ill,  with  no  one 
to  look  after  him.  He  would  get  up  in  the  morning  to  take 
in  the  jug  of  milk  left  at  the  door,  and  to  see  if  the  portress 
had  not  slipped  under  the  door  the  promised  letter  from  the 
lovers.  The  letter  did  not  come :  they  had  forgotten  him  in 
their  happiness.  He  was  not  angry  with  them,  and  thought 
that  in  their  place  ho  would  have  done  the  same.  He  thought 
of  their  careless  joy,  and  that  it  was  he  had  given  it  to  them. 

He  was  a  little  better  and  was  able  to  get  up  when  at  last  a 
letter  came  from  Aurora.  Georges  had  been  content  to  add  his 
signature.  Aurora  asked  very  little  about  Christophe  and  told 
very  little,  but,  to  make  up  for  it,  she  gave  him  a  commission, 
begging  him  to  send  her  a  necktie  she  had  left  at  Colette's. 
Although  it  was  not  at  all  important — (Aurora  had  only  thought 
of  it  as  she  sat  down  to  write  to  Christophe,  and  then  only 
because  she  wanted  something  to  say), — ('hristophe  was  only 
too  delighted  to  be  of  use,  and  went  out  at  once  to  fetch  it. 
The  weather  was  cold  and  gusty.  The  winter  had  taken  an 
unpleasant  turn.  Melting  snow,  and  an  icy  wind.  There  were 
no  carriages  to  be  had.  Christophe  spent  some  time  in  a  parcels' 
office.  The  rudeness  of  the  clerks  and  their  deliberate  slowness 
made  him  irritable,  which,  did  not  help  bis  business  on.  His 
illness  was  partly  responsible  for  his  gusts  of  anger,  which  the 
tranquillity  of  his  mind  repudiated;  they  shook  his  body,  like 
the  last  tremors  of  an  oak  falling  under  the  blows  of  an  ax. 
He  returned  chilled  and  trembling.  As  he  entered,  the  portress 
handed  him  a  cutting  from  a  review.  He  glanced  at  it.  It  was 
a  spiteful  attack  upon  himself.  They  were  growing  rare  in 
these  davs.  There  is  no  pleasure  in  attacking  a  man  who  never 
notices  the  blows  dealt  him.  The  most  violent  of  his  enemies 
were  reduced  to  a  feeling  of  respect  for  him,  which  exasperated 
them,  for  they  still  detested  him. 

"'  \\e  believe;"  said  Bismarck,  almost  regretfully,  "that  noih- 


THE  XEW  DAWN  495 

ing    is  more    involuntary    titan    love.     Respect    is    even    more 

so.   .    .    ." 

But  the  writer  of  the  article  was  one  of  those  strong  men, 
who,  being  better  armed  than  Bismarck,  escape  both  respect 
and  love.  He  spoke  of  Christophe  in  insulting  terms,  and 
announced  a  series  of  attacks  during  the  following  fortnight : 
Christophe  began  to  laugh,  and  said  as  lie  went  to  bed  again: 

"  He  will  be  surprised !     He  won't  find  me  at  home !  '' 

They  tried  to  make  him  have  a  nurse,  but  he  refused  ob- 
stinately, saying  that  he  had  lived  alone  so  much  that  he  thought 
he  might  at  least  have  the  benefit  of  his  solitude  at  such  a  time. 

He  was  never  bored.  During  these  last  years  he  had  con- 
stantly been  engrossed  in  dialogues  with  himself;  it  was  as 
though  his  soul  was  twofold;  and  for  some  months  past  his 
inward  company  had  been  considerably  augmented :  not  two 
souls,  but  ten,  now  dwelt  in  him.  They  held  converse  among 
themselves,  though,  more  often  they  sang.  He  would  take  part 
in  their  conversation,  or  he  would  hold  his  peace  and  listen 
to  them.  He  had  always  on  his  bed,  or  on  the  table,  within 
reach  of  his  hand,  music-paper  on  which  he  used  to  take  down 
their  remarks  and  his  own,  and  laugh  at  their  rejoinders.  It 
was  a  mechanical  habit:  the  two  actions,  thinking  and  writing, 
had  become  almost  simultaneous  with  him  :  writing  was  think- 
ing out  loud  to  him.  Everything  that  took  him  away  from 
the  company  of  his  many  souls  exhausted  and  irritated  him, 
even  the  friends  he  loved  best,  sometimes.  He  tried  hard  not 
to  let  them  see  it,  but  such  constraint  induced  an  extreme  lassi- 
tude. He  was  very  happy  when  he  came  to  himself  again,  for  he 
would  lose  himself:  it  was  impossible  to  hear  the  inward  voices 
amid  the  chattering  of  human  beings.  Divine  silence!  .  .  . 

He  would  only  allow  the  portress  or  one  of  her  children  to 
come  three  or  four  times  a  day  to  see  if  lie  needed  anything. 
He  used  to  give  them  the  notes  which,  up  to  the  last,  he  ex- 
changed with  Emmanuel.  They  were  almost  equally  ill.  and 
were  under  no  illusion  as  to  their  condition.  By  different  ways 
the  free  religious  genius  of  Christophe  and  the  free  irreligious 
genius  of  Emmanuel  had  reached  the  same  brotherly  serenity. 
In  their  wavering  handwriting,  which  they  found  it  more  and 
more  difficult  to  read,  they  discoursed,  not  of  their  illness,  but 


496         JEAN-CH1USTOPHE:    JOURNEY'S  END 

of  the  perpetual  subject  of  their  conversations,  their  art,  and 
the  future  of  their  ideas. 

This  went  on  until  the  day  when,  with  his  failing  hand, 
Christophe  wrote  the  words  of  the  King  of  Sweden,  as  he  lay 
dying  on  the  field  of  battle : 

"  Icli  liabe  genug,  Bruder:  rette  dicli!"  * 

As  a  succession  of  stages  he  looked  back  over  the  whole  of 
his  life :  the  immense  effort  of  his  youth  to  win  self-possession, 
his  desperate  struggles  to  exact  from  others  the  bare  right  to 
live,  to  wrest  himself  from  the  demons  of  his  race.  And  even 
after  the  victory,  the  forced  unending  vigil  over  the  fruits  of 
conquest,  to  defend  them  against  victory  itself.  The  sweetness, 
the  tribulation  of  friendship  opening  up  the  great  human  family 
through  conflict  to  the  isolated  heart.  The  fullness  of  art,  the 
zenith  of  life.  His  proud  dominion  over  his  conquered  spirit. 
His  belief  that  he  had  mastered  his  destiny.  And  then,  sud- 
denly at  the  turn  of  the  road,  his  meeting  with  the  knights  of 
the  Apocalypse,  Grief,  Passion,  Shame,  the  vanguard  of  the 
Lord.  Then  laid  low,  trampled  underfoot  by  the  horses,  drag- 
ging himself  bleeding  to  the  heights,  where,  in  the  midst  of 
the  clouds,  flames  the  wild  purifying  fire.  His  meeting  face  to 
face  with  God.  His  wrestling  with  Him,  like  Jacob  with  the 
Angel.  His  issue,  broken  from  the  fight.  His  adoration  of 
his  defeat,  his  understanding  of  his  limitations,  his  striving  to 
fulfil  the  will  of  the  Lord,  in  the  domain  assigned  to  him. 
Finally,  when  the  labors  of  seed-time  and  harvest,  the  splendid 
hard  work,  were  at  an  end.  having  won  the  right  to  rest  at 
the  feet  of  the  sunlit  mountains,  and  to  say  to  them : 

"  Be  ye  blessed !  I  shall  not  reach  your  light,  but  very  sweet 
to  me  is  your  shade.  ..." 

Then  the  beloved  had  appeared  to  him:  she  had  taken  him 
by  the  hand  ;  and  death,  breaking  down  the  barrier  of  her  body, 
had  poured  the  pure  soul  of  the  beloved  into  the  soul  of  her 
lover.  Together  they  had  issued  from  the  shadow  of  days,  and 
they  had  reached  the  happy  heights  where,  like  the  three  Graces, 
in  a  noble  round,  tbe  past,  the  present,  and  the  future,  clasped 

*"I  have  had  my  fill,  brother:  save  thyself!" 


THE  NEW  DAWN  497 

hands,  where  the  heart  at  rest  sees  griefs  and  joys  in  one 
moment  spring  to  life,  flower,  and  die,  where  all  is  Har- 
mony. .  .  . 

He  was  in  too  great  a  hurry.  He  thought  he  had  already 
reached  that  place.  The  vise  which  gripped  his  panting  bosom, 
and  the  tumultuous  whirl  of  images  beating  against  the  walls 
of  his  burning  brain,  reminded  him  that  the  last  stage  and  the 
hardest  was  yet  to  run.  .  .  .  Onward !  .  .  . 

He  lay  motionless  upon  his  bed.  In  the  room  above  him  some 
silly  woman  would  go  on  playing  the  piano  for  hours.  She  only 
knew  one  piece,  and  she  would  go  on  tirelessly  repeating  the 
same  bars;  they  gave  her  so  much  pleasure!  They  were  a  joy, 
an  emotion  to  her;  every  color,  every  kind  of  form  was  in 
them.  And  Christophe  could  understand  her  happiness,  but 
she  made  him  weep  with  exasperation.  If  only  she  would  not 
hit  the  keys  so  hard !  Noise  was  as  odious  to  Christophe  as 
vice.  ...  In  the  end  he  became  resigned  to  it.  It  was  hard 
to  learn  not  to  hear.  And  yet  it  was  less  difficult  than  he 
thought.  He  would  leave  his  sick,  coarse  body.  How  humili- 
ating it  was  to  have  been  shut  up  in  it  for  so  many  years !  He 
would  watch  its  decay  and  think : 

"  It  will  not  go  on  much  longer." 

He  would  feel  the  pulse  of  his  human  egoism  and  wonder: 

"Which  would  von  prefer?  To  have  the  name  and  person- 
ality of  Christophe  become  immortal  and  his  work  disappear, 
or  to  have  his  work  endure  and  no  trace  be  left  of  his  per- 
sonality and  name?" 

Without  a  moment's  hesitation  he  replied : 

"Let  me  disappear  and  my  work  endure!  My  gain  is  two- 
fold :  for  only  what  is  most  true  of  me,  the  real  truth  of  myself 
will  remain.  Let  Christophe  perish !  .  .  ." 

But  very  soon  he  felt  that  he  was  becoming  as  much  a  stranger 
to  his  work  as  to  himself.  How  childish  was  the  illusion  of 
believing  that  his  art  would  endure!  lie  saw  clearly  not  only 
how  little  he  had  done,  but  how  surely  all  modern  music  was 
doomed  to  destruction.  More  quickly  than  any  other  the  lan- 
guage of  music  is  consumed  by  its  own  heat :  at  the  end  of  a 
century  or  two  it  is  understood  only  by  a  few  initiates.  Fox 


498         JEAX-CHRISTOriLE :    JOURNEY'S  EXD 

how  many  do  Monteverdi  and  Lully  still  exist?  Already  the 
oaks  of  the  classic  forest  are  eaten  away  with  moss.  Our  build- 
ings of  sound,  in  which  our  passions  sing,  will  soon  lie  empty 
temples,  will  soon  crumble  away  into  oblivion. — And  Christophe 
was  amazed  to  find  himself  gazing  at  the  ruins  untroubled. 

"Have  I  begun  to  love  life  less  ? "'  he  wondered. 

But  at  once  he  understood  that  he  loved  it  more.  .  .  .  Why 
weep  over  the  ruins  of  art?  They  are  not  worth  it.  Art  is 
the  shadow  man  casts  upon  Xaturc.  Let  them  disappear  to- 
gether, sucked  up  by  the  sun's  rays!  They  prevent  my  seeing 
the  sun.- — The  vast  treasure  of  Xature  passes  through  our  fingers. 
Human  intelligence  tries  to  catch  the  running  water  in  the 
meshes  of  a  net.  Our  music  is  an  illusion.  Our  scale  of  sounds 
is  an  invention.  It  answers  to  no  living  sound.  It  is  a  com- 
promise of  the  mind  between  real  sounds,  the  application  of  the 
metric  system  to  the  moving  infinite.  The  mind  needs  such 
a  lie  as  this  to  understand  the  incomprehensible,  and  the  mind 
has  believed  the  lie,  because  it  wished  to  believe  it.  But  it  is 
not  true.  It  is  not  alive.  And  the  delight  which  the  mind 
takes  in  this  order  of  its  own  creation  has  only  been  obtained 
by  falsifying  the  direct  intuition  of  what  is.  From  time  to 
time,  a  genius,  in  passing  contact  with  the  earth,  suddenly  per- 
ceives the  torrent  of  reality,  overflowing  the  continents  of  art. 
The  dykes  crack  for  a  moment.  Xature  creeps  in  through  a 
iii-sure.  But  at  once  the  gap  is  stopped  tip.'  It  must  bo  done 
to  safeguard  the  reason  of  mankind.  It  would  perish  if  its  eyes 
met  the  eyes  of  Jehovah.  Then  once  more  it  begins  to  strengthen 
the  walls  of  its  cell,  which  nothing  enters  from  without,  except 
it  have  first  been  wrought  upon.  And  it  is  beautiful,  perhaps, 
for  those  who  will  not  see.  .  .  .  But  for  me,  I  will  see  Thy 
face.  Jehovah!  I  will  hear  the  thunder  of  Thy  voice,  though 
it  bring  me  to  nothingness.  The  noise  of  art  is  an  hindrance 
to  me.  Let  the  mind  hold  its  peace  !  Let  man  be  silent !  .  .  . 

But  a  few  minutes  after  this  harangue  he  groped  for  one 
of  the  sheets  of  paper  that  lay  scattered  on  his  bed.  and  he  tried 
lo  write  down  a  few  more  notes.  When  he  saw  the  contradiction 
of  it.  he  smiled  and  said: 

"  Oh,  my  music,  companion  of  all  my  days,  thou  art  better 


THE  NEW  DAWN 


499 


than  I.  I  am  an  ingrate:  I  send  tlice  away  from  me.  But 
thou  wilt  not  leave  me:  thou  wilt  not  be  repulsed  at  my  caprice. 
Forgive  me.  Thou  knowest  these  are  but  whimsies.  1  have 
never  betrayed  thee,  thou  hast  never  betrayed  me;  and  we  are 
sure  of  each  other.  We  will  go  home  together,  my  friend. 
Stay  with  me  to  the  end. 

Bleib  ltd  wis. 


He  awoke  from  a  long  torpor,  heavy  with  fever  and  dreams. 
Strange  dreams  of  which  he  was  still  full.  And  now  he  looked 
at  himself,  touched  himself,  sought  and  could  not  find  himself. 
He  seemed  to  himself  to  be  "another."  Another,  dearer  than 
himself.  .  .  .  Who?  ...  It  seemed  to  him  that  in  his 
dreams  another  soul  had  taken  possession  of  him.  Olivier? 
Grazia?  .  .  .  His  heart  and  his  head  were  so  weak!  He 
could  not  distinguish  between  his  loved  ones.  Why  should  he 
distinguish  between  them?  He  loved  them  all  equally. 

lie  lay  bound  in  a  soil  of  overwhelming  beatitude.  He  made 
no  attempt  to  move.  He  knew  that  sorrow  lay  in  ambush  for 
him,  like  a  cat  waiting  for  a  mouse.  He  lay  like  one  dead. 
Already.  .  .  .  There  was  no  one  in  the  room.  Overhead 
the  piano  was  silent.  Solitude.  Silence.  Christophe  sighed. 

"  How  good  it  is  to  think,  at  the  end  of  life,  that  I  have  never 
been  alone  even  in  my  greatest  loneliness!  .  .  .  Souls  that  1 
have  met  on  the  way,  brothers,  who  for  a  moment  have  held  out 
their  hands  to  me,  mysterious  spirits  sprung  from  my  mind, 
living  and  dead — all  living. — 0  all  that  1  have  loved,  all  that 
I  have  created!  Ye  surround  me  with  your  warm  embrace, 
ye  watch  over  me.  I  hear  the  music  of  your  voices.  Blessed 
be  destiny,  that  has  given  you  to  me!  I  am  rich,  I  am 
rich.  .  .  .  My  heart  is  full !  .  .  . " 


500         JEAN-CHBISTOPHE  :    JOURNEY'S  END 

He  looked  out  through  the  window.  ...  It  was  one  of  those 
beautiful  sunless  days,  which,  as  old  Balzac  said,  are  like  a 
beautiful  blind  woman.  .  .  .  Christophe  was  passionately  ab- 
sorbed in  gazing  at  the  branch  of  a  tree  that  grew  in  front  of 
the  window.  The  branch  was  swelling,  the  moist  buds  were 
bursting,  the  little  white  flowers  were  expanding;  and  in  the 
flowers,  in  the  leaves,  in  the  whole  tree  coming  to  new  life, 
there  was  such  an  ecstasy  of  surrender  to  the  new-born  force 
of  spring,  that  Christophe  was  no  longer  conscious  of  his  weari- 
ness, his  depression,  his  wretched,  dying  body,  and  lived  again  in 
the  branch  of  the  tree.  He  was  steeped  in  the  gentle  radiance 
of  its  life.  It  was  like  a  kiss.  His  heart,  big  with  love,  turned 
to  the  beautiful  tree,  smiling  there  upon  his  last  moments. 
He  thought  that  at  that  moment  there  were  creatures  loving  each 
other,  that  to  others  this  hour,  that  was  so  full  of  agony  for 
him,  was  an  hour  of  ecstasy,  that  it  is  ever  thus,  and  that  the 
puissant  joy  of  living  never  runs  dry.  And  in  a  choking  voice 
that  would  not  obey  his  thoughts — (possibly  no  sound  at  all 
came  from  his  lips,  but  he  knew  it  not) — he  chanted  a  hymn 
to  life. 

An  invisible  orchestra  answered  him.  Christophe  said  within 
himself : 

"  How  can  they  know  ?  \Ve  did  not  rehearse  it.  If  only  they 
can  go  on  to  the  end  without  a  mistake !  " 

He  tried  to  sit  up  so  as  to  see  the  whole  orchestra,  and  beat 
time  with  his  arms  outstretched.  But  the  orchestra  made  no 
mistake;  they  were  sure  of  themselves.  What  marvelous  music! 
How  wonderfully  they  improvised  the  responses!  Christophe 
was  amused. 

"  Wait  a  bit,  old  fellow !     I'll  catch  you  out." 

And  with  a  tug  at  the  tiller  he  drove  the  ship  capriciously 
to  left  and  right  through  dangerous  channels. 

"How  will  you  get  out  of  that?  .  .  .  And  this?  Caught! 
.  .  .  And  what  about  this?  " 

But  they  always  extricated  themselves :  they  countered  all  his 
audacities  with  even  bolder  ventures. 

"What  will  they  do  now?    .    .    .     The  rascals!    ..." 

Christophe  cried  "  bravo !  "  and  roared  with  laughter. 

"  The  devil !     It  is  becoming  difficult  to  follow  them !     Am 


THE  NEW  DAWN  501 

I  to  let  them  beat  me?  .  .  .  But,  you  know,  this  is  not  a' 
game !  I'm  done,  now.  .  .  .  No  matter !  They  shan't  say 
that  they  had  the  last  word.  ..." 

But  the  orchestra  exhibited  such  an  overpoweringly  novel 
and  abundant  fancy  that  there  was  nothing  to  be  done  but  to 
sit  and  listen  open-mouthed.  They  took  his  breath  away.  .  .  . 
Christophe  was  filled  with  pity  for  himself. 

"Idiot!"  he  said  to  himself.  "You  are  empty.  Hold  your 
peace !  The  instrument  lias  given  all  that  it  can  give.  Enough 
of  this  body!  I  must  have  another." 

But  his  body  took  its  revenge.  Violent  fits  of  coughing  pre- 
vented his  listening: 

"  Will  you  hold  your  peace  ?  " 

He  clutched  his  throat,  and  thumped  his  chest,  wrestled  with 
himself  as  with  an  enemy  that  he  must  overthrow.  He  saw 
himself  again  in  the  middle  of  a  great  throng.  A  crowd  of 
men  were  shouting  all  around  him.  One  man  gripped  him 
with  his  arms.  They  rolled  down  on  the  ground.  The  other 
man  was  on  top  of  him.  He  was  choking. 

"  Let  me  go.  I  will  hear !  .  .  .  I  will  hear !  Let  me  go, 
or  I'll  kill  you!  ..." 

He  banged  the  man's  head  against  the  wall,  but  the  man 
would  not  let  him  go. 

"  Who  is  it,  now  ?  With  whom  am  I  wrestling  ?  What  is  this 
body  that  I  hold  in  my  grasp,  this  body  warm  against  me  ?  .  .  . " 

A  crowd  of  hallucinations.  A  chaos  of  passions.  Fury,  lust, 
murderous  desires,  the  sting  of  carnal  embraces,  the  last  stirring 
of  the  mud  at  the  bottom  of  the  pond.  .  .  . 

"Ah!  Will  not  the  end  come  soon?  Shall  I  not  pluck  you 
off,  you  leeches  clinging  to  my  body  ?  .  .  .  Then  let  my  body 
perish  with  them  !  " 

Stiffened  in  shoulders,  loins,  knees,  Christophe  thrust  back 
the  invisible  enemy.  .  .  .  He  was  free.  .  .  .  Yonder,  the 
music  was  still  playing,  farther  and  farther  away.  Dripping 
with  sweat,  broken  in  body,  Christophe  held  his  arms  out  towards 
it: 

"  Wait  for  me !     Wait  for  me  !  " 

He  ran  after  it.  He  stumbled.  He  jostled  and  pushed  his 
way.  ...  He  had  run  so  fast  that  he  could  not  breathe. 


502          JEAX-CHKISTOPIIE:    JOURNEY'S  EXD 

His  heart  beat,  his  blood  roared  and  buzzed  in  his  ears,  like 
a  train  rumbling  through  a  tunnel.  .  .  . 

"God!     How  horrible!" 

He  made  desperate  signs  to  the  orchestra  not  to  go  on  with- 
out him.  .  .  .  At  last!  He  came  out  of  the  tunnel!  .  .  . 
Silence  came  again.  He  could  hear  once  more. 

"  How  lovely  it  is !  How  lovely !  Encore !  Bravely,  my 
boys!  .  .  .  But  who  wrote  it,  who  wrote  it?  .  .  .  What 
do  you  say?  You  tell  me  that  Jean-Christophe  Krafft  wrote  it? 
Oh !  come !  Xonsense !  I  knew  him.  He  couldn't  write  ten 
bars  of  such  music  as  that!  .  .  .  Who  is  that  coughing? 
Don't  make  such  a  noise!  .  .  .  What  chord  is  that?  .  .  . 
And  that?  .  .  .  Xot  so  fast !  Wait!  ..." 

Christophe  uttered  inarticulate  cries;  his  hand,  clutching  the 
quilt,  moved  as  if  it  were  writing:  and  his  exhausted  brain 
went  on  mechanically  trying  to  discover  the  elements  of  the 
chords  and  their  consequents.  He  could  not  succeed:  his  emo- 
tion made  him  drop  his  prize.  He  began  all  over  again.  .  .  . 
Ah!  This  time  it  was  too  difficult.  .  .  . 

"Stop,  stop.    ...      I  can  no  more.    .    .    . '' 

His  will  relaxed  utterly.  Softly  Christophe  closed  his  eyes. 
Tears  of  happiness  trickled  down  from  his  closed  lids.  The 
little  girl  who  was  looking  after  him.  unknown  to  him,  piously 
wiped  them  away.  He  lost  all  consciousness  of  what  was  hap- 
pening. The  orchestra  had  ceased  playing,  leaving  him  on  a 
dizzy  harmony,  the  riddle  of  which  could  not  be  solved.  His 
brain  went  on  saying: 

"But  what  chord  is  that?  How  am  I  to  get  out  of  it?  I 
should  like  to  find  the  way  out.  lief  ore  the  end.  .  .  ." 

'Voices  were  raised  now.  A  passionate  voice.  Anna's  tragic 
eyes.  .  .  .  But  a  moment  and  it  was  no  longer  Anna.  Eyes 
now  so  full  of  kindness.  .  .  . 

"  Grazia.  is  it  thou  ?  .  .  .  Which  of  you?  Which  of  you? 
I  cannot  see  you  clearly.  .  .  .  Why  is  the  sun  so  long  in 
coming?  " 

Then  bells  rang  tranquilly.  The  sparrows  at  the  window 
chirped  to  remind  him  of  the  hour  when  he  was  wont  to  give 
them  the  breakfast  crumbs.  ...  In  his  dream  Christophe 
saw  the  little  room  of  his  childhood.  The  bells.  Xow 


THE  NEW  DAWN  503 

it  is  dawn!  The  lovely  waves  of  sound  fill  the  light  air.  They 
come  from  far  away,  from  the  villages  down  yonder.  .  .  . 
The  murmuring  of  the  river  rises  from  behind  the  house.  .  .  . 
Once  more  Christophe  stood  gazing  down  from  the  staircase 
window.  All  his  life  flowed  before  his  eyes,  like  the  'Rhine. 
All  his  life,  all  his  lives,  Louisa,  Gottfried.  Olivier,  Sabinc.  .  .  . 

"  Mother,  lovers,  friends.  .  .  .  What  are  these  names?  .  .  . 
Love.  .  .  .  Where  are  you?  Where  are  you,  my  souls?  1 
know  that  you  are  there,  and  I  cannot  take  you." 

"  We  are  with  thee.     Peace,  0  beloved !  " 

"  I  will  not  lose  you  ever  more.     I  have  sought  you  so  long !  " 

"  Be  not  anxious.     We  shall  never  leave  thee  more." 

"  Alas !     The  stream  is  bearing  me  on." 

"  The  river  that  bears  thee  on,  bears  us  with  thee." 

"  Whither  are  we  going  ?  " 

"  To  the  place  where  we  shall  be  united  once  more." 

"Will  it  be  soon?" 

"  Look." 

And  Christophe,  making  a  supreme  effort  to  raise  his  head— 
(God!  How  heavy  it  was!) — saw  the  river  overflowing  its 
banks,  covering  the  fields,  moving  on.  august,  slow,  almost  still. 
And,  like  a  flash  of  steel,  on  the  edge  of  the  horizon  there 
seemed  to  be  speeding  towards  him  a  line  of  silver  streams, 
quivering  in  the  sunlight.  The  roar  of  the  ocean.  .  .  .  And 
his  heart  sank,  and  he  asked: 

"Is  it  He?" 

And  the  voices  of  his  loved  ones  replied : 

"  It  is  He !  " 

And  his  brain  dying,  said  to  itself : 

"  The  gates  are  opened.  .  .  .  That  is  the  chord  I  was 
seeking !  .  .  .  But  it  is  not  the  end !  There  are  new 
spaces!  .  .  . — We  will  go  on.  to-morrow/' 

0  joy,  the  joy  of  seeing  self  vanish  into  the  sovereign  peace 
of  God,  whom  all  his  life  he  had  so  striven  to  serve!  .  .  . 

"Lord,  art  Thou  not  displeased  with  Thv  servant?  1  have 
done  so  little.  I  could  do  no  more.  ...  I  have  struggled. 
I  have  suffered,  I  have  erred.  1  have  created.  Let  me  draw 
breath  in  Thy  Father's  arms.  Some  day  I  shall  he  born  again 
for  a  new  fight." 


504:         JEAN-CHEISTOPHE :    JOURNEY'S  END 

And  the  murmuring  of  the  river  and  the  roaring  of  the  sea 
sang  with  him : 

"  Thou  shalt  he  horn  again.  Rest.  Now  all  is  one  heart. 
The  smile  of  the  night  and  the  day  entwined.  Harmony,  the 
august  marriage  of  love  and  hate.  I  will  sing  the  God  of  the 
two  mighty  wings.  Hosanna  to  life  !  Hosanna  to  death ! 

"  Chnstofori  facicm  die  qimcunque  tmris, 
Ilia  nempe   die   non  morte   mala   morieris." 

Saint  Christophe  «has  crossed  the  river.  All  night  long  he  has 
marched  against  the  stream.  Like  a  rock  his  huge-limbed  body 
stands  above  the  water.  On  his  shoulders  is  the  Child,  frail 
and  heavy.  Saint  Christophe  leans  on  a  pine-tree  that  he  has 
plucked  up,  and  it  bends.  His  back  also  bends.  Those  who 
saw  him  set  out  vowed  that  he  would  never  win  through,  and 
for  a  long  time  their  mockery  and  their  laughter  followed  him. 
Then  the  night  fell  and  they  grew  weary.  Now  Christophe  is 
too  far  away  for  the  cries  of  those  standing  on  the  water's  brink 
to  reach  him.  Through  the  roar  of  the  torrent  he  hears  only 
the  tranquil  voice  of  the  Child,  clasping  a  lock  of  hair  on  the 
giant's  forehead  in  his  little  hand,  and  crying:  "March  on."- 
And  with  bowed  back,  and  eyes  fixed  straight  in  front  of  him 
on  the  dark  bank  whose  towering  slopes  are  beginning  to  gleam 
white,  he  marches  on. 

Suddenly  the  Angelus  sounds,  and  the  flock  of  bells  suddenly 
springs  into  wakefulncss.  It  is  the  new  dawn!  Behind  the 
sheer  black  cliff  rises  the  golden  glory  of  the  invisible  sun. 
Almost  falling  Christophe  at  last  reaches  the  bank,  and  he  says 
to  the  Child: 

"  Here  we  are !  How  heavy  thou  wert !  Child,  who  art 
thou  ?  " 

And  the  Child  answers : 

"  I  am  the  day  soon  to  be  born." 


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